What a Dragon Should Know
“You come here,” he said to his mother, keeping his voice low and barely controlled, “and call my mate a whore, and then you’re upset you don’t get a polite welcome?”
“I didn’t call her a whore.” When everyone simply stared at her, Rhiannon clarified, “I didn’t call her a whore to her face … today.”
“Then what’s going on?”
Rhiannon’s hands landed on her waist and her foot tapped against the floor. If she were in dragon form, it would be one of her talons. “I simply didn’t understand why neither of these two idiots didn’t contact me sooner?”
Talaith slipped her dagger back into the sheath tied to her thigh. “Contact you so you could call her a whore to her face?”
“I called her a whore when I thought she’d bedded another.”
Fearghus walked toward his mother. “And now?”
“And now I know differently.”
He couldn’t help but be a little suspicious. “What? Just like that?”
“Aye. Just like that.”
No, something was wrong. He looked from one witch to another, the three at different levels of skill—Talaith centuries behind the other two but catching up quickly—and he knew they were hiding something.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Rhiannon stroked his cheek and gave him a soft smile. In this moment, she wasn’t the frightening Dragon Queen who ruled with an iron tail. She was his mother. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. “My son, there is nothing to worry about. We’re simply going to try to find a way to get her energy back up so she’s not dragging for the next few weeks.”
His mother was lying to him. He knew it, deep in his bones. Yet he couldn’t push further, because he wasn’t ready to hear the truth. Not now. Because he knew she wasn’t lying to hurt him—she was lying to protect him.
“All right?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “All right.”
Talaith looked up at Briec, her eyes narrowing on the open wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. “What happened to your face?”
Briec stared at her a long moment before calmly replying. “Nothing.”
And Talaith didn’t seem remotely convinced.
“A little tired, are we? Feet sore?”
Dagmar gritted her teeth and answered, “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine. She was in agony. Her feet were not sore—they hurt! She could feel sores developing with every step she took. Her muscles had begun to scream in protest as well. And her forehead burned from the low-hanging two suns above her, the clouds that always hid them not providing nearly as much cover as she always believed they did.
Dagmar had always thought her occasional brisk walks around her father’s fortress had kept her in shape. However, the laborers kept the even, tiled grounds clean. The main road to Spikenhammer, tragically, was riddled with rocks and deep indents she didn’t see until her foot encountered one. Nor was the road one, straight path, but instead a winding route that went up and down hills, which also meant the city wasn’t nearly as close as her eyes and those inaccurate maps had led her to believe. For more than three hours they’d been on this road with no apparent end in sight and the dragon seemed more than comfortable continuing.
“Sure you don’t want me to fly? I can swoop us right in there so your tiny royal feet won’t have to touch this dirty, mean-spirited ground a moment more.”
His sarcasm certainly had gone up a notch since he’d discovered she’d lied to him. But, to her surprise, he hadn’t insisted they return to her father’s lands immediately. It was strange being around someone whose behavior she couldn’t easily predict. She’d always relied heavily on that particular skill.
“And get us shot down in the process?” she asked. “Spikenhammer does not allow your kind beyond its gates.”
“It may not allow dragons, but I can assure you dragons are in there somewhere. We’re everywhere.”
Dagmar stopped walking, disturbed and fascinated by his statement. “Even on my father’s lands?”
“You had me there.”
“You don’t count.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “And no, no. There couldn’t have been. I would have noticed. Unlike those who are fooled by the Magick of gods, I am not. I would have noticed,” she said again, desperately trying to convince herself more than him.
“How?” He pointed at the crest on his surcoat. “True, you knew of this army, but do you know every crest of every army that’s been destroyed over the centuries?”
“Because of course the Horde dragons must be as vile a gang of liars as the Southland dragons.”
“Just admit it. You’ve probably had Lightnings in and out of your fortress and never knew. Some soldiers passing through, trying not to look too tall or always in their cloaks to hide their purple hair. There’s no shame in not noticing. We’ve been fooling you humans for eons. Why should we change now? For instance—”
“Ahhhhh!” Dagmar fell forward, her foot stuck in one of those infernal holes in the ground, her arms stretching out before her to brace her fall. Her hands slammed into hard, unforgiving Northland ground, her tender palms torn open by the jagged rocks and bits of glass, stone, and other trash littering the area. Her breath left her in one big “woosh!” and her spectacles flew off her face.