The dragoness had left the front door open and walked right in, Dagmar behind her.
The inside of the house was as comfortable and charming as the outside, although it had only one room. Dagmar could see herself happily living here alone. In truth, she knew she’d enjoy it and had hoped when she reached her fortieth winter or so she’d get a small place like this near her father’s fortress. She knew her sisters-in-law would happily push that situation on their spouses.
Esyld carried Gwenvael to the long bed pressed against the wall. She lifted him off her shoulder and placed him down carefully. With a soft smile, she brushed his hair from his face. “He’s grown up so handsome.”
Dagmar’s eyes narrowed. Who the hell was this? And why did she feel it was acceptable to touch him in such a way? “Are you going to tell me who you are or not?”
“I already did. Name’s Esyld.” And before Dagmar could argue, she pointed at Gwenvael. “See these?”
Dagmar crouched beside the bed, pushing her spectacles on top of her head so she could closely study how his skin puckered in several places.
Many places, in fact. All over his body.
“What is this?”
“A brutal torture.”
Esyld pulled off her robes. She wore a simple blue gown beneath. It set off her red hair perfectly. “You’re not one of the Horde.”
“No, I’m not.” She knelt on the floor beside Dagmar. Her finger slightly hovered over one of the raised welts. “This is the old way of doing damage to a dragon. When in dragon form, your scales are forcibly pulled away from the flesh and small, jagged pieces of steel are slipped beneath. That process alone is quite painful. It’s not easy to pry scale from flesh. You usually have to use a knife in between the seams.”
“I never noticed … what I mean to say is …” Dagmar, tired of crouching, went on her knees and rubbed her eyes with her fists. Was she actually about to ask for more information on blasted dragon seams? “Forget I was trying to say anything.”
“You’d have to look very closely to notice the seams. Now once the scale is released back into place, it heals shut, locking in the jagged piece of metal. The pain is quite excruciating,” she said easily, almost cheerfully. “Even worse, the flesh underneath heals over it, intensifying the pain.”
Dagmar’s balled fists landed in her lap. “All that for vengeance?”
“They wanted him to suffer.” She rested her arm on the bed. “It’s doubtful they’d hoped to get any information from him. A royal he may be, but also a descendent of the Cadwaladr Clan. You can never get them to talk.”
“He’s …” Dagmar straightened her spine. “He’s a royal?”
“Son of the Dragon Queen herself.” Esyld regarded her intensely. “He never told you, did he?”
“He was quick to tell me about that time he woke up in a sewer in Kerezik. But his royal lineage … That never came up in conversation.” And reason knew, he never acted like a royal.
The dragoness chuckled. “That’s my Gwenvael.”
And Dagmar felt it again. That strange feeling in the pit of her stomach any time Esyld asserted some kind of hold on Gwenvael. “Who are you?”
And yet again Dagmar received no answer with Esyld too busy clucking her tongue. “I see what’s wrong,” she said. “Those bastards added poison to the tips of the metal.”
“They what?” Dagmar immediately placed her hand to Gwenvael’s forehead. He felt cold. Not good when he was made of fire. “You have to do something.”
“I will. I’ll have to cut the pieces out. One by one. I made him human because it’ll be easier that way. No scales to tear open again.”
Annoyed the dragoness was just sitting there, Dagmar snapped, “Shouldn’t you be moving with some purpose?”
“Why? He’s not going anywhere.”
“The poison?”
“Too late for that. It’s already in his bloodstream.”
Dagmar lifted her shaking hands and placed them against her eyes. The calm, merciless sound of the woman’s voice was driving her past reason. Past logic.
“Now, now, dear. No need to cry. I’m sure—ack!”
She didn’t even let the female finish before she grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her head into the metal frame of the bed. For the first time in Dagmar’s life, she knew what it felt like to be one of her brothers—and it was quite a heady sensation.
Esyld gripped her forehead. “Ow! Are you mad?”
Dagmar stood. “Now listen well to me, Esyld. You do what you must to make him better. Mix whatever potions necessary, call on whatever useless gods you’re loyal to, sacrifice whatever animals those useless gods require—I don’t care. But you make him well. Or I swear by all reason—”
“What?” The dragoness towered over Dagmar now. “You’ll what, reason-lover? What does an obvious follower of Aoibhell think she can possibly do to me?”
“I can make sure this will be your last quiet night in these woods. I’ll make sure that every male—man, dragon, or otherwise—knows you live here. Alone. I’ll make sure that hunting you becomes a sport they can’t resist.”
“And perhaps I’ll just turn you into ash where you stand.”
“Do you really think that’ll stop me?” Dagmar smirked. “Really?”
After a moment of mutual glaring, the dragoness shook her head, her brow furrowed. “No. I believe it won’t.” She stepped away from Dagmar. “Who are you?”
She found it almost amusing the female had the nerve to ask. “I am Dagmar Reinholdt, Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”
“You’re The Beast?”
“Some would say.”
“I have to admit, you don’t see it right off … until you look in those eyes.” Rubbing her forehead and wincing, Esyld went to a small table covered in dry herbs, half-burned ritual candles, several different daggers, and a wand. “I will say I appreciate how protective you are of him. He deserves that.”
Not about to ask the same question yet again, Dagmar instead tried, “What’s your connection to him?”
“Not what you think.” She flashed Dagmar a smile over her shoulder. “He’s my nephew.”
“Nephew?”
“Aye.” She brought a large bowl, a clean cloth, and a sharp dagger over to the bed. “My sister is Queen Rhiannon. When she came into power, I fled. I’m now called Esyld the Traitor by her court.”
“And are you?”
“Not in a few centuries. Now”—she glanced down at Gwenvael—“help me tie him to the bed. And gag him.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to a bed. Nor was it the first time he’d woken up to find himself tied to the bed and gagged.
But usually when he woke up bound and gagged, he was always experiencing wonderful pleasure. Not pain. At least not this kind of pain. Pain so raw and brutal he tried to shift back to his true form several times but couldn’t. He sensed it had something to do with the collar around his neck. It held great power and cut down on his.
Someone had tied him face down on the bed so they could rip something out of his body. Something vital? He had no idea. He only knew it hurt and he wanted the pain to stop. Needed it to. He couldn’t think with all this pain. Couldn’t understand where he was or how he’d gotten here. He couldn’t see because of all the sweat pouring into his eyes, burning them. Yet he could hear a soft voice telling him it would be all right. Nothing to worry about. Just a bit more. But he knew she was lying. He knew this pain would last forever, and he didn’t understand why she didn’t just kill him. No one should suffer like this. Least of all him.
He felt the blade enter his flesh again and he screamed, the sound somewhat muffled behind his gag.
Gods, why wouldn’t she just kill him?
Dagmar heard Gwenvael’s muffled scream again and she pulled her legs up onto the boulder she sat on, wrapping her arms around them. She’d tried to stay inside but her constant threats to Esyld finally forced the dragoness to order her to leave.
She’d gone, Dagmar was ashamed to admit, willingly.
She didn’t know hearing someone suffer could bother her so. She’d been through childbirths with her sisters-in-law, some of them terribly difficult, and she’d been the cold, responsible one in the room the midwife always relied upon. She’d also assisted healers when her kinsmen had been badly wounded. One of her cousins had gotten his leg crushed by his own horse. She’d been the only one who’d stayed to help the healer cut it off. He’d been awake during the whole procedure, begging them not to do it, but Dagmar knew the healer had no choice.
Although she’d been relieved when her cousin finally passed out, not once, during any of that, had she ever felt like this—as if she could feel every blade cut, every pull when Esyld tore the jagged pieces of metal from Gwenvael’s exhausted body. Dagmar even felt like she could taste the vile concoction Esyld had poured down his throat before she’d begun cutting him open. She’d hoped it would be something for the pain, but it had only been to help Gwenvael’s body flush out the poison through his skin.
Gwenvael screamed again, and Dagmar closed her eyes tight, resting her forehead against her knees. She took deep breaths and willed herself to be calm.
Small noises from the woods surrounding her caught Dagmar’s attention. She lifted her head and watched the immense wolf pad softly toward her. She smiled at the sight of him.
A canine, any canine, was a welcome sight to her. Without Canute she was quite willing to risk a good mauling for the comfort of a four-legged friend.
“Hello.” He came up to her without hesitation and, keeping her fingers curled in, Dagmar brushed her knuckles across his head. “You need a bath,” she teased.
“You’re a brave one.” A woman trekked out of the woods and over to Dagmar. “Those who see him are usually afraid of him.”
“I do well with canines.”
“You mind?” The woman motioned to the part of the boulder Dagmar wasn’t sitting on.
“No.”
“Thanks.” She tugged the large pack she had on her back off and sat down hard, exhaling. “I’m bloody exhausted.”
She was a warrior woman. A warrior woman who had seen better days … or years. She looked to be somewhere near her fortieth winter and was covered in scars. There were scars on her face, hands, and neck. Dagmar assumed she had more, but they were covered by her clothes. It seemed the warrior was too poor for proper armor and had only an undertunic and a padded top, linen pants, and extremely worn leather boots. Her brown hair was long and curly with several warrior braids weaved throughout. But what fascinated Dagmar the most was the color of her skin. She was one of the desert people. Rarely did someone born that far south find their way to the Northlands. And especially not a female alone.
“I’m Eir,” the woman said, pulling off her boot and revealing extremely large feet that bled from several blistered spots. She wiggled her toes and groaned in pain.