“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.”