“Stop it! Both of you, just stop it!” They pulled back—neither willing to hit her in the face—and Morfyd again wondered how much longer they could all tolerate living under one roof. As humans no less!

“Honestly!” she complained, tugging her witch’s robes back into place. “Lately all of you have been acting like fighting dogs in a pit.”

“Dagmar doesn’t let us do that anymore,” Gwenvael uselessly reminded her. “She says it’s wrong.” He glanced off. “Although I still haven’t figured out why.”

Morfyd slapped Gwenvael in the back of the head.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For being a prat!” She pointed her finger across the table at Briec, cutting his laugh off. “You, too! Either both of you start acting like you’ve got some sense”—she moved her finger to Gwenvael to stop the next words out of his mouth—“even if you have none, or you find somewhere else to live.”

“You can’t throw us out,” Briec argued. He’d never liked being told what to do.

“I bloody well can. I’m vassal of Queen Annwyl’s lands, and I can toss anyone off them that I see fit. So don’t push me!” she finished on a healthy bellow.

“You mean Queen Annwyl who’s always off”—Gwenvael cleared his throat—“training?”

Morfyd had her fist pulled back, ready to pummel the whelp, when Brastias grabbed her arm and dragged her from the hall and out the enormous doors. He didn’t release her until they were down the stairs and around the corner.

“Brat! He’s such a brat!”

“He’s restless. So’s Briec, I think.”

“That’s not my problem!”

“Sssh,” Brastias crooned softly, big, calloused fingers gently brushing against her lips, across her jaw. Only Brastias knew how to settle her. The gods of mercy knew he had the kind of skills most males would kill for, and she thanked those gods every night for giving his heart to her. “Don’t let them trouble you so.”

Morfyd took a breath and released it. “You are right, of course. It’s simply that we haven’t spent this much time together as a family since we were hatchlings. Now you can understand why Mother insisted on having a nanny and armed guards around us on most days. And when she didn’t—there went Gwenvael’s tail, Éibhear’s hair…Briec’s back fangs.” Brastias chuckled, kissed her mouth. “What I see is you protecting Annwyl.” His head lowered with his voice. “Is there need to protect Annwyl?”

Morfyd couldn’t answer that, not honestly, so she didn’t answer at all.

Instead she kissed Brastias until his arms wrapped around her, and he pulled her to his chain-mail-covered chest.

“You have work to do,” she finally reminded him when she pulled away, both of them panting.

“You’re right. Even if the legions are going nowhere at the moment, I need to make sure they keep up their training.” He kissed her forehead.

“Perhaps we can meet later this afternoon…in our room? A quick luncheon.”

Morfyd grinned. Her day already looked brighter. “That sounds perfect.”

Brastias walked off, and, as she always did, she watched him. And, as he always did, he looked back at her and smiled.

As a group, they landed on a plateau that held steps leading directly into a mountain. Devenallt Mountain, the seat of power for those who ruled the dragon Clans and Houses of the Southland. And hundreds of leagues below was Garbhán Isle. The seat of power for the human queen.

“You two wait here,” Ragnar told his brother and cousin.

“You sure?” Vigholf asked. The idea of letting Ragnar go in alone bothered his brother, but it was for the best.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry,” Keita said, patting Vigholf’s shoulder. “Ren will stay here with you in case there’s trouble.”

“I will?” the foreign dragon asked. “You sure you don’t—”

“It will be easier and quicker to get through this if my mother doesn’t have you to fawn over. Besides, I need you to make sure my kin don’t mistake dear Vigholf and Meinhard for problems.”

“What fun for me.”

She laughed, a sound heard rarely during the last of their journey.

“We won’t be long.”

“Better not be.”

“Come on!” the Blue demanded, sounding like the eager pup he was.

“Let’s go!”

“All right,” Keita told him, waving him on. “We’re coming.”

“Good luck,” the Eastlander told her as she headed up the stairs behind the Blue. Ragnar glanced at him as he passed, but the foreign dragon turned away, giving him his back.

Of course, Ragnar had been told he’d deserved that and more.

“Good,” his mother had said. “You should feel ashamed. It was horrible what you said to her.”

“I know,” he’d responded.

“You’ll have to apologize to her, my son.”

“She won’t make that easy.”

“You can’t apologize on your own terms, Ragnar. That isn’t really an apology, but a perfunctory action simply meant to appease. To make you feel better. If you truly are sorry about what you said—”

“I am.”

“You’d better be, because I didn’t raise you to be mean, my son. And we both know that was mean.”