“With the human queen gone,” Brigida went on, “you risk that human army of yours losing its focus. Or making a run for it.”

“Won’t happen,” Izzy quickly said. “We’re not just fighting for Annwyl; we’re fighting for our country. Our people—”

“Blah, blah, blah. No one cares.”

Izzy shook her head and paced away.

“One queen is gone, most likely never to return—”

“I wouldn’t say that around Fearghus,” Briec muttered.

“—and the Dragon Queen is about to release her deadliest weapon. Your father, Bercelak the Great.”

“He is unpleasant. Some see that as deadly.”

“We either win here or we die trying. I’m here to help you win.”

Briec stared at his ancient relative. “And what do you get out of us winning, Brigida the Most Foul? Until the twins and my Rhi were born, none of our kin had seen you in centuries. Now you’re here, fighting by our side.” He looked her over once. “Why?”

“Smarter than your brothers, ain’t ya?”

“Not smarter. More cynical.”

Brigida’s true smile lifted one corner of her face. The part of her face without the vicious scars from lip to just below her eye. Like she’d been swiped by a clawed animal. Except there was no clawed animal in the natural world that could harm a dragon in that way. And he doubted a fellow dragon would even try something like that with Brigida.

“We don’t have much time,” she told them. “We need to get everybody together and get this moving. Once your father’s here . . .”

“What about Annwyl?” Izzy demanded as Brigida headed toward the tent flap.

“What about her?”

“We have to get her back.”

Brigida stopped and looked over her shoulder at Izzy, her sneer vicious.

“It’s too late for all that.”

“Yeah,” Briec felt the need to point out once more, “I really would not say that to Fearghus.”

Chapter Six

It took four hours, but they eventually reached Keita’s “friends’” castle. Human royals who said they were loyal to Queen Annwyl.

Brannie didn’t know them but that was a good thing. Annwyl talked often of those she hated and the names became memorable.

The name here was Breeton-Holmes and the family had a small castle well inside the Southland-Outerplains border. They weren’t a powerful family, but they were well situated, and had access to a lot of gossip, making them important to not only Keita but Dagmar Reinholdt, the Northland woman who ran Queen Annwyl’s lands in her absence and had bravely taken on Gwenvael the Handsome as her mate.

As soon as they were in range of the Breeton-Holmeses’ castle, Keita went into full royal mode, her back straightening, her expression unbelievably haughty.

It made Brannie want to hit her, but she wouldn’t.

Unless, of course, she had to.

The gates were immediately opened for them and the few guards that were around didn’t even question them. Aidan had just helped Keita to dismount when Lord Breeton-Holmes appeared.

That’s when the real performance began.

As soon as she saw her fellow royal, Keita burst into hysterical tears, throwing herself into the man’s arms as his wife and adult children instantly surrounded her.

Brannie didn’t even realize she’d started to roll her eyes until Aidan bumped into her, pushing her forward. That’s when she remembered that a good royal guard doesn’t roll his eyes at the idiot royals he was sworn to protect.

Everyone saw Brannie move forward, and the new royals were watching her closely, so she patted Keita’s shoulder and mumbled, “Now, now, my lady, we’re safe now.”

She heard Aidan snort behind her—which he quickly turned into a cough—and even she had to admit, she sounded less than concerned over the royal in her care.

It didn’t matter, though. Keita had an audience, and Brannie and her cohorts were soon forgotten.

Sobbing hysterically, Keita was helped toward the castle doors. Brannie followed but Keita abruptly stopped—walking and crying—and looked at her cousin over her shoulder.

“You’ll stay in the stables. A healer will be sent for your men.”

“The stables?” Brannie demanded.

Aidan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Of course, my lady. Please let us know if you need anything else.”

“But—”

“Come on, Sarge. The lads need us.”

Sarge? Had he called her “sarge”?

Turning to remind Aidan of her hard-earned rank, she saw his eyes widen in warning.

With human royal guards, no rank higher than a sergeant would lead a royal protection detail. A captain would never leave the castle unless it was the captain to a queen.

Realizing Caswyn and Uther needed her more than Keita ever would, she grabbed the reins of two horses—one carrying Caswyn—and made her way to the stables. Aidan right behind her with Uther and his horse.

As they walked, Brannie quickly understood that these royals weren’t like the very wealthy ones that used to come see Annwyl. Of course, most of those royals never got past Dagmar Reinholdt. She spoke for the queen as her battle mage and vassal. Many thought Annwyl was harder to talk to, but they were wrong. Dagmar was tougher than many dragons Branwen knew. She was plotting and devious and dangerous despite her lack of battle skill and magicks.

Brannie adored her.

But clearly not all royals were rolling in gold. The Beeton-Holmes castle was on the small side. The castle grounds damn near tiny, with just a few guards protecting them. But despite the sparseness of everything else, the stables were glorious and the few horses they had were shiny and beautiful. Like they were groomed every day, which seemed strange.

“Show horses,” Aidan remarked once they were inside.

“Show them to whom?”

“Before the war, there were show events where royals from around the land would bring their prized horses to be judged for strength, beauty, and breeding. And you don’t keep amazing show horses in shitty stables, even if it means you live in a tiny castle with few servants.”

“Shouldn’t they have more horses? These stables are huge.”

“Perhaps they gave the horses to the army for battle.”

Brannie walked past the few animals in residence. “But . . . they’re not big enough to be used in battle. Look at this one. Her legs are so . . . thin.”

“Elegant.”

“What?”

“Her legs are elegant, not thin.”

“Elegant . . . and breakable. I wouldn’t even eat her. Like gnawing on a chicken bone.”

Aidan, chuckling, led their two riderless horses to their own stalls before he came back for his friends.

Taking a quick look around, Aidan pointed at a roomy stall by the doors. “Let’s put them here.”

“No,” an old woman said, coming into the stable. She carried a weighted-down bag and had on a gray wool shawl. She was the healer.

“Put them in the back stalls, past the double doors,” she ordered. “That’s where I treat injured men and it’ll allow them to get some quiet. She glanced over Uther and Caswyn, who was being held up by Brannie and Aidan. “They’ll need the sleep.”

“We need them ready to go by tomorrow,” Brannie told her.

“Maybe this one.” She gestured at Uther. “He probably just needs a splint.” She leaned in closer, trying to look into Caswyn’s face; his head was down, his eyes closed. He was, thankfully, still breathing, but that was it. “This one . . . this one will need more.”

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.