Last Dragon Standing

Morfyd hadn’t given much thought to the arrangement. It had been done before and had always worked out well, but those who came from the east rarely stayed. Why would they? They left behind a much calmer, much simpler, and much more extravagant life in the east than the one they found among her mother’s court. And yet, Ren had stayed. He stayed because he managed to become an accepted part of a family that could barely tolerate each other, much less outsiders. Even Fearghus had been known to invite Ren to his cave in Dark Glen for drinks. Fearghus didn’t even invite his brothers there. They’d show up randomly, but they’d never been invited.

Morfyd had to admit, though, she’d worried in the beginning when Ren became so close to Keita. Although Keita was barely thirty winters old at the time, she already had quite a reputation among some of the males. It wasn’t that Morfyd cared about who her sister bedded. How could she question what Keita did when no one questioned Gwenvael? But Keita was known for leaving a trail of broken dragon hearts in her tail’s wake, walking away from males as easily as Morfyd beat Briec at cards. She had not wanted the same for the powerful mage who, unlike most of their brethren, never took his power for granted, nor flaunted it to seem more important than he was. Yet after a short time, they all realized that Keita and Ren were far from lovers. They were fast friends. It eased their brothers’ concern about Keita’s welfare, knowing Ren often traveled with their youngest sister and could, at the very least, alert them if she got into any trouble.

But it still amazed them all that after so many years, Keita and Ren were still traveling companions and friends. Loyal to each other as any blood-related kin might be.

“I’m fine. And Keita was supposed to be securing your assistance, not pissing you off.”

“She started it,” Keita complained.

“You insulted me.”

“Only after you dare question my compliments! Do you think I compliment everyone, you whining sow?”

“Keita!” Ren smiled at Morfyd. “Maybe this will be easier if I say that I need your assistance, good lady.”

Yes. It also helped that, without being annoying, Ren was a magnificent peacekeeper.

“Of course, Ren. Anything for you.” She took Ren’s arm. “What can I assist you with?”

“Our Lightning guests had a slight run-in…with your queen.”

“Mother?”

“No. The other insane monarch you have running your lands.” Morfyd gasped. “Gods, are they dead?”

“No. But there were some injuries. Tell me”—he began, leading her over to the waiting Northlanders—“I’m at a loss myself. Do you happen to know any spells for growing hair?”

Hands on hips, Keita glowered after her traveling companion and that vindictive, petty vestal virgin. She did not follow. She was too annoyed, and she knew what would happen. Ragnar would slobber all over her sister. Her perfect, glowing, Magickally-infused sister. In no mood to witness that, Keita waited, and, as she knew would happen, Ren returned.

“How long were you going to stand there—seething?”

“Until the end of time,” she said, making sure to sound particularly snippy.

“I thought you’d want to keep an eye on your Lightning.”

“Don’t start, Ren.”

“I’m worried. I don’t trust him.”

“All that should matter to you is that I do trust him.”

“At least tell me what’s going on.”

“Later. Not here.” Keita glanced around and saw a contingent of soldiers heading her way and waving—several held flowers. “Gods, Ren,” she whispered. “Get me out of here.”

Ren put his arm around her, and steered her through the crowd. When the soldiers glared at him and came closer, Ren unleashed a line of flame that had the men all diving for cover.

“Now,” Ren said, clearly in no rush with the soldiers currently running for their lives, “are you going to leave your Lightnings all alone? I think Lord Ragnar won’t like that much with him as your great protector.”

“Don’t like the tone,” she sang. “And he’ll have Morfyd to keep him company. They can discuss moving mountains and melting trees with their great skills.”

“I hope you’re not testing him, Keita.”

“Why would I do that?” she said a little too quickly. “Besides, I’d hate to think of my brothers seeing the warlord and his kin before I’ve had a chance to ease the way.”

Thankfully accepting that excuse, Ren asked, “Is it my imagination, little one, or is your family very ‘kill everything first, ask questions later and if we’re in the mood’ types?”

“Some might suggest that…you know, if their victims could speak with their heads lopped off and all.”

So this was her. Morfyd the White.

She was beautiful, as Ragnar had always heard. Although the scar on one side of her face, tore at him. Marked as a witch when the human Southlanders were still doing that sort of thing. It was a weak leader that couldn’t appreciate the power of others. Power that could be used to his benefit. Thankfully, the She-dragon’s blood had helped the scar to fade, but it was still there, clear to Ragnar’s eyes.

Although of royal blood and heir to her mother’s Magickal power, if not her throne, the princess still crouched before Meinhard like any healer and examined his leg. They were right outside the gates that opened to the town of Garbhán Isle, Meinhard sitting on one of the wood benches lining the path that led to the gates, Ragnar and Vigholf standing behind him. Eyes closed, the princess held her hands around Meinhard’s calf without touching it. A true healer, unlike Ragnar, who could mend his brother’s bone, but it would be difficult for him to place it so perfectly that Meinhard would have no limp without causing his kin more pain.