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  She touched Caswyn’s face to lift his chin, but quickly pulled her hand back, her eyes widening and locking on Brannie and Aidan.

  This woman wasn’t just a healer . . . she was a witch. Her power had told her what they were as soon as she’d touched Caswyn.

  When she took a step back, Brannie lifted her hands, palms out, and said softly, “We’re not here to hurt anyone. We just need a safe place to stay so we can heal.”

  The witch continued to gaze at them, eyes narrowed in obvious distrust. But then Caswyn could no longer hold himself up, and Aidan nearly went down with him.

  “To the back,” the witch ordered. “Quickly.”

  * * *

  Brannie helped him carry Caswyn to the back and, together, they carefully laid him out in a stall on top of a nice pile of straw.

  “You over there,” the witch said to Uther. He went and sat down in his own stall and the witch kneeled beside Caswyn.

  “He’s lost blood.”

  Aidan crouched across from her. “What do you need from us?”

  “Fresh water, clean cloth, and privacy. Having you two hovering over me makes me uncomfortable.”

  Aidan could understand that. Especially the way Brannie was glowering.

  “Understood.” He nodded at her. “Name’s Aidan. This is Branwen.”

  “I’m Esmerelda.”

  “Can we call you Ezzie?” Brannie asked.

  “No.”

  “We’ll get the water and cloth for you,” Aidan said quickly, rising.

  He walked out, pushing Brannie in front, closing the double doors behind them.

  “Why are you acting like I did something wrong?” Brannie asked.

  “You were glaring at her.”

  “I glare at everyone.”

  “No, you don’t. But when you’re worried . . .” He smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  Aidan tracked down a helpful servant and asked for what he needed. While he waited, he peeked inside the castle to make sure Keita was doing all right. She was talking to the family, regaling them with stories of the supposed “attack” they’d suffered. There were tears, dramatic reenactments. It was quite . . . entertaining.

  Aidan returned to the stables with the servant and all that Esmerelda needed. Once the supplies were delivered, he and the servant went to Brannie. The servant proceeded to lay out food for them. Bread and cheese, meat and ale.

  As soon as they were alone, Aidan dropped onto the straw. “I’m exhausted,” he complained.

  “Going down with a mountain takes a lot out of a dragon.” Brannie sat down across from him and grabbed a loaf of bread.

  “That didn’t happen today, did it?”

  “It does feel like it happened days ago, but no. The quake happened just this morning.” She tore off a piece of the loaf and handed him the other half. “You think Iz and Éibhear are all right?”

  “You mother would have told you if they weren’t.”

  “Maybe. Unless she was worried I would have fought even harder to go back.” She sighed, took another bite of her bread. “Too late now, though, huh?”

  “Too late.”

  “Do you think Ren is dead?”

  “I hope not. The Eastlanders are not exactly a forgiving people. If he died on Rhiannon’s territory . . .”

  “Yes. I know. My mother made that clear.”

  She was quiet after that and they ate mostly in silence. Although not an uncomfortable one. They were both exhausted.

  When they’d just finished their food, Esmerelda appeared at the stall opening.

  “They’ll sleep. Both of them. The one with the arm—”

  “Uther.”

  “Yeah. His arm and leg are already starting to heal. His leg wasn’t even that bad. But he should protect that arm for the next day or two, depending on how fast you . . . people heal.”

  “And Caswyn?”

  “I stopped the bleeding and gave him something to get his strength back. And a few spells to speed up the healing.” She shrugged narrow shoulders. “I’ve done me best.”

  “Thank you,” Aidan told her, meaning every word. “They’re both like brothers to me. Your helping them means much.”

  “Keep your word to me and no need for thanks.”

  “As promised. We don’t intend to hurt anyone. Just need a safe place to stay tonight.”

  She glanced around. “This is as safe as any. If there are any problems with your friends, the servants know where to find me.”

  With a nod, she left and Aidan looked at Brannie. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “I was trying not to glare. That requires concentration.”

  “You had to concentrate on not glaring?”

  “Because I didn’t know I was glaring! So I kept thinking, ‘Am I glaring now? What about now? I feel like I’m glaring now.’ It was endless.”

  Aidan shook his head. “Do you realize that you make things—outside of battle, I mean—very complicated?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do. Constantly. If a sword is in your hand and someone is screaming bloody murder as they charge you . . . you are direct and ready. But you and Izzy trying to figure out what to eat for dinner . . . I think we’re still waiting for you to make up your mind.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

  “If that’s what you need to believe,” Aidan said.

  He picked up the bones and any remnants of food and tossed everything outside so the castle dogs could have it. Then he found blankets that, sadly, smelled like horses, but would be much more comfortable to lie on than plain straw.

  Once he had the blankets laid out, he dropped facedown on one.

  “What were you talking about with Keita and Rhiannon when I was with my mother?” Brannie asked.

  Aidan turned his head so he could comfortably stare at her for several seconds.

  “When?”

  “Earlier today. When we were in Rhiannon’s special place.”

  He snorted. “I think you mean sacred space.”

  “So . . . what did they want?”

  Aidan had been hoping that Brannie would forget her question when he corrected her—as she often did—but she was too annoyed by her cousin to let it go. And if Aidan wanted to annoy her more, he’d tell her everything. That, however, would not help the journey they were about to make.

  So, instead, Aidan told Brannie enough to get her off his back.

  “The queen was bragging about how safe her sacred space is, which was fine . . . until your great-aunt Brigida casually strolled through.”

  “I did see her, then?”

  “Yes. You did. And so did Rhiannon, who was none too happy about it. Especially when Keita began the mocking.”

  Brannie shook her head. “Keita is such a crazy, murdering sow. Pissing off her mother like that? Stupid.”

  Aidan rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “You do know that your cousin is not really a murderer, Branwen, right?”

  “Oh, come now. You can’t be fooled by her as well.”

  “I’m not. But she didn’t kill those people earlier today because she was bored. She’s a Protector of the Throne. That’s what they do.”

  Brannie gawked at him a long while, her head cocked to one side, before she asked, “Who is a Protector of the Throne?”

  “Keita.”

  “Keita who?”

  “Keita the Viper. Your cousin.”

  Again, Brannie gawked at him before asking, “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not. Your cousin is a Protector of the Throne. Has been for”—he shrugged—“at least a century.”

  “Keita?” she asked again. “My Keita?”

  “Yes.” He sat up. “How could you not know? Everyone in your family has known since that cousin of yours—the green one—tried to have her killed for betraying her mother. Didn’t any of them tell you?”

  “They did, but . . . I thought they were joking!”

  * * *


  Brannie couldn’t believe this.

  Keita, a Protector of the Throne? Keita?

  The same vapid female who’d once asked Brannie, “Are there any spells that would stop you from growing? What dragon is going to want a female the same size as him?”

  That Keita was a Protector of the Throne?

  “How is this possible?” she finally asked Aidan. “I’m shocked.”

  “I can tell. Éibhear never told you? Briec? Gwenvael? Who can’t keep his mouth shut about anything?”

  “No, no. I . . . think they did. But . . . again . . . I thought they were joking!”

  She threw up her hands. “Even Izzy thought they were joking.”

  Aidan laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You and Izzy. The pair of you. On a battlefield, no one wants to face you. But off the battlefield, you two are like little girls. Gossiping. Getting in trouble. And, like true Cadwaladrs, drinking too much.”

  “That’s always my cousins’ fault.”

  “You’re actually blaming your cousins?”

  “Of course.”

  Brannie stretched out beside Aidan. “I still can’t believe it. Keita? A Protector of the Throne.”

  “You underestimated her all these years. Now, don’t you feel bad?”

  “No.”

  Rolling onto his stomach again, Aidan covered his face with another, smaller blanket.

  “Are you actually about to go to sleep?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  He lifted the blanket a bit so she could hear him clearly. “I am not about to sit up all night listening to you analyze the truth about your cousin simply because Izzy isn’t here to do it with you.”

  “But so much happened today. The battle. The mountain. Uncle Bercelak being released like a horrifying bird of prey. And, to top it off, Keita’s a Protector of the Throne. How do you just go to sleep after all that?”

  “By closing my eyes. Try it.”

  “I’ll be up all night.”

  “Please don’t be. I know you, Branwen. If you’re up all night, you’ll keep me up all night.”

  “I will?”

  “We both know you won’t shut up.”

  She shrugged, nodded her head. “True. If Izzy were here, I’d just talk to her. But she’s not.”

  “I’m not nearly as chatty as the Great Iseabail the Dangerous.”

  “No. You’re what we call a listener, which is of no use to me at the moment.”

  “Perhaps a servant can get you some warm wine. That helps some to sleep.”

  “Or we could just fuck.”

  Aidan sat straight up, the blanket still covering his head.

  “What?” he barked.

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Why are you asking me to fuck? Is this because of Keita?”

  “Ew! What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” he said quickly.

  “I’m just suggesting it because a distraction would do us both good. Don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re not chatty and I need to get some rest before tomorrow. Fucking usually helps. If we were still with the army, I’d grab Sergeant—”

  “Stop talking.” He pulled the blanket off his head, pushing his gold hair off his face. “Are you just using me for sex?”

  “At the moment, yes. It’s the easiest way to work out anxiety.”

  “I just read a good book,” he suggested.

  “That’s what Annwyl does.” She glanced off. “And me dad.” She shrugged, dismissing his suggestion. “I’m not much of a reader. I’d rather have someone tell me a story than make me read a book. With words.”

  Aidan’s eyes crossed and he fell back onto his bedding.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you’re mad.” She felt the need to argue when all he wanted her to do was stop talking. “It was a valid question.”

  “It was a valid question for a camp whore.”

  “Now you’re being a baby.”

  Aidan propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you really think so little of me?” he asked.

  “I have no idea how to answer that.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “No, no. I mean, I don’t know what you’re asking me. Do I think so little of you . . . how?”

  “That I am just good for sex?”

  “Of course, I don’t think that. You’re not good just for sex. You’re good for lots of things, as well as sex.” She grinned as if she’d made some brilliant observation that he should appreciate.

  Aidan tossed one of the blankets at Brannie, hitting her directly in the head. It hung over her face and she didn’t bother to remove it. But she did keep talking.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” she told him . . . through the blanket.

  “I have honor. I may be a murdering, torturing, son-of-a-bastard Mì-runach, but I’m not a whore, Branwen the Awful.”

  With a sigh, she pulled the blanket off and tossed it down beside him. She stretched out, their arms nearly touching.

  “Well, don’t ever say I didn’t offer you anything,” she muttered.

  He turned his head to look at her. “Are you saying you offered me your pussy?”

  “No,” Brannie said immediately, but then she started giggling. “I guess I am.”

  Now they were both laughing. And after the day they’d had, it felt really good.

  Not no-strings-attached sex good, but . . . good.

  Chapter Seven

  A hand over her mouth woke Brannie up. She had her blade out and pressed against Aidan’s throat before she realized who he was.

  He was on top of her, his weight holding her down. And strangely, she didn’t mind. It felt kind of nice, but she didn’t have time to think about that too much. Because Aidan’s expression told her something was very wrong.

  It was morning. The two suns up outside the stables. The nearby horses in the other stalls restless.

  Brannie listened beyond that, ignoring the sounds she recognized to focus on what was more strange to her.

  She heard it. Muffled sounds coming into the small courtyard. She closed her eyes and listened harder. Yes.

  Muffled hooves. The Daughters of the Steppes muffled their horses when they were planning a late-night attack.

  She motioned to Aidan, her index and middle finger together, waving forward twice.

  He nodded and slipped off her. She grabbed the unimpressive sword of the guards Keita had killed the day before and got to her feet.

  Aidan was already gone, disappearing into the stables to make his own way out. He didn’t make a sound, but that was his way. Unlike the Mì-runach that she’d known over the years—her cousin Éibhear included—Aidan didn’t go screaming into battle, covered in dirt and blood and cutting down all those in his way. He didn’t choose a time to move like a jungle cat as his brethren did. Instead he moved like that at all times, whether in battle or merely walking down the road toward town. Often striking the killing blow before his enemies knew they were under attack.

  Standing outside the stall she’d slept in, Brannie briefly thought about the two other Mì-runach down at the end of the large building. She decided against waking them. No matter how injured they still were, they would go out of their way to join the fight, if there was one.

  Then again, how often wasn’t there a fight when someone muffled their horse’s hooves?

  Brannie walked to the doors and eased one side open just enough to be able to look out. Her lip curled.

  They were Zealots. One of the squads Salebiri had been sending out to scorch the land, Brannie guessed, based on the way their cloaks were singed at the edges. Some even had burn scars on their hands and faces, as if they hadn’t moved away from the flames they’d begun fast enough.

  There were about twenty, all human from what she could tell.

  It still shocked Brannie to no end tha
t there were dragons who’d involved themselves in this foolishness. Insane. Why devote one’s self to a single mad god when there were so many nicer ones to choose from?

  Five more Zealots came from inside the castle, pushing the royal family out into the courtyard. Keita was not among them, so Brannie could only hope that her cousin’s skill at survival had kicked in and she was hiding somewhere safe.

  A priest was helped down from his horse and, with a beautiful smile and missing eyes, he spread his arms wide and cheerily called out, “May your sight shine bright, Lord Breeton-Holmes! Salutations and great joy to you!”

  Lord Breeton-Holmes didn’t answer. The poor man was so terrified, all he could do was stare blankly at those who’d invaded his tiny home.

  It wasn’t like Breeton-Holmes was a danger to anyone. He had no army. Showed no sign he wanted to be anything more than a royal with a small castle and shiny horses that were basically useless for any kind of real work. But for the last few months the Zealots had been attacking these small royal estates and forcing the inhabitants to either join their cause—usually by sacrificing at least one eye—or suffering greatly for choosing to stay loyal to their own gods and to Annwyl.

  But Brannie wasn’t about to let that happen to anyone on Annwyl’s lands and definitely not to humans who had offered them food, protection, and healing.

  She cracked her neck and lifted her weapon, ready to attack, when she saw Keita step out of the safety of the castle.

  “Greetings, my one-god-loving friends!” the little idiot called.

  Brannie gritted her teeth. “What is wrong with her?”

  “What is she doing out there?”

  Jerking at Uther’s voice behind her, Brannie ended up gritting her teeth again. Damn Mì-runach. She hated when they snuck up on her.

  “Don’t do that,” she growled at him.

  “Learn to hear better,” Uther chastised. And she briefly thought about slapping him. Not hitting, just slapping. Until he cried like a babe.

  “What’s going on?” Caswyn asked, coming up behind Uther.

  “Why are you up?” she asked. He still looked weak but much better than he had the night before.

  “You can’t expect me to lie around when danger is near.”