Chapter Six
It took four hours, but they eventually reached Keita’s “friends’” castle. Human royals who said they were loyal to Queen Annwyl.
Brannie didn’t know them but that was a good thing. Annwyl talked often of those she hated and the names became memorable.
The name here was Breeton-Holmes and the family had a small castle well inside the Southland-Outerplains border. They weren’t a powerful family, but they were well situated, and had access to a lot of gossip, making them important to not only Keita but Dagmar Reinholdt, the Northland woman who ran Queen Annwyl’s lands in her absence and had bravely taken on Gwenvael the Handsome as her mate.
As soon as they were in range of the Breeton-Holmeses’ castle, Keita went into full royal mode, her back straightening, her expression unbelievably haughty.
It made Brannie want to hit her, but she wouldn’t.
Unless, of course, she had to.
The gates were immediately opened for them and the few guards that were around didn’t even question them. Aidan had just helped Keita to dismount when Lord Breeton-Holmes appeared.
That’s when the real performance began.
As soon as she saw her fellow royal, Keita burst into hysterical tears, throwing herself into the man’s arms as his wife and adult children instantly surrounded her.
Brannie didn’t even realize she’d started to roll her eyes until Aidan bumped into her, pushing her forward. That’s when she remembered that a good royal guard doesn’t roll his eyes at the idiot royals he was sworn to protect.
Everyone saw Brannie move forward, and the new royals were watching her closely, so she patted Keita’s shoulder and mumbled, “Now, now, my lady, we’re safe now.”
She heard Aidan snort behind her—which he quickly turned into a cough—and even she had to admit, she sounded less than concerned over the royal in her care.
It didn’t matter, though. Keita had an audience, and Brannie and her cohorts were soon forgotten.
Sobbing hysterically, Keita was helped toward the castle doors. Brannie followed but Keita abruptly stopped—walking and crying—and looked at her cousin over her shoulder.
“You’ll stay in the stables. A healer will be sent for your men.”
“The stables?” Brannie demanded.
Aidan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Of course, my lady. Please let us know if you need anything else.”
“But—”
“Come on, Sarge. The lads need us.”
Sarge? Had he called her “sarge”?
Turning to remind Aidan of her hard-earned rank, she saw his eyes widen in warning.
With human royal guards, no rank higher than a sergeant would lead a royal protection detail. A captain would never leave the castle unless it was the captain to a queen.
Realizing Caswyn and Uther needed her more than Keita ever would, she grabbed the reins of two horses—one carrying Caswyn—and made her way to the stables. Aidan right behind her with Uther and his horse.
As they walked, Brannie quickly understood that these royals weren’t like the very wealthy ones that used to come see Annwyl. Of course, most of those royals never got past Dagmar Reinholdt. She spoke for the queen as her battle mage and vassal. Many thought Annwyl was harder to talk to, but they were wrong. Dagmar was tougher than many dragons Branwen knew. She was plotting and devious and dangerous despite her lack of battle skill and magicks.
Brannie adored her.
But clearly not all royals were rolling in gold. The Beeton-Holmes castle was on the small side. The castle grounds damn near tiny, with just a few guards protecting them. But despite the sparseness of everything else, the stables were glorious and the few horses they had were shiny and beautiful. Like they were groomed every day, which seemed strange.
“Show horses,” Aidan remarked once they were inside.
“Show them to whom?”
“Before the war, there were show events where royals from around the land would bring their prized horses to be judged for strength, beauty, and breeding. And you don’t keep amazing show horses in shitty stables, even if it means you live in a tiny castle with few servants.”
“Shouldn’t they have more horses? These stables are huge.”
“Perhaps they gave the horses to the army for battle.”
Brannie walked past the few animals in residence. “But . . . they’re not big enough to be used in battle. Look at this one. Her legs are so . . . thin.”
“Elegant.”
“What?”
“Her legs are elegant, not thin.”
“Elegant . . . and breakable. I wouldn’t even eat her. Like gnawing on a chicken bone.”
Aidan, chuckling, led their two riderless horses to their own stalls before he came back for his friends.
Taking a quick look around, Aidan pointed at a roomy stall by the doors. “Let’s put them here.”
“No,” an old woman said, coming into the stable. She carried a weighted-down bag and had on a gray wool shawl. She was the healer.
“Put them in the back stalls, past the double doors,” she ordered. “That’s where I treat injured men and it’ll allow them to get some quiet. She glanced over Uther and Caswyn, who was being held up by Brannie and Aidan. “They’ll need the sleep.”
“We need them ready to go by tomorrow,” Brannie told her.
“Maybe this one.” She gestured at Uther. “He probably just needs a splint.” She leaned in closer, trying to look into Caswyn’s face; his head was down, his eyes closed. He was, thankfully, still breathing, but that was it. “This one . . . this one will need more.”
She touched Caswyn’s face to lift his chin, but quickly pulled her hand back, her eyes widening and locking on Brannie and Aidan.
This woman wasn’t just a healer . . . she was a witch. Her power had told her what they were as soon as she’d touched Caswyn.
When she took a step back, Brannie lifted her hands, palms out, and said softly, “We’re not here to hurt anyone. We just need a safe place to stay so we can heal.”
The witch continued to gaze at them, eyes narrowed in obvious distrust. But then Caswyn could no longer hold himself up, and Aidan nearly went down with him.
“To the back,” the witch ordered. “Quickly.”
* * *
Brannie helped him carry Caswyn to the back and, together, they carefully laid him out in a stall on top of a nice pile of straw.
“You over there,” the witch said to Uther. He went and sat down in his own stall and the witch kneeled beside Caswyn.
“He’s lost blood.”
Aidan crouched across from her. “What do you need from us?”
“Fresh water, clean cloth, and privacy. Having you two hovering over me makes me uncomfortable.”
Aidan could understand that. Especially the way Brannie was glowering.
“Understood.” He nodded at her. “Name’s Aidan. This is Branwen.”
“I’m Esmerelda.”
“Can we call you Ezzie?” Brannie asked.
“No.”
“We’ll get the water and cloth for you,” Aidan said quickly, rising.
He walked out, pushing Brannie in front, closing the double doors behind them.
“Why are you acting like I did something wrong?” Brannie asked.
“You were glaring at her.”
“I glare at everyone.”
“No, you don’t. But when you’re worried . . .” He smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
Aidan tracked down a helpful servant and asked for what he needed. While he waited, he peeked inside the castle to make sure Keita was doing all right. She was talking to the family, regaling them with stories of the supposed “attack” they’d suffered. There were tears, dramatic reenactments. It was quite . . . entertaining.
Aidan returned to the stables with the servant and all that Esmerelda needed. Once the supplies were delivered, he and the servant went to Brannie. The servant proceeded to lay out food for them. Bread and cheese, meat and ale.
As soon as they were alone, Aidan dropped onto the straw. “I’m exhausted,” he complained.
“Going down with a mountain takes a lot out of a dragon.” Brannie sat down across from him and grabbed a loaf of bread.
“That didn’t happen today, did it?”
“It does feel like it happened days ago, but no. The quake happened just this morning.” She tore off a piece of the loaf and handed him the other half. “You think Iz and Éibhear are all right?”
“You mother would have told you if they weren’t.”
“Maybe. Unless she was worried I would have fought even harder to go back.” She sighed, took another bite of her bread. “Too late now, though, huh?”
“Too late.”
“Do you think Ren is dead?”
“I hope not. The Eastlanders are not exactly a forgiving people. If he died on Rhiannon’s territory . . .”
“Yes. I know. My mother made that clear.”
She was quiet after that and they ate mostly in silence. Although not an uncomfortable one. They were both exhausted.
When they’d just finished their food, Esmerelda appeared at the stall opening.
“They’ll sleep. Both of them. The one with the arm—”
“Uther.”
“Yeah. His arm and leg are already starting to heal. His leg wasn’t even that bad. But he should protect that arm for the next day or two, depending on how fast you . . . people heal.”
“And Caswyn?”
“I stopped the bleeding and gave him something to get his strength back. And a few spells to speed up the healing.” She shrugged narrow shoulders. “I’ve done me best.”
“Thank you,” Aidan told her, meaning every word. “They’re both like brothers to me. Your helping them means much.”
“Keep your word to me and no need for thanks.”
“As promised. We don’t intend to hurt anyone. Just need a safe place to stay tonight.”
She glanced around. “This is as safe as any. If there are any problems with your friends, the servants know where to find me.”
With a nod, she left and Aidan looked at Brannie. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was trying not to glare. That requires concentration.”
“You had to concentrate on not glaring?”
“Because I didn’t know I was glaring! So I kept thinking, ‘Am I glaring now? What about now? I feel like I’m glaring now.’ It was endless.”
Aidan shook his head. “Do you realize that you make things—outside of battle, I mean—very complicated?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do. Constantly. If a sword is in your hand and someone is screaming bloody murder as they charge you . . . you are direct and ready. But you and Izzy trying to figure out what to eat for dinner . . . I think we’re still waiting for you to make up your mind.”
“Oh, it’s not that bad.”
“If that’s what you need to believe,” Aidan said.
He picked up the bones and any remnants of food and tossed everything outside so the castle dogs could have it. Then he found blankets that, sadly, smelled like horses, but would be much more comfortable to lie on than plain straw.
Once he had the blankets laid out, he dropped facedown on one.
“What were you talking about with Keita and Rhiannon when I was with my mother?” Brannie asked.
Aidan turned his head so he could comfortably stare at her for several seconds.
“When?”
“Earlier today. When we were in Rhiannon’s special place.”
He snorted. “I think you mean sacred space.”
“So . . . what did they want?”
Aidan had been hoping that Brannie would forget her question when he corrected her—as she often did—but she was too annoyed by her cousin to let it go. And if Aidan wanted to annoy her more, he’d tell her everything. That, however, would not help the journey they were about to make.
So, instead, Aidan told Brannie enough to get her off his back.
“The queen was bragging about how safe her sacred space is, which was fine . . . until your great-aunt Brigida casually strolled through.”
“I did see her, then?”
“Yes. You did. And so did Rhiannon, who was none too happy about it. Especially when Keita began the mocking.”
Brannie shook her head. “Keita is such a crazy, murdering sow. Pissing off her mother like that? Stupid.”
Aidan rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbow. “You do know that your cousin is not really a murderer, Branwen, right?”
“Oh, come now. You can’t be fooled by her as well.”
“I’m not. But she didn’t kill those people earlier today because she was bored. She’s a Protector of the Throne. That’s what they do.”
Brannie gawked at him a long while, her head cocked to one side, before she asked, “Who is a Protector of the Throne?”
“Keita.”
“Keita who?”
“Keita the Viper. Your cousin.”
Again, Brannie gawked at him before asking, “Why are you lying to me?”
“I’m not. Your cousin is a Protector of the Throne. Has been for”—he shrugged—“at least a century.”
“Keita?” she asked again. “My Keita?”
“Yes.” He sat up. “How could you not know? Everyone in your family has known since that cousin of yours—the green one—tried to have her killed for betraying her mother. Didn’t any of them tell you?”
“They did, but . . . I thought they were joking!”
* * *
Brannie couldn’t believe this.
Keita, a Protector of the Throne? Keita?
The same vapid female who’d once asked Brannie, “Are there any spells that would stop you from growing? What dragon is going to want a female the same size as him?”
That Keita was a Protector of the Throne?
“How is this possible?” she finally asked Aidan. “I’m shocked.”
“I can tell. Éibhear never told you? Briec? Gwenvael? Who can’t keep his mouth shut about anything?”
“No, no. I . . . think they did. But . . . again . . . I thought they were joking!”
She threw up her hands. “Even Izzy thought they were joking.”
Aidan laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You and Izzy. The pair of you. On a battlefield, no one wants to face you. But off the battlefield, you two are like little girls. Gossiping. Getting in trouble. And, like true Cadwaladrs, drinking too much.”
“That’s always my cousins’ fault.”
“You’re actually blaming your cousins?”
“Of course.”
Brannie stretched out beside Aidan. “I still can’t believe it. Keita? A Protector of the Throne.”
“You underestimated her all these years. Now, don’t you feel bad?”
“No.”
Rolling onto his stomach again, Aidan covered his face with another, smaller blanket.
“Are you actually about to go to sleep?” she asked, flabbergasted.
He lifted the blanket a bit so she could hear him clearly. “I am not about to sit up all night listening to you analyze the truth about your cousin simply because Izzy isn’t here to do it with you.”
“But so much happened today. The battle. The mountain. Uncle Bercelak being released like a horrifying bird of prey. And, to top it off, Keita’s a Protector of the Throne. How do you just go to sleep after all that?”
“By closing my eyes. Try it.”
“I’ll be up all night.”
“Please don’t be. I know you, Branwen. If you’re up all night, you’ll keep me up all night.”
“I will?”
“We both know you won’t shut up.”
She shrugged, nodded her head. “True. If Izzy were here, I’d just talk to her. But she’s not.”
“I’m not nearly as chatty as the Great Iseabail the Dangerous.”
“No. You’re what we call a listener, which is of no use to me at the moment.”
“Perhaps a servant can get you some warm wine. That helps some to sleep.”
“Or we could just fuck.”
Aidan sat straight up, the blanket still covering his head.
“What?” he barked.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Why are you asking me to fuck? Is this because of Keita?”
“Ew! What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly.
“I’m just suggesting it because a distraction would do us both good. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“But you’re not chatty and I need to get some rest before tomorrow. Fucking usually helps. If we were still with the army, I’d grab Sergeant—”
“Stop talking.” He pulled the blanket off his head, pushing his gold hair off his face. “Are you just using me for sex?”
“At the moment, yes. It’s the easiest way to work out anxiety.”
“I just read a good book,” he suggested.
“That’s what Annwyl does.” She glanced off. “And me dad.” She shrugged, dismissing his suggestion. “I’m not much of a reader. I’d rather have someone tell me a story than make me read a book. With words.”
Aidan’s eyes crossed and he fell back onto his bedding.
* * *
“I don’t know why you’re mad.” She felt the need to argue when all he wanted her to do was stop talking. “It was a valid question.”
“It was a valid question for a camp whore.”
“Now you’re being a baby.”
Aidan propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you really think so little of me?” he asked.
“I have no idea how to answer that.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No, no. I mean, I don’t know what you’re asking me. Do I think so little of you . . . how?”
“That I am just good for sex?”
“Of course, I don’t think that. You’re not good just for sex. You’re good for lots of things, as well as sex.” She grinned as if she’d made some brilliant observation that he should appreciate.
Aidan tossed one of the blankets at Brannie, hitting her directly in the head. It hung over her face and she didn’t bother to remove it. But she did keep talking.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she told him . . . through the blanket.
“I have honor. I may be a murdering, torturing, son-of-a-bastard Mì-runach, but I’m not a whore, Branwen the Awful.”
With a sigh, she pulled the blanket off and tossed it down beside him. She stretched out, their arms nearly touching.
“Well, don’t ever say I didn’t offer you anything,” she muttered.
He turned his head to look at her. “Are you saying you offered me your pussy?”
“No,” Brannie said immediately, but then she started giggling. “I guess I am.”
Now they were both laughing. And after the day they’d had, it felt really good.
Not no-strings-attached sex good, but . . . good.