“Get settled in first. I’m sure you’re here for a reason, so finish all that, then find me at the forge.”
Her father smiled at her, his claw petting her cheek. “Glad you’re back, little one. Will you be staying long?”
“I’ll probably head back tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll make the most of our time today.”
Chapter 9
“We’re heading back tomorrow?” Vigholf asked Rhona once her father was gone. “You don’t think they need us here?”
“Unless my orders change . . .”
“Right, right.” Gods, this woman and her bloody orders. “I just don’t want to leave this place undefended.”
For a brief moment he saw the concern on Rhona’s face, but then one of the Kyvich walked between them, ignoring the much bigger dragons surrounding her. The witch carried the head of some human male. It looked to be a foreigner, but still.... “Jesella,” the witch called out and tossed the head to another witch. “You know what to do with that. Tonight’s a full moon.”
“Where’s the rest of the body? You know I need the fingers and tongue as well!”
Rhona smirked at Vigholf. “I’m heading back tomorrow,” she said, walking off.
He watched her, unable to figure her out. She could be such a babysitter, caring for everyone, and the next a cold, uncaring, “I’m only following orders, sir” soldier.
“Lord Vigholf?”
Vigholf turned his focus to the ground and smiled. “Lady Dagmar.”
Dagmar Reinholdt. The Northland woman his brother Ragnar had taken under his wing, educating her and making her as devious as Ragnar could be. At the time Vigholf didn’t know why. He’d found nothing very interesting about Dagmar Reinholdt with her plain face and small body. But he thought perhaps Ragnar wanted her as a pet. Not for sexual reasons—she was much too young for any of that and Vigholf wouldn’t have allowed it—but for general amusement. Like a puppy or a kitten. Yet Ragnar had paid too much attention to her education, her health, and the inadequacies of her eventual—and worthless—husbands.
Over the last few years, though, Vigholf had come to understand what had drawn his brother to the child and then the woman and why the Northland men—hard, brutal men rarely scared or intimidated by anything—had without humor or irony called her The Beast. Because Dagmar Reinholdt was brilliant. A strategist and politician, she wore reason and logic as her armor, playing her political games with the highest-ranking monarchs and, it was rumored, the gods. Her mind was such a vicious and deadly thing that Vigholf now realized it was better to have Dagmar Reinholdt on their side rather than against it.
“You must be starving, my lord.”
“I am, but I’d like to see my mother first.”
“She’s been staying at Devenallt Mountain with the other Northland dragon females. I’ve sent word, so your mother will be escorted here soon. Until then”—she motioned to the castle—“let’s get you fed.”
Vigholf knew that tone. He heard it from Ragnar all the time. “I don’t have much choice in this, do I, my lady?”
Her smile was small—and cold. “No, my lord. You don’t.”
Naked and in human form by the lake where her kin had made camp, Rhona studied the many scars littering her body. “I’m like a bleedin’ pin cushion,” she muttered.
“Rhona?”
Rhona turned, smiled. “Hello, Talaith.”
“Think we can talk?” her cousin Briec’s beautiful mate asked, and Rhona could hear the concern in the woman’s voice. The stress. Not surprising. Most of them gone for five years, with no visits from her daughter for the entire time and none from Briec after the first two.
Rhona looked down at herself. “Got any clean clothes I can wear? Mine are all a bit stinky at the moment.”
Talaith laughed a little. “Maybe in Annwyl’s closet.”
“That’ll do.” She started to head away from the camp, but Talaith caught her arm, pulled her back.
“Here.” Talaith took off the fur cape she wore and wrapped it around Rhona’s naked body. “At least until we get inside. For the sake of the servants.”
“Such a prude,” Rhona teased.
“I’m worried,” Talaith admitted when they were away from Rhona’s kin but not quite at the castle gates. “I haven’t heard from Briec in several days.”
“You’ve heard from Briec?” Usually only immediate blood relations could contact each other directly and at long distances. Unless, of course, they were . . .
“Witch,” Talaith reminded Rhona. One of those Desert Land witches, mortal enemies of the Kyvich, Rhona had heard. So having the scantily clad, tattooed females around must be especially hard for Talaith. “Learning to contact my mate was one of the easier things I’ve had to relearn since the return of my powers. And with a little more effort and a lot less complaining, Briec could be an amazing mage, so it’s been quite easy. I don’t hear from him every day, but he’s never gone this long. . . .”
“When I left all was well. We’re at a standstill.” Although Rhona was well aware all that could change in a moment. But what was the point of worrying her?
“Can you check with your mum?” Talaith asked.
Rhona stopped walking, tightened the fur around her body. “Uh . . .”
“Uh? Uh what?”
“No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”
“Why the hells not?”
“Keita—”
“Och! That female!” Talaith raised her hand to silence Rhona’s immediate defense of her cousin. “What is she up to now?”
“Maybe you should ask—”
“Forget it.” Talaith caught Rhona’s hand, pulling her along with a surprising amount of strength. Then again, Rhona did often forget that Talaith was once an assassin. A very good one.
With a little snarl, Talaith said, “Let’s find that damn female.”
“How is everything going?” Dagmar asked while Vigholf tucked into a heaping bowl of delicious-smelling beef stew.
“Fine.”
The bowl suddenly disappeared, his spoon dangling in midair.
“You’d get between a dragon and
