Keita smiled. “That was very good.”

She turned from him and walked back to the table. Once she was again situated in the chair, her feet up on the table, a chalice of wine in her hand, Brannie asked, “Well . . . ?”

“Well what?”

“He told you what you wanted. Aren’t you going to finish him?”

“No.” Brannie, disgusted, stood, but her cousin snapped, “Sit down, Branwen.”

Without really thinking about it, she did. “Keita—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Branwen. Unless you’ve actually seen their idea of a cleansing . . . I don’t want to hear anything.”

“I’ve seen their cleansings,” Brannie told her, clearly remembering finding rows of those who refused to take Chramnesind as their one and only god. Staked to the ground in the kneeling position, molten silver poured into their eyes so they were frozen in sparkly horror. It had been one of the most appalling sights Brannie had ever been forced to witness and the first time during a nighttime battle break that her and Izzy had ended up so drunk they couldn’t even stand.

“Then I don’t know what we’re arguing about, cousin.”

“Just because they’re bastards, doesn’t mean we have to be.”

Keita’s eyes rolled all the way to the back of her head. “You are such a goody two-claws.”

“Can we eat outside?” Uther asked. “Or in the stables? I just don’t think I can eat with the sound of his screaming.”

Keita gawked at the Mì-runach. “What kind of dragon are you?” she asked.

Uther shrugged. “A nice one.”

She let out a sigh. “Fine. If your fragile sensibilities can’t handle a little screaming—”

Before she could finish, Caswyn was up and across the room. He cut off the priest’s head midscream and the silence was . . . amazing.

Pointing the sword at Keita, Caswyn accused, “I thought you were some prissy little royal princess. But you are—”

“Lovely? Divine? Bold and sassy?”

“Vile.”

Keita shrugged, sipped her wine. “That, too.”

Chapter Eight

Aidan sat in silence with his Mì-runach brothers for at least an hour in one of the castle bedrooms until he heard a faint knock at the door.

He opened it and Brannie stood on the other side. Her black hair was wet from a recent bath and combed off her face. She had a long, plain cotton shirt on and a map in her hand.

“We need to discuss tomorrow’s plans,” she said evenly.

“Yes. Of course.” He stepped back and allowed her in.

But once Aidan closed the door, Brannie suddenly spun to face him, her eyes wild. The map went flying as she hysterically asked him in a desperate whisper, “Who is that she-demon?”

“Your cousin!” Aidan whispered back.

“That’s not the Keita I know!” she continued to whisper. “We can’t go traipsing around with her! She’ll kill us all in our sleep!”

“No,” Uther corrected, also whispering, “we’ll probably all be awake when she does it. She’ll want to stare us in the eye as we’re bleeding out of every orifice!”

“But—” Caswyn said in his normal voice and they all immediately hushed him.

Poor Caswyn reared back and refused to speak again. Probably for the best. At the moment, they were all panicked and easily startled.

Brannie began to pace around the room. “Now I see what my mother was worried about.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If it turns out that Ren died on our queen’s territory, while under our protection, the Empress will declare war on Rhiannon and strike.”

“Well, that’s bad but—”

“Mum’s worried Keita will try and stop her by killing the entire royal family. From the Empress on down.”

Aidan had a hard time believing that. “You don’t think she would, do you?”

“If you’d asked me this yesterday, no. I wouldn’t have believed it. But after this . . .” Brannie shook her head. “She lured that priest here. But before that, she studied the habits of the Chramnesind priests and priestesses so she knew what poison to use to kill the guards and keep him alive but in torturous pain. That goes beyond mere dragon mayhem.”

“She is a Protector of the Throne.”

“I don’t want to hear that anymore, Aidan!”

Since they’d still been whispering all during their conversation, the strong knock at the door had all four of them screaming in panic.

The door opened and Keita stepped in. She’d also had a bath and was now sheathed in a soft red robe.

“Everything all right?” she asked, gazing at them.

Brannie cleared her throat. “Yes. Of course. You just . . . uh . . . startled us.”

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect any more of the Zealots anytime soon. Last I heard, their attack squadrons were heading north.”

“Great,” Brannie muttered.

“So, tomorrow . . .”

“Yes. We were just discussing that.”

“We’ll be heading to the Port Cities. See if we can pick up Ren’s tracks. If we’re lucky, he’s already caught a boat back to the Eastlands.”

“I don’t understand, Keita. I know Ren’s skills. Why wouldn’t he just open a doorway and . . . you know . . . go home?”

“Unless you’re at my mother’s or Brigida’s level of skill, the Zealot priests can disrupt open doorways. Snatch witches right out of them. If Ren had tried, he’d have definitely been caught. We tried to get him to my mother, but we had to separate when we ran into a few . . . legions. I haven’t seen him since.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, Keita.”

“I hope so,” she said softly, her expression—for once—sad. But just as quickly she went back to the old Keita. “Anyway, we head out tomorrow morning?”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Excellent! See you all in the morning then.” She smiled and waved before walking out, closing the door behind her.

Once Aidan heard another door close somewhere in the castle, he went back to whispering. “If we’re going to survive this, we’re all going to have to calm down!”

“You calm down!” Brannie snapped back in a desperate whisper. “She likes you! I’m just the cousin with the high moral ground!”

“Aye, Branwen,” Uther muttered. “I do not envy you that.”

Brannie spun, one finger pointed in Uther’s poor face. “Is this you helping?”

“Oh, no,” Uther answered honestly. “Not at all.”

* * *

The next morning, Brannie rose before the two suns. She put on her chain mail and boots and went down the stairs and outside to the guards’ quarters. There she found only a few, very battered old weapons—not much better than the ones they’d taken off the dead guards—but an ample supply of surcoats. Some that might actually fit the Mì-runach, big bastards that they were.

She slipped one of the surcoats on over her head and wrapped a belt around her waist. The guard’s weak sword and dagger hung from it. Better than nothing she supposed, but she’d give anything for a real weapon. Perhaps they could find a solid blacksmith along the way. Even weapons made only for humans that never changed their size would be better than these.

“I’m coming into the room,” Aidan called out seconds before he did just as he said.

Brannie frowned at him. “What was that?”

“When I don’t announce, you yell at me that I snuck up on you.”

Brannie was going to argue that point until she realized Aidan was right.

Shrugging, she turned back to a small box filled with axes, most likely used for chopping wood rather than anything war-related. She grabbed one, figuring it was, again, better than nothing.

“It’s not my fault all of you move like jungle cats. Perhaps if you stomped a bit.”

“Unlike my brothers, I don’t know how. I learned to be stealthy very early in life. It helped me survive my kins’ form of familial kindness.”