What a Dragon Should Know
Page 6

“Of course there’s Briec, but—” Annwyl looked for words but couldn’t seem to find anything to say about the arrogant, silver-haired dragon, and ended with, “Do I really need to expound on Briec?”
“Not to me.”
“And Éibhear is still too much a babe. Besides, to be quite blunt, you’re the most politically savvy of the entire bunch.”
Gwenvael smiled, shocked and truly flattered by her statement. “Do you mean that?”
“Of course I do. I’m not blind. And one should always know the strengths and weaknesses of the allies they have surrounding them. My father used to say that … you know, before he went off and destroyed something or someone.”
She chewed on her thumbnail, a habit she’d developed over the last few months as her stress level grew. “In the end, I’m sure you’re the only one who can truly do this.”
“And I’m sure you’re quite correct on that point, but what do I get out of it?”
Annwyl dropped her hand into her lap. “Get out of it?”
“Aye. What is my reward for doing this task you’ve set for me?”
“What do you want?”
Grinning, Gwenvael craned his neck forward a bit and, using his thumb and forefinger, gently pulled the bodice of her dress forward.
“Stop that!” She slapped at his hands and laughed.
“Come now. I’m just asking for a moment to immerse myself in the lush garden of your bosom.”
“The lush garden of my …” Annwyl shook her head. “You’re not immersing yourself in any part of me, Lord Gwenvael.”
“Now, now. I’m only asking for a chance to play with them a bit.” He stuck his nose in her cle**age and Annwyl laughed and pushed at his head.
“Gwenvael! Stop it!”
The front door slammed open and Fearghus stalked in. “What the hell’s going—” Black smoke billowed from Fearghus’s nostrils. “Get your nose out of there.”
Taking his sweet time, Gwenvael looked up into Fearghus’s raging face. “Oh. Hello, brother. What are you doing here?”
Dagmar smiled warmly when the gates opened and several monks came in, two pulling a large cart weighed down with books. Books brought for her.
“Brother Ragnar.” She briefly bowed her head in respect.
“My Lady Dagmar. It’s so good to see you, my dear.”
Brother Ragnar, a longtime monk of the mysterious and rarely seen Order of the Warhammer, had been bringing books to Dagmar since she was ten. It was the one thing about her father’s fortress and the surrounding towns that kept her sane—non-warring travelers who always had information she found of use. Brother Ragnar was definitely her favorite of all their regular visitors, but she’d met and talked with many—most of them monks or scholars—over the years, learning much about a world she’d never seen. They brought her books, news, and gossip that she often used to help her father and her people, but it was Brother Ragnar who’d actually tutored her in reading, writing, and negotiation skills.
He’d taught her much from the beginning, suggesting ways she could get what she wanted from her kinsmen without ever appearing as if she were trying. “Why be a battering ram, my dear, when you can simply knock on the door and be let in?”
He’d been right, of course. Like he always was.
Dagmar took his right arm since his left hand held onto his traveling stick. She never could see much of his face because of the cowl he always wore but doubted he was extremely old based on the sound and strength of his voice. And although he’d been wounded badly, his body broken and weak, he hadn’t lost his spirit. The eyes that gazed at her from the darkness of his cowl were a vivid blue with strange flecks of silver throughout the iris and were always bright and lively.
The Order forced Brother Ragnar, even with his body broken, to walk everywhere although she’d offered more than once to purchase him a horse. But it came down to the sacrifices monks of every order were forced to make, which Dagmar would never understand—wasn’t life difficult and painful enough without adding more misery to it?
“I’m so glad to see you, Brother.” She squeezed his gloved hand. “You’re looking well.”
“It’s still pleasant out. Although I don’t look forward to winter.” Winter in the Northlands was a hard time for all of them, and only the most hearty—or stupid—trekked through the winter storms to reach the Reinholdt lands.
“Well, you’re here now. And we have much to discuss.”
“Yes, we do.” He gestured to the cart. “And I’ve brought you some wonderful new books I think you’ll enjoy.”
She glanced in to the cart and smiled. “You bring me the best presents.”
Placing Brother Ragnar’s hand on her arm, she led him and his comrades to the Main Hall for warm wine and food. “So, Brother … any more on my uncle?”
“Much, I’m afraid. I don’t like it, Dagmar. I don’t like it one bit.”
“Nor will I, I’m sure.”
“Did you send a message to the Southland queen as I suggested?”
“I did, but my father was not exactly pleased.”
“She is a woman,” he teased. “Her weakness is obvious.”
“But her reputation, Brother …”
“I know. She is quite insane, but she has near a hundred legions at her disposal, my lady. Imagine what even one legion could do to help your father.”