What a Dragon Should Know (Dragon Kin #3)(69)

She also noticed that everyone seemed rather … casual. Dagmar had expected a lot more pomp and circumstance from the Queen of Dark Plains and her royal court. A lot more scurrying servants and whispered court drama. There didn’t seem to be any of that.

In fact, the more she wandered, the more Dagmar wanted to meet the infamous Blood Queen. But first, she’d have to track down Gwenvael. She’d have to tidy up before she could be presented to a queen. She was covered in traveler dirt, and her poor cloak and dress needed a good scrubbing. Grinning, she wondered if her recently earned five coppers could get her an already-made gown. Nothing fancy, of course, but a less heavy material that would be presentable for her first court appearance.

Dagmar walked past a room and then stopped. She immediately walked back and glanced in. The library. A very nice one, too, although a bit small. She wandered in and began to study the books on the shelves. Lots of fictional work here. Not really to Dagmar’s tastes, but she usually read everything she could get her hands on. She turned a corner and found books on history and philosophy. This was definitely more along the lines of what she enjoyed reading, especially when she found a rare copy of The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos. He was one of the greatest warlords of the long-dead Western armies. And although some of his methods were outdated, to know how the man thought and strategized was a boon she simply couldn’t pass up.

Grabbing the book, Dagmar began to carefully skim through the pages. Finding it old but beautifully maintained, she immediately began to look for a chair to sit in so she could read a few pages … or chapters. Just a few. She went deeper into the library, surprised to find that it wasn’t very wide but awfully deep. Near the back, where daylight from the front windows no longer crept in, Dagmar followed the candlelight. As she came around the corner, she saw her. A woman sitting at a table, her elbows resting on the wood, her face, chest, and arms all that could be seen in the dim candlelight. She had a book open at midpoint in front of her and several lit candles on the table. But she wasn’t reading … she was crying.

Not wanting to interrupt—or be forced to comfort anyone—Dagmar began a quiet retreat. But she hit a loose floorboard and the woman’s head snapped up.

Dagmar winced. The poor woman had been crying for a while. “I’m sorry. I was just—”

“It’s all right.” The woman wiped her face with her hands. “Just having a moment.” Rubbing the back of her hand against her dripping nose, she asked, “What are you reading?”

“Oh. Uh … The Battle Strategies of Dubnogartos.”

Her face lit up and Dagmar suddenly saw all the scars that the dim lighting had been hiding. “Great book,” she enthused. “His battle against the Centaurs at Hicca … bloody amazing read.”

She motioned to a chair. “You can sit down if you like. I’m done with my crying fit, I think.”

Dagmar slowly walked over to the table. “Rough morning?”

“You could say that.”

Dagmar pulled out the chair across from the woman and sat down, placing the book on the table.

She watched as the woman let out a sigh and stretched her neck. But it was when she again raised her hands to wipe her face that Dagmar saw them—from her wrist to her forearm, on both arms.

The woman raised a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Uh …” Dagmar couldn’t stop staring and finally she blurted out, “You’re Queen Annwyl. Aren’t you?” If nothing else, the dragon brands burned into her arms gave it away. Only a monarch would be brave enough to wear those markings for the world to see.

“Some days. But you can call me Annwyl.”

This softly sobbing woman was the Queen of Dark Plains?

And Dagmar began to wonder if her arranged alliance with this monarch had been a bit hasty. Her father needed a strong leader as his ally, not some whimpering mess hiding in a library. It was true enough, she knew, that being with child was hard on any woman, but even Dagmar’s sisters-in-law hid their misery better than this.

“And you are … ?”

“Dagmar,” she said quickly, realizing she had to hide any disappointment she may have at the moment. “Dagmar Reinholdt.”

The queen frowned. “I don’t recognize you, but that name sounds awfully familiar.”

“Dagmar Reinholdt. Only Daughter of The Reinholdt.”

“Dagmar? You’re a woman.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Yes. I’m also called The Beast, in some parts.”

“I was unaware that The Reinholdt had any daughters.” She leaned in a bit. “How did you get here?”

“Oh. Gwenvael brought me.”

It was strange watching it. That soft, sweet, scar-covered face so quickly and brutally becoming hard and very, very angry.

The queen’s fist slammed down against the thick wood table, and Dagmar felt it bend under the pressure, heard the sound of it splintering.

“That idiot!”

It took her a bit, to get that bulk up and out of its seat, but she managed without any help, her rage giving her a fluidity Dagmar guessed was denied the queen at most times. Then she lumbered off, words pouring out of her mouth that made Dagmar’s brothers seem more like holy priests than the salty warriors of the Reinholdt Clan.

She sat there a moment, letting out a breath. “So that’s the Blood Queen.” She knew now the rumors were true … The woman was completely insane.