Last Dragon Standing (Dragon Kin #4)(29)

Briec watched his brother. Fearghus knew the general was right, but that didn’t make the situation easier for him.

Catching Brastias’s attention, Briec suggested, “You may want to warn Morfyd that Keita’s coming home.”

“Warn her?”

“Trust me, general. Warn her.” Then Briec gave a small jerk of his head toward the door. Brastias nodded and left with his men.

Once the door closed behind them, Briec dropped into a chair across from his brother, propping his feet up on the table. “All right, what don’t I know?”

Fearghus muttered something, but rather than get the dragon to repeat himself—always a chore since Fearghus was a born mutterer—Briec focused on Dagmar.

“Annwyl has become reluctant to make decisions that might thrust us into war,” Dagmar said.

“I’ve seen your female, brother. She looks ready for war to me.”

“She’s torn,” Fearghus admitted. “She’s ready to stomp out whatever is terrorizing the territories past the Western Mountains, but she’s terrified to leave the children.”

“Why? They won’t be alone. They’ll have us. The Cadwaladr Clan.

She couldn’t ask for better or stronger protection than that.”

“I can’t explain it, Briec. She’s not talking to me. I just know that to get her any farther than my cave these days has become near impossible.”

“And,” Dagmar added, “to discuss problems that might be occurring outside Garbhán Isle is also a challenge.” Dagmar walked around the table and leaned against it, her arms crossing over her chest. “It’s hard to convince her the children will be safe without her for a little while when we can’t even keep a nanny for longer than a moon or two.”

“Wait. What happened to the last one?” Briec asked.

Dagmar shook her head, and Fearghus let out a long sigh before facing the wall behind him.

Briec grimaced. “Oh.” Thankfully, Briec had no problems like this with his younger daughter. His girl was sweet beyond imagining—something she must have gotten from him, since there was no way she could have inherited that trait from her mother. So he had no worries when he left her alone with anyone. All that worried him was what weight she possibly carried on those tiny shoulders. He’d never seen someone so young look so serious—all the time. She never smiled. Ever. She simply gazed at all around her with those eyes that anyone could get lost in. He had heard a few say that when she stared at them, it was as if she were staring into their souls.

To be honest, Briec thought she was.

But none of that helped his brother now. Because a paranoid, well-trained, ready-for-anything Annwyl with no war or battle to head off to was nothing but a volcano waiting to explode. Everyone at Garbhán Isle knew it—and that’s what had everyone so on edge.

“I’m sure we’ll figure out something. Maybe Keita can help. When she gets here.”

Fearghus sniffed. “Two years and no word from her. And she’ll come back like none of it happened.”

“You know how Keita is. She blocked us all, even Éibhear.”

“Yes, but it’s not like she’s Gwenvael.”

“Because we actually care if she’s dead or alive?”

“Exactly.”

“You two do know I’m right here?” Dagmar asked.

“It’s not whether we know you’re here or not,” Briec explained. “It’s whether we care that you’re here or not. And, I’m sure to your surprise, tiny crushable human, we actually don’t. Care, that is.” Dagmar adjusted her spectacles. “Actually what surprises me is that Talaith has not killed you in your sleep yet.” Briec grinned while Fearghus laughed. “Aye. It amazes her as well.”

Chapter Eight

They were still in the Outerplains when they took their first break in the afternoon. It should have been only a quick break of thirty minutes or less, but the princess shifted to human and put on a dress, which was strange enough. Then she dug into Ragnar’s bag and threw his chain-mail leggings and shirt at him. “Get dressed,” she ordered.

“Why?”

“Don’t question—just do.” She grinned and walked off. Ragnar kept on eating the dried meat from his bag until Vigholf shoved him with his shoulder. “Go on then.”

“Go on where?”

“Wherever she’s going. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’ve got more important—”

Now Meinhard shoved his other shoulder. “Go. We’ll be here when you get back.”

“We need to leave.”

“Would an extra half hour really kill you, brother?” Vigholf motioned toward the royal, smiling. “Go. She’s waiting.” Knowing this was a waste of time but sure his kin wouldn’t let it go until he’d followed after the female like a needy puppy, Ragnar shifted to human and pulled on his leggings and shirt. He also added a sword strapped to his back, several daggers in his boots, and a hooded cape to hide his hair.

Once dressed, he set off after Her Highness and found her leaning against a tree less than a half mile away.

“Took you long enough,” she complained, then latched onto his arm and started off.

“Where are we going?”