Authors: G. A. Aiken
Tags: #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Romance, #dragons
As always, his mother was right. So, while gazing into Keita’s dark brown eyes, Ragnar admitted to the brother who adored her more than life itself, “I made the crude and completely reprehensible suggestion that your sister is a slag.”
Again, Keita’s expression didn’t change, and, even when that blue fist hit Ragnar with the power of a rampaging herd of cattle, he kept his gaze locked with hers.
Ragnar stumbled to the side, but didn’t fall. It wasn’t easy. It was a shame the cub didn’t have more of an edge—he had the power and strength to be a hell of a warrior, if not the skill and will.
A black talon pointed at him from a blue claw. “You talk to my sister like that again, and your brother and cousin won’t find enough of you to put on your funeral pyre. Do I make myself clear?”
Moving his jaw and trying to get feeling back on that side of his face, Ragnar nodded. “You do.”
“Good. Now”—the Blue huffed a little—“I strongly suggest we keep this between us. If our father gets a whiff, we’ll be back to Lightning versus Fire all over again with the alliance completely destroyed.” The Blue gently placed his claw on his sister’s shoulder. “Are you all right with that, Keita?”
She nodded, and, after one more disgusted scowl in Ragnar’s direction, the Blue said, “Let’s go then,” and headed up the rest of the stairs.
Ragnar continued to gaze into Keita’s eyes, still hoping for the forgiveness he had no right to ask for. Her smile, when it came, bloomed into Ragnar’s life like the two suns abruptly moving past dark storm clouds and lighting the world around him.
“Now,” she said with a wink, “I’ll accept your weak little barbarian apology.”
“Do you need a refresher on court etiquette?” Keita asked Ragnar, still shocked the Lightning had apologized to her. And not some stiff-upper-lip, “I apologize if I offended you, my lady” kind of apology. But an actual “I’m sorry” that he’d meant. And because he’d meant it, she had happily accepted. Because Keita simply didn’t believe in holding grudges unless it was necessary. Why sit around loathing someone because they had a moment of stark idiocy? Such a waste, in her opinion.
And as long as the Northlander meant what he said to her—and she knew he had because she could always spot a lie or a liar—she wouldn’t hold it against him.
Of course, if he said something like that to her again, she’d poison his drinking water and giggle at his deathbed. But that seemed only fair.
“Perhaps a small reminder wouldn’t hurt.”
“Don’t walk beside me,” she reminded him, “but only because it’s your first time here. Don’t approach the queen unless she summons you. Don’t touch her unless she touches you first. Don’t even think of unleashing your lightning inside these walls—it will be the last thing you ever do. Refer to her as ‘Your Majesty,’ even if she’s pissing you the bloody hells off, and my father as ‘my lord.’ Oh. And no challenging stares to my father. Although that’s not so much etiquette as good sense.”
“I’ll keep all that in mind.”
“Good.” They turned a corner, and Keita stopped. “For everything else follow my lead and you should be fine.”
“I will.”
This corridor led to the first floor of the queen’s court, the walls lined with her armored guards, each holding a pilum in one hand and a long shield in the other. As they walked through the hallway, none of the guards looked at them or noted their presence. Keita kept her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. When she was younger, she used to play a game to see which of her mother’s guards she could get to pay attention to her, but when a few lost their positions, Keita stopped. It was only fun if everyone got a laugh out of it. She had no desire to ruin someone’s dream or career because she was bored.
The trio reached the far end of the hallway, and the final two guards stepped away from their post and moved in front of the opening, blocking them from entering the next chamber. These guards still had the sharp metal tip of their pila aimed at the ceiling, their shields held in front of them but not in battle position.
“Princess Keita,” one of them said. “We weren’t aware of your returning.”
“I adore surprises, don’t you?” She motioned to Ragnar. “He’s with us. Mother summoned him.”
The guard looked her over, searching for any obvious signs of weapons. Her mother’s personal guard always did this to her. As Gorlas had said, Keita might protect the throne, but it was the Queen’s Royal Guard, led by her cousin Elestren, who protected Her Majesty. Even if it meant protecting her from her own children.
“He leaves his weapons,” the guard finally said.
Keita turned to Ragnar and held out her claws. She feared he’d spew some Northland nonsense about never putting down his weapons, but, without a word, he pulled off the sheathed sword and battle ax tied to his back, and removed the warhammer he had tied at his waist. With a grin, he dropped them in Keita’s arms, and she nearly buckled under the weight of all his crap.
“Éibhear,” she squeaked, and her brother quickly removed the weapons. The fact that her baby brother held those weapons easily did nothing but annoy her. “Rude,” she hissed at Ragnar, and he had the nerve to laugh.
Once Éibhear placed the weapons aside, the two guards moved out of the way, allowing them to enter.
Gods.
Up to this point, Ragnar had been a bit disappointed with the queen’s court. All stark, dank walls and cold caverns. But this…
this
was what Ragnar had expected to see all along: mountain walls plastered in pure gold, the history of the Fire Breathers etched into each section; chalices, made of gold, crystal, or ivory, held by dragons of noble birth, some of them wearing items made of the finest metals and gems; the floors lined with furs so the nobles’ precious talons wouldn’t be forced to touch actual stone; fresh meats turning on spits over big fire pits while uncooked and unseasoned meats rested a few feet away so the royals had their choice of meals.
It was as decadent and wasteful as Ragnar had been led to believe by his kinsmen, making him wonder how much of a threat the Southlanders could possibly be to his kind. Ragnar couldn’t imagine even one of these pampered lizards raising a claw in defense against a dragonfly much less a powerful Dragonlord Chief of the Hordes.
As the small group walked by, the royals turned away from their conversations to watch them. The females focused on the Blue, their cold eyes turning calculating at the sight of him; the males focused on the princess. Then one male, a Red, pushed through the others, his expression angry, his demeanor threatening. Ragnar felt the way he had when dealing with that human noble at Castle Moor. But this time Ragnar wasn’t trapped in his human form. He wasn’t weakened by another’s Magick. So when the Red moved too close in Ragnar’s estimation, Ragnar faced him and slammed his tail down between them.
The strength of the Northland tail ensured that the metal spiked tip tore through the fur they stood on and straight into the stone floor beneath.
“Move out of my way, low born,” the Red ordered.
“You need to calm yourself and step away.”
Frustrated, the Red yelled out, “Keita! Don’t walk away from me!”
Keita stopped, her front claw barely catching hold of her baby brother’s forearm before he could run over and beat the Red to death.
“I know,” she said, without turning around, “that you didn’t just bellow at me as if I were some barmaid.”
“You will talk to me.”
“Tragically for you, I’ve never been desperate enough to take orders from anyone. Now if you’ll excuse us, our mother awaits.”
The Red tried again to pass Ragnar, his rage exploding when Ragnar shoved him back, determined to keep him away from Keita.
The Red swung his fist at Ragnar, but a black-scaled claw closed around it before it could connect, black talons engulfing red ones and squeezing.
The sound of cracking and breaking bones echoed through the now-silent hall. Having met the black dragon once before, Ragnar recognized the Queen’s consort and Keita’s father. Bercelak the Great, as he was known in the South—in the North he was still called Bercelak the Vengeful and Bercelak the Murdering Rat Bastard Scum—did not warn others off. It simply wasn’t in his nature, although Ragnar guessed that was especially true when it came to Bercelak’s daughters.
The older dragon, without saying a word, kept up the pressure on that red claw until he’d completely crushed it, leaving the Red weeping like a babe on the fur-covered floor. The Fire Breather’s gaze moved from the sobbing noble to Ragnar. He studied him closely with those cold black eyes before motioning to a set of stairs. “My Queen waits for you, Lightning. She doesn’t like to wait.”
Now Ragnar remembered why striking directly at Queen Rhiannon’s court was something even his father had avoided. Not because of the nobles—they seemed relatively worthless—but because of their battle dogs: Lord Bercelak and the Cadwaladr Clan.
The nobles should be grateful for the presence of the low-born dragons, because they were the only ones who kept the wolves from the door, to use a common human phrase.
Ragnar moved around the Queen’s consort and walked up another set of stairs. At the top stood the Blue and Keita. She waited until Ragnar was in front of her and her brother entered the next chamber.
“He seemed attached, that Red,” Ragnar observed, looking over his shoulder to see the Queen’s consort eyeing everyone until they looked away.
“Don’t blame me,” Keita contested. “I promised neither him nor DeLaval anything and was very honest from the beginning about what they would get from me.” She reached up and brushed her claws against Ragnar’s shoulders as if she was wiping away lint on clothes he wasn’t wearing. “Most appreciate my honesty, but there are some who think they can get around that, that they can change my mind.” She looked up at him through her lashes, and he knew this was more about him than that idiot Red or DeLaval.
“Some of us at least have to try, my lady. But there’s a definite line between being determined and just being a pushy prat.”
Keita laughed and headed into the next chamber. “I’m glad to see that you apparently know the difference.”
Keita stepped into the chamber. This one had a few nobles but many more of her father’s Clan in attendance, which, in her mind, always explained the presence of more weapons and guards and less high-priced royal trappings.
Instantly, Keita saw her mother at the other end of the hall. The queen had her arms around Éibhear, hugging him to her.
“My sweet, sweet hatchling,” Rhiannon crooned. “I’m so glad to have you home, safe and alive.”
“I missed you, Mum.”
“And I missed you.” For the first time with any of her offspring, Queen Rhiannon raised herself on the tips of her talons in order to reach Éibhear’s forehead and kiss it. Then she kissed each cheek before pulling back and looking him over. “By the gods, son. You’ve gotten huge! You’re looking more and more like your grandfather every day.”
“Thanks, Mum.”
Crystal blue eyes focused past Éibhear and onto Keita. Mother and daughter’s gazes locked, the same way they had—rumor had it—when Keita broke out of her shell at hatching. It was said that although Keita had no fire at the time, she sent a ball of smoke at her mother’s head. Something Queen Rhiannon had yet to forgive her second-hatched daughter for.
As always, Keita braced herself for what was about to happen, which was the same thing that happened every time mother and daughter met. The same horrifying, ridiculous display that, if unleashed, could destroy the innocent minds of an entire countryside of peasants.
“Remember, warlord,” she softly warned Ragnar, watching her mother step around Éibhear and move toward her, “that no matter what you see here, I am no more or less than what you thought of me before.”
“What in all the hells does that mean?”
Keita let out a breath. “You’ll see.”
Rhiannon, still safely across the hall, lifted her mighty white head, pulled her lips back over bright white fangs, opened her arms, and cried out, “Keita! My lovely daughter!”
Keita opened her arms and shouted back, “Mumsy!”
Ragnar watched in fascination as the two females moved across the hall and made what seemed to be an attempt to hug each other but then not quite bothering. Instead they kept their arms held out and kissed the air around each other’s heads rather than cheeks.
Rhiannon stepped back and, looking her daughter over, said, “Keita. Look at you. You look absolutely…” Ragnar waited for the queen to finish that compliment, but instead she finished with, “You!”
“Mumsy,” Keita replied, the queen’s eye twitching the tiniest bit. “Look at all that beautiful gray in your hair. It really does fit your face…now.”
“And you, my sweetest daughter. With all that fiery red hair! Like a blessing from the gods!” She lowered her voice—a little. “It seems they even blessed your chin a bit.”
“Nothing that can’t be plucked away! Like you do with your chest!”
Smiles still firmly in place, the two females looked at each other and said as one, “
You!
”
“Don’t I get a hug?” Bercelak asked from beside Ragnar, and the smile that was on Keita’s face now was as warm and true as any he’d seen from her before.
She ran back across the hall and into her father’s arms, each hugging the other tight.
But it was while he had his daughter in his embrace that the queen’s consort mouthed at She Who Rules These Lands,
Be nice!
The queen shrugged and mouthed back,
I am!
When Keita stepped away from her father, the queen motioned to the Blue beside her. When Bercelak said nothing, the queen gestured again until her consort let out a great sigh and mumbled, “Boy.” The queen scowled at her mate, and Bercelak added, “Glad you’re home.”
The Blue’s eyes crossed. “Gee. Thanks, Dad.”
Queen Rhiannon patted her son’s shoulder. “Now I have to talk to Lord Ragnar for a bit. So why don’t you and your father go chat?”
Ragnar had to quickly look away because the expression of pure panic on the Blue’s face was so hilarious he knew he would be unable to keep the laughter in if he kept watching.
“Talk?” the Blue asked, his voice nearly cracking.
“Yes.” She pushed her hatchling toward Bercelak. “We won’t be long.” She motioned to Ragnar with a snowy-white talon, and he moved across the hall, those in the chamber watching him closely. Again, he was reminded that the royals weren’t the worry when it came to the Southlanders. It was these dragons. All of them—even the females—were warriors, fighters, killers.
He’d neared the queen when she said, “You stay, too, Keita.”
Keita stumbled on her claws; she’d been following her father and brother out. “Me? Why?”
The queen laughed, placing her claw on Ragnar’s forearm. “Isn’t she funny, my little hurricane wind? Pretending she doesn’t know how to follow orders from her queen. She always makes me laugh.”
Bercelak motioned to his daughter and, her shoulders slumping a little, Keita walked toward her mother and together the three of them moved into the queen’s private chamber.