What a Dragon Should Know

“Why? What could they do?”

“This situation is utterly new, which gives them free rein, for we have no laws about it. And unless we’re in the middle of a war, I share rule with the Elders.”

“You don’t mean the Elders, Mother. You mean Eanruig.”

Elder Eanruig. It had been long since Rhiannon had an enemy so annoying and backstabbing as the bloodline-obsessed Eanruig. He’d thought her hatchlings had been tainted by Bercelak’s low-born family connections, which meant that now his head was positively spinning with the thought of the dragon bloodline being tainted by a human.

“Leave him to me, Morfyd.” She tossed off the robe her daughter had made her wear among the humans and shifted to her natural form. She shook out her wings, tossed back her hair. She simply didn’t understand how her children could spend day after day trapped in these human bodies. A few hours maybe—but days? “Annwyl is safer here with you. You and Talaith keep doing what you can. I’ll see what I can do from my end.”

The royal guards stood behind her now, ready to return home.

“Any word from Keita?” her daughter suddenly asked.

Rhiannon’s youngest daughter and most prominent pain in the ass, Keita the Red Viper Dragon of Despair and Death, was rarely in contact with her mother, which Morfyd knew well enough. But Morfyd also knew Rhiannon always seemed to have a good idea where her offspring were at any given time and when she might be needed by them, whether they called for her or not. It was no different with Keita, although she never seemed to need her mother or want her assistance.

Keita wasn’t merely independent; she was belligerent, and always sure Rhiannon was nothing more than a meddling old dragoness bent on making her perfectly useless life miserable. There seemed to be so much misplaced rage in that hatchling, although Rhiannon often felt she was the only one who ever saw it. To Keita’s siblings and Bercelak, Keita was the most funloving and carefree of them all, looking for pleasure wherever she could find it.

Yet Rhiannon knew differently. She saw Keita exactly as she was and treated her exactly as she deserved.

So, taking Morfyd’s question literally, Rhiannon answered, “Not since she told me to f**k off, no.”

“Oh, Mother—”

Rhiannon dismissed the conversation about her youngest daughter with a flick of her talons. “Gwenvael?” she inquired. Her son could be annoying, but he was never as antagonistic as Keita.

“In the Northlands,” Morfyd reluctantly explained. “Getting more … information.”

“And whose brilliant idea was it to send the Whore of the South into the Northlands alone?”

“Annwyl’s.”

“And that’s when you should have known that something must be wrong with her.”

“Mother!”

“What? I still didn’t call her a whore!”

Juicy blisters were lanced and the contents cleaned out, a salve smoothed into the sores. Torn palms were carefully cleaned out and blood wiped away, a different salve then put on top. The wounds on her feet and palms were wrapped in clean linen, and a concoction practically forced down her throat would help with pain and make sure there was no fever or infection later that night.

Then, after much arguing and haggling over payment—he’d forgotten about the Northlanders’ love of a good haggle—Gwenvael finally managed to get the difficult Lady Dagmar into a nice bed at the Stomping Horse Inn. Yet even with her hands and feet wrapped, she’d been more than ready to go off on her “little chores,” as he liked to call them simply because it annoyed her so much. Yet, he wouldn’t hear of it. Not when they’d had to go the more traditional route for her healing.

It had been ages since he’d seen someone insist that only the use of herbs could help them. His sister and Talaith always threw in additional spells and such to empower the speed of the healing process, but Dagmar had been adamant that that wouldn’t work for her.

“Because I don’t worship the gods,” she’d explained. “Magick from witches or priestesses or whatever never works on me. One tutor I had actually told me that the gods themselves would have to get directly involved for Magick of any kind to assist me.”

Since he and the healer doubted the gods would directly help with Dagmar’s swollen ankle and ready-to-burst blisters, Dagmar had to rely on drinking some vile-looking concoction and resting for the remainder of the night.

“Go out wandering tonight on those feet and you’ll be right back here in the morning,” the healer had warned.

Although she’d still argued, Gwenvael finally dumped her off in a bed at the inn and went out to get her something to keep up her spirits. When he returned with the puppy he found in someone’s yard, he thought she’d be happy.

“You stole someone’s puppy?” she’d accused.

“Dragons don’t steal. We simply take what we want. It’s not like that little girl needs him more than you do.”

She’d pointed at the door, looking haughtier than ever, even with her hands and feet bandaged. “Return him.”

“But—”

“Now!”

He grudgingly had, not appreciating the way she’d dismissed him, and proceeded to pick up a few more things. When he returned for the second time, he’d found her not sleeping but working with quill and ink and parchment. Annoyed, he pulled the quill from her hand.

“I’m not done.”