Light My Fire

By all reason, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the likes of Priestess Abertha were using the fear people had for dragon-human offspring to advance their real agenda of complete domination. For their god, but more importantly, for the Salebiri family.

The Salebiris had always felt they should rule all these lands, from the Northlands to the Desert Lands, from the Western Provinces to the Eastern Coast. They didn’t think much about the Ice Lands, because there was little in those harsh territories to interest them.

But everything else—they wanted. No matter how they had to get it. Something that annoyed Dagmar greatly.

Of course, nothing irritated Dagmar more than when the perfectly ordered kingdom she’d helped to create was being disrupted.

“Let me talk to Queen Annwyl and General Brastias before we do anything.” She didn’t like that Annwyl’s armies were being separated so much. Going off to fight petty skirmishes here, there, and every gods-damn where.

Massaging the fingers of her left hand—they always ached a bit after she did a lot of writing and when it was getting colder, like it was now—Dagmar glanced up and, with a squint, she noticed that her assistant was staring past her.

Dagmar turned her head and came nose to leggings-covered cock with some male.

“By all reason,” she squeaked, slapping at the groin that had been right by her face.

“Ow!” she heard her mate snap. “I thought we decided you’d treat my hair and my cock like they were the most important things in your world . . . since they are.”

“I never agreed to that, and stop shoving the damn thing in my face.”

“You didn’t say that last night, my dearest heart.”

“Gwenvael!”

“Aye, my love?”

Dagmar let out a breath. She knew, after so many years with the gold dragon, that yelling at him would do no good. It merely spurred him on.

“Could you excuse us?” she asked her assistant.

With a nod, Mabsant picked up a few papers and scurried from the room.

“I think I make the lad nervous,” Gwenvael said, grinning.

“I’m sure you do.”

“Don’t you find that odd? Everyone usually adores me.”

“Gwenvael,” she cut in, “what do you want?”

“You’re not being very nice to me.”

“Gwenvael, my patience is waning.”

“I thought we should talk.”

“Talk?” She squinted up at him. “About?”

“Varry.”

“Don’t call Var that. He hates when you call him that.”

“Which is probably why I call him that. He’s so bloody uptight. He reminds me of Fearghus in his younger days. Something that wouldn’t be a problem except that humans don’t do well when they try to live alone in caves.”

“Is this what you want to talk about?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you could get to it? I have much to do today. Would you like to see my list?”

“Threatening with those stupid lists only works on my mother.”

Damn.

Gwenvael went to his knees beside Dagmar’s chair, and using the arms, he turned it so she faced him. When he pulled her closer so that she didn’t have to squint so much to see his face, Dagmar announced, “I will not talk about Var leaving.”

“Dammit, woman.”

“Sending my son away is not a viable option. It will never be a viable option.”

“You can’t hold him here forever. He wants to go. And now that Uncle Bram’s last assistant has finally died of old age—and most likely grave boredom—we have no excuse not to send him.”

“No excuse? He’s my son.”

“And like his mother, he plans to get what he wants. The question is whether we give it to him willingly, or he rips it from our cold, dead hands.”

“I ask so little of this world—”

“That’s a lie.”

“—that I don’t think it’s unreasonable to insist my only son stay by my side until he’s at least eighteen winters so that I may raise him properly.”

Gwenvael moved in until Dagmar felt forced to open her legs to allow him closer. He then placed his arms on either side of her and leaned in until their faces were only inches apart.

“Do you really think,” he asked, “that I want my son to go?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ll have you know, female, that unlike my father, who has always felt he only loved his sons due to some flaw in his gods-given instincts, I actually love and, more importantly, like my son. How could I not? He reminds me of you.” He kissed her nose.

“But I do fear,” Gwenvael went on, “that he’s stagnating here. A mind like his must be constantly occupied or—and I know this from experience—it will only turn to ill.”

“I managed.”

“Your kin thought so little of you in the beginning, how could you not? Var doesn’t have that problem here. Even Briec respects him.” Gwenvael lowered his head a bit so that they were looking each other right in the eyes. “Briec.”

“But to send him far away—”

“It’s not like we’re sending him to the Ice Lands, Dagmar. Bram’s not even an hour’s flight from here. And, even better, my uncle Bram will be able to teach our boy something that neither you nor I can.”