Gwenvael guessed that was something.
Unreasonably hurt, he watched as Izzy and now Talaith ran through the hall and out the big doorway.
“You know what?” he said, turning toward his kin. “You can all burn in the deepest, fiery pits of hell. Because none of you bloody bastards—” His eyes strayed to the front of the hall and his words choked in his throat. “Fearghus.”
His brother sat up, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, until he saw what Gwenvael saw.
Talaith tapped her daughter’s shoulder. “Go upstairs to the room we’ve set up and turn the furs down.” Izzy charged off. “And then go find Brastias!”
There were things in the world Gwenvael never thought he’d see. A dragon with two heads—although humans did love to write about them as if they existed—his oldest sister performing a human sacrifice since she did seem to adore the humans so, and his father, Bercelak the Great, carrying Annwyl the Bloody as if she were spun of the finest glass.
Talaith had her hand on Annwyl’s shoulder as her gaze locked with Morfyd’s. “It’s time, sister.”
Morfyd nodded and snapped her fingers at Éibhear, yanking him out of the panic attack he was about to have, if the expression on his face was any indication. “Éibhear, go to the servants and tell them it’s time. They already know what to do. Then go down to the lake and tell the family. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is to be battle ready, just in case.”
Éibhear nodded and ran off.
Bercelak walked over to Fearghus. “You’d best take her. I think her desire to slit my throat is growing.”
“I’d have already tried,” Annwyl whispered, “but I feared you’d drop me.”
Grinning, Bercelak placed Annwyl in Fearghus’s arms.
“Take her up, Fearghus,” Morfyd ordered, Talaith already running up the stairs as Izzy charged back down and out the door to fetch Brastias.
Fearghus pulled his mate tight against his chest and nodded at his father. “Thank you.”
Bercelak grunted and watched until his son had disappeared up the stairs and down the hall. Once he was gone, he silently turned and headed back toward the doors.
“Where are you going?” Morfyd asked.
“To get your mother.” He stopped long enough to look at them over his shoulder. “I think we all know she needs to be here.”
Morfyd swallowed, her eyes intent on their father’s face. “Aye. We do.”
Without another word, their father left, and Morfyd headed toward the stairs.
Briec stood. “Morfyd?”
She stopped on the first step, her hand gripping the railing. “You’ll both need to be ready.”
“Ready?” Briec asked.
The breath she took was shaky, and Gwenvael knew his sister was fighting for strength. “You’ll need to watch out for Éibhear.” She looked at both of them, her blue eyes clear as was her meaning. “You know how close he is to her.”
With that, she lifted her witches’ robes so she wouldn’t trip and jogged up the steps.
Briec and Gwenvael stared at each other for a long time until Briec said, “I’ll go work with Brastias to make sure everything is locked down.”
Dagmar laid her hand on Briec’s arm. “I can handle the defenses while the rest of you handle this. I’ll need someone from Annwyl’s army to work with and a few laborers. I’ll take care of everything else. You won’t need to worry.”
Briec nodded. “I’ll arrange it.” Then he was gone.
Gwenvael sat down hard on the table, his eyes focused on the floor. He didn’t see the worn stone where everyone stomped day after day. He saw nothing. Felt nothing. Except lost. For the first time in his life, he felt hopelessly lost.
He didn’t realize Dagmar sat beside him until he felt her take his hand, interlacing their fingers.
“You wouldn’t lie to me—even if I begged you to, would you?” he asked.
Dagmar shook her head. “No, Gwenvael. Not about something like this.”
“I understand.”
“But I will be here. As long as you need me. If that helps.”
“It helps.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand.
And when the screaming started, she squeezed his hand tighter.
Chapter 24
Standing in the middle of the courtyard, the afternoon suns beginning their descent to nighttime, Dagmar gave the guard captain further instructions on what she wanted and sent him off. She pulled out her plans and studied them. Her overwhelming feeling of dread had made her choices confusing. Usually she knew what to do and when to do it almost immediately. Quick decision-making something she’d always prided herself on. But the gut instinct she often relied on was too clouded by the dread that had settled over Garbhán Isle. A dread that had magnified in the past hour. Because in the past hour, the screaming had stopped.
Dagmar had assisted on many births over the years. Not by choice but because it was expected of her. And in all those years the one thing she’d always known was that it was never a quiet affair. There was always screaming, crying, some laughing, and, in the case of many of her brothers’ wives, lots of cursing and promises of brutal retribution.
One look at Annwyl and Dagmar knew she was a curser. And yet now the queen lay quiet behind her closed door. Only Morfyd, Talaith, and several healers allowed inside. And outside that bedroom were Gwenvael’s kin—waiting.
Suddenly Dagmar heard screaming, but it was not Annwyl. It was the humans around her in the courtyard. They screamed and ran off. She only had a few seconds to wonder why when the wind stirred and lifted around her. She looked up and watched in fascination as a great white dragon touched her claws to the ground, her wings scraping against the nearby buildings. A black dragon landed behind her, and almost immediately they shifted to human.
Dagmar had to fight her urge to stare. The female was beautiful. Astonishingly beautiful with white hair that reached down to her toes and a long, strong body. But it was the markings that had Dagmar wanting to move closer to take a long look. The dragoness had been branded with the image of a dragon from the tip of one toe, across her foot, around her leg, swirling around her torso, back, chest, until it reached her neck. It was not a nasty brand she might have received while being held prisoner either. It was a beautiful brand of a dragon. Almost elegant in its execution with the darkest black markings against white skin. It should have marred her beauty, but it didn’t. And she clearly wore it with pride.
The Claiming that Morfyd and Talaith had told Dagmar about. Romantic? Really? Looked more painful than romantic.
Cold blue eyes immediately locked on Dagmar. “You. Servant girl. Where is your queen?”
Bercelak placed his hand on the female’s shoulder and turned so he could speak to her in hushed tones. That was when Dagmar realized Bercelak had his own brand. This one covered his back all the way down until his ass met his thighs.
“This is Dagmar Reinholdt, my love. Of the north.” He gave something of a smile to Dagmar while motioning to the female. “Dagmar, this is the Dragon Queen of Dark Plains.”
Sizing the monarch up almost instantly, Dagmar dropped to one knee and bowed her head. “My liege. It is a great and overwhelming honor to meet you.”
“Hhhhm,” the Dragon Queen said. “One who knows the proper ways of things.”
Long legs, one of them branded, now stood in front of Dagmar. “Rise, Northlander.”
Dagmar did. “What is thy bidding, my liege?”
“Yes,” she said. “This one has been taught well.” She motioned toward the castle. “Take me to Annwyl.”
Dagmar headed back to the castle, the two dragons behind her.
“We need to put clothes on,” her consort told the Dragon Queen.
“I don’t have time for that.”
Dagmar stopped right inside the doorway leading to the Great Hall. “Your daughter left you clothes for your convenience, my liege.”
“Honestly! Humans and their weakness.”
“I couldn’t agree more, my lady.”
The queen sniffed and held her hand out. “Just give me the damn things.”
Once the queen had slipped the simple sheath gown over her head and Bercelak had pulled on black leggings and boots, Dagmar led them up the stairs and to the back of the hallway. The room had been set up specifically for when Annwyl was ready to give birth. Supplies had been stocked and at the ready and the bed had been much smaller than her own so that the healers and Morfyd could move around it easily.
As soon as they stepped into the hallway, the Dragon Queen’s offspring pulled themselves up from the floor.
The queen’s blue eyes swept across the group before she stepped next to Briec. “Where is Keita?” she demanded softly.
The silver-haired dragon shrugged and rolled his eyes. “I have no idea.”
The queen let out a sigh. “Foolish brat. I should have known … Never mind. I’ll deal with her later.” She leaned over and kissed her son’s cheek. “Briec.”
“Mother.”
She moved down the hallway, greeting each of her children.
Smiling at Éibhear, she brushed his blue hair off his worried face. “My baby boy.”
“Hello, Mum.” She went up on her toes and he came down a bit so she could kiss his forehead. She greeted Gwenvael next, kissing his cheek. “And my brat.”
“Mother.”
She stopped in front of Izzy, placing her hand on the girl’s cheek, wiping a tear with her thumb. “Hello, my little Izzy.”
Izzy choked on a sob. “Grandmum.”
The queen leaned down and kissed her cheek, then whispered something in the girl’s ear. Izzy let out a breath and nodded.
Several more steps took the queen to the front of the door Annwyl lay behind—and her eldest son.
“My son.”
“Mother.”
She petted his cheek, and Dagmar saw more affection in that single gesture than she’d ever seen before. The queen turned away from her son and grabbed the handle on the door. She snapped her fingers. “Northlander. With me.”
Gwenvael’s eyes widened and he reached for Dagmar. She shook her head. “It’s all right,” she whispered as she passed him and followed the queen.
The door closed behind them, and Dagmar saw the relief on Morfyd’s face at the sight of her mother. She stepped away from the bed and motioned her mother closer. The two began to speak in soft whispers while Talaith held Annwyl’s hand and wiped her brow. Three other healers worked with herbs and roots, creating different concoctions they hoped would help.
Dagmar looked down at Annwyl and she felt suddenly cold all over. The strong—albeit crying—female she’d met just yesterday in the library was gone. All that remained was a pale, sweat-covered body lying in soaked furs. The only sign of life was when her body would stiffen as another bout of pain shot through her. It would last twenty or so seconds, and then she’d be still again.
For the first time in years, Dagmar thought of her own mother. Had she looked like this before Dagmar came screaming into the world? Did she seem so weak and near death to Sigmar? And would these children spend their lives blaming themselves for their mother’s death as Dagmar secretly did?