Chapter 5
Talaith, Daughter of Haldane and Mate of Briec the Arrogant, also known as Briec the Mighty, walked down the stairs to the Great Hall of Garbhán Isle. She was tired. It would be the full moon in a few days and she had much to do before she performed the spells she was planning. For she was one of the Nolwenn witches out of the Desert Lands and for more than sixteen years her powers had been denied her by a bitch goddess she still refused to discuss in polite company. But Talaith had her powers back now and she was ready to truly master them. Not easy, though, when the only other witches who could help her were her most hated enemies. The Ice Lands’ Kyvich.
The Kyvich were warrior witches out of the nightmarish Ice Land territories. They were known far and wide for many reasons: their incredible skills on the battlefield, their mystical powers as well as their connections to the gods. But what they were really known—and feared—for was that they built up their rank and file by taking newborn-to-toddler-age daughters. From peasant to royalty, it didn’t matter whose daughter it was, nothing stopped the Kyvich once they’d decided a young girl was one of their own. Although they mostly stayed in the Ice Lands and took offspring from there, they’d been seen as far south as the Desert Lands and as far west as the Provinces. Only the Eastlands seemed to have kept them at bay, most likely due to the violent sea that separated continents. And from the time Talaith could walk, she’d been told by the Nolwenn witches who helped raised her that the Kyvich were no more than “murderous, low-level whores who should feel blessed that they’re allowed to breathe the same air as us.”
Or, as Talaith’s mother so simply put it,
Those bitches.
Yet Talaith could only complain so much about the Kyvich because they were here, in Garbhán Isle for a true and mighty purpose. To protect those who meant more to her than any words could ever hope to adequately describe.
They were here to protect the children.
“Good morn, Dagmar.”
Dagmar Reinholdt, her sister-by-mating and Battle Lord of Dark Plains, glanced up from the letters and missives she received nearly every day. “Morn, sister.”
Dagmar also came from the north like the Kyvich. The Northlands specifically. She was a mighty warlord’s daughter but had earned the respect of Queen Annwyl by being what Annwyl could not . . . a rational, political force that many feared. Although Annwyl was feared, all she could really do was cut someone’s head off and kill their soldiers.
Dagmar, when she set her mind to it, could do much worse—and often did.
“Everything all right?” Talaith asked her.
“Not sure.”
“Anything I should be panicking about?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Excellent.” Talaith sat down at the large table. A servant placed a bowl of hot porridge in front of her and a basket of fresh bread beside it. She picked up a spoon, ready to dig in, but a door opened behind her and she heard that telltale squeal.
Talaith turned in her chair and opened her arms wide. Her youngest daughter charged into them. Her tiny body slamming into her mother’s, her small arms wrapping around her mother’s neck.
“There’s my beautiful girl. How are you this morning?”
“Fine,” Rhianwen said against Talaith’s throat.
Rhianwen, Rhian for short—unless it was her sister, then it was Rhi—was an impossibly shy and sweet girl. Surprisingly not like her parents at all. Then again, Rhian wasn’t even supposed to exist. For many reasons. Because her father was a dragon, her mother a human, and because as a Nolwenn witch Talaith was only supposed to be able to have one child in her what-should-be eight hundred years or so of existence. And that one child had been her Izzy, who was off risking her life as Annwyl the Bloody’s squire. Izzy was the child Talaith had at sixteen. But then, it seemed, the gods had changed their minds and given Talaith Rhian as well. Her beautiful little Rhian. With the brown skin of her mother’s people and her father’s silver hair and violet eyes, Rhian had unparalleled beauty and thankfully no tail or scales. From what anyone could tell, Talaith’s daughter was completely human—so far. And although strength and battle skills didn’t seem to be Rhian’s future calling, Talaith knew a fellow witch when she saw one. But not just a witch. The girl was unbelievably powerful, clearly blessed by the gods. Magicks swirled around and through her, and with one glance, Rhian could look right into your soul.
It was a little disconcerting at times. Even for Talaith.
“Where are your cousins?” Talaith asked her daughter—as always, afraid of the answer when the twins were not right by Rhian’s side. Because Rhian, although younger, had a lovely calming effect on the brother and sister who also should not exist as the offspring of the human Queen Annwyl and Dragon Prince Fearghus. For while Talaith’s dragon-human daughter may be sweet and innocent, Rhian’s dragon-human cousins were definitely neither of those things. And, it was doubtful they ever would be.
“Playing with the dogs,” Rhian said while tugging on her mother’s long curly hair.
“Play . . . playing with the dogs?”
“In the fields. They brought their ax.”
Dagmar’s head snapped up and the two women looked at each other. They didn’t need to read each other’s mind to know what the other was thinking.
They were both up, Rhian still in her mother’s arms, and near the back door when Ebba walked in. In each hand she carried a child. The girl, Talwyn, in her right and the boy, Talan, in her left.
“Got ’em,” the centaur female said, smiling. After five years she still had patience with Annwyl and Fearghus’s offspring, although none of them knew how she managed it.
“My dogs?” Dagmar demanded. Even with her duties as Battle Lord and Garbhán Isle vassal, Dagmar still managed to breed and train the most amazing but singularly violent battle dogs in the known world. Yet, surprisingly, they were also wonderful pets.
“Oh, they’re fine,” Ebba said, heading toward the stairs and the children’s bedroom. “The twins were using the ax to chase the
cattle
, not the dogs. The dogs were simply tagging along.”
“Somehow,” Dagmar muttered to Talaith, “that doesn’t make me feel better.”
Talaith understood that.
“Well,” Talaith said as the leader of the Kyvich legion in residence, Commander Ásta, walked by with two of her warrior witches behind her, “maybe if the Kyvich did their job and actually watched out for the children . . .”
Ásta stopped. She liked Talaith even less than Talaith liked her. “My job and the job of my coven is to keep your offspring alive. Keeping them from hacking up the cattle . . . that’s
your
job, Nolwenn.”
Talaith snarled a little, and Dagmar stepped in front of her, cutting the sight of the tattooed bitch from her. “Stop it.”
“She annoys.”
“The world annoys you, Talaith. Stop acting like she’s somehow special.”
Well . . . the Northland female did have a point.
“We have to stop,” Keita said from behind them.
Rhona and Vigholf glanced at each other. They’d only been walking for about four hours. Then again, Keita wasn’t known for exercising anything but her mouth and her conniving ways, so perhaps she did tire easily.
“If you can’t handle traveling a few miles on foot, Keita—” But Rhona stopped talking when she turned and saw that it was Ren sitting against a tree stump—panting.
“Ren?” She went to his side and crouched down. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He tried to smile. “Just need a few moments.”
Rhona looked to her cousin, but Keita was focused on Ren, so Rhona stood, paced over to the Lightning.
“I don’t remember the foreigner being so weak before,” Vigholf murmured low so only Rhona could hear.
“That’s because he’s not weak.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Rhona faced her cousin. “But perhaps it’s time you tell us, Keita. Tell us what is going on.”
“Tell them,” Ren said softly. “So they’ll understand.”
Keita nodded and stood. “Ren is opening a portal. It’s taking a lot out of him.”
“A portal? Why’s he opening a portal? And,” Rhona went on before Keita could answer, “the gods know he’s opened portals before, so why should this one—”
“This one will take him and others into the Eastlands. That’s not a short trip, cousin. And normally he’d take weeks to prepare for a casting of this magnitude. But we don’t have that kind of time, so he’s opening one as quickly as he can manage.”
“He can’t just”—Vigholf shrugged—“open one?”
“He can, but if it’s not precisely done, it could dump them anywhere. It’s too great a risk.”
Rhona stepped closer. “Them? Who is he taking with him?”
Keita looked back at Ren.
“Tell them everything,” he pushed. “You might as well.”
Keita nodded and said, “As we speak, several of the Western tribes Annwyl tried to wipe out have teamed together and are riding toward Garbhán Isle. They know Annwyl and most of her army are not there and they want to destroy the castle and kill her offspring for revenge. And the reason we didn’t tell you earlier is because we’re hiding all this from Fearghus and Briec. Because you know what will happen if they find out their offspring are in danger. They’ll rush off with most of the army to protect them and leave the Lightnings and the rest of my mother’s army to fend for themselves. So I decided this was the best idea.” Keita clapped her hands together. “But we’ve got it all covered and we’ve got you two to protect us all the way home . . . so there’s no need to worry!”
Vigholf watched Rhona closely, ready to catch hold of her before she could grab Keita in a rage. But Rhona merely stared at her cousin until she said, “Yeah, all right.” She sighed a little. “We should get horses then, for when we’re not flying.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Vigholf cut in, shocked Rhona was just accepting what Keita had spewed. “How do you know all this, Keita?”
“Auntie Ghleanna—”
Vigholf held up his hand, stopping Keita, and asked Rhona, “Which one is she again?”
“General of the Seventh and Ninth Legions, sister to me mum. Likes to remove heads during battle by slamming two broadswords together against someone’s neck.”
“Oh! Right! Ghleanna.”
“Anyway,” Keita went on, “Auntie Ghleanna found a messenger sneaking through our territory to get to the Irons. She brought him back to me and I found out some . . . things.”
“What does
that
mean?”
“Don’t ask her that,” Rhona warned him.
“Why wouldn’t I ask?”
“Because she means she tortured him until he begged for death and told her whatever she wanted to know,” Rhona replied, apparently accepting of all that as well.
He looked at Keita. “Does Ragnar know you tor—” Vigholf stopped himself. “Wait. Forget I asked.”
“Forgotten,” Keita happily chirped.
“But why are the Western Tribes attacking now?” Vigholf asked instead. “Annwyl’s been out of Dark Plains for five years now.”
“The messenger had a letter for Overlord Thracius from his daughter Vateria. While her father is in Euphrasia Valley, she rules Quintilian Provinces and the Sovereigns, and according to the letter she has paid the Tribesmen to attack Garbhán Isle and kill Fearghus and Briec’s offspring.”
“The messenger had a letter?” Rhona asked.
“ Aye.”
“That just happened to spell out Vateria’s entire evil plan in detail?”
Keita grinned and Rhona shook her head.
“She’s a piece of work that one,” Rhona murmured.
“She wanted the messenger intercepted,” Vigholf reasoned. “Thinking your brothers would find it, rush off to save their offspring, bringing the entire Cadwaladr Clan with them.”
Keita nodded, laughed. “Leaving you poor barbarian Northlanders to the mercy of the exquisite military might of the Irons. He’d destroy all of you first and fly right into the Southlands to face a broken Southland army. Not a bad plan really. Because that’s exactly what my brothers would do . . . if I hadn’t gotten to the messenger first.”
“But wait . . .” Vigholf studied the princess. “If you knew all that from the letter—why did you torture the messenger?”
The royal gave a very small shrug. “I was a wee bit bored. . . .”
“I keep telling you not to ask her questions,” Rhona sighed out, “but you insist.”
Annoyed Rhona was right, Vigholf snapped at her, “Have you nothing to say about any of this?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“She just told you that your cousins’ offspring are in danger, that she has some ridiculous scheme involving portals and this foreigner, and that she might be taking us into the middle of a pitch battle with barbarians, but she hadn’t warned us of that possibility before we left.”
“Yeah . . . and?”
“I’d think a little rage or something would be in order. Some ranting, arms flailing.” Vigholf needed some emotion from her. Something.