Ragnar worked hard not to sneer. “Yes. I remember Keita.” Keita the Brat. Keita the Nightmare. Keita the Late Night Fantasy when he’d had too much to drink.

How was he expected to forget her? He was a dragon, not a saint.

“Of course you do. She’s so beautiful it’s hard for males to ever forget her. Perhaps, if you’re lucky enough, she’ll be attending the feast and you two can become reacquainted.”

“I doubt I’ll have time to stay for the feast, lady. Although I appreciate the offer.”

“I understand.” The queen watched him for a moment longer before pointing at him with one of her talons. “Do you need some ointment for that, my little rolling thunder?”

Confused, Ragnar looked down and realized he was scratching his chest again. Right on the scar that cut through his thick purple scales. The same one that spoiled royal had given him two years ago when she’d snuck up on him and stabbed him with her tail. Even after he’d rescued her useless life.

Ragnar snatched his claw back.

“No. Thank you.”

“Nasty scar. Some take forever to heal.”

“The witch in the woods, lady?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Be ever so kind and bring her to me. Alive.”

“Why?”

“Well, she is my sister and traitor to my throne, so if anyone should take her head, it should be me. Don’t you agree?” Gods. Esyld. She wanted Esyld. A powerful witch and excellent healer, Esyld had been a part of the Outerplains as long as Ragnar could remember. And, unlike many others, he’d known for years who she was.

The sister of Queen Rhiannon who’d fled the Southlands when her sister came into power. For that reason alone, and no other from what he’d been able to tell, Esyld the Beautiful had become Esyld the Traitor among those loyal to the queen.

“Or you can leave her there, Your Majesty,” he suggested. “She’s causing you no harm.”

“My, my, you do seem to know my sister well.” She chuckled. “But you’ll bring her to me.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Simple. I’ll unleash my mate’s crazed relatives on her like a pack of ravening wolves on a wounded deer. Would you prefer that?”

“When we spoke two years ago, you knew where your sister was. But you choose now to capture her. Why?”

“Because you never know…some attractive young thinker of a dragon may be able to save her useless life. But only if she makes it to me alive.

And my mate’s kin will ensure that she never makes it to me alive. They do so loathe traitors.”

“And you’re so sure she’s a traitor?”

Her grin was cruel. “I don’t have to be sure. I’m queen. Now”—she tossed him another fruit with her tail before again focusing on her tree—“good travels, my light drizzle. I do look forward to seeing you again in person. Oh!” She held up a talon, her gaze focusing far off before she sighed, shook her head, muttered to herself something like, “That girl,” and then said to Ragnar, “And one other thing…”

“Yes?”

“Do you know a Lord Bamp…something? In the Outerplains?”

“Bampour?” She shrugged at this question. “Yes, I know him.” A very unpleasant bastard that Ragnar had only mild dealings with over the years. “What about him?”

“I wouldn’t fly over his territory. You might be better off walking through it.”

He normally would avoid the town and the Baron Lord’s lands altogether, but it was easiest to get to the forest where Esyld the Wise lived from there. “Why?”

“Must you question everything, my perky little downpour?”

“As a matter of fact—”

All the beauty around Ragnar shimmered, and the spell ended, taking the suns, the grass, the trees, and the unstable monarch with it.

“—yes!”

He was back on his plateau, the ripe fruit the queen had tossed at him resting by his claws. Gods. That female.

Letting out a breath, Ragnar picked up a piece of fruit and held it between his talons.

But…such power.

Yet before he could sit and ponder how she managed to do something so amazing, that damn itching started again!

Throwing down the fruit, Ragnar scratched at the healed wound on this chest. Healed it might be, but the itching. Gods, the itching! Some days it drove him mad. Especially when he had his armor on. And nothing he’d tried in the last two years had done much to stop it. He’d tried ointments, spells, creams…everything! Someday she could barely think because of the damn itching. And sometimes he forgot about the wound altogether for days, even months. But now that the damn queen had pointed it out…

Roaring in annoyance, Ragnar shifted to human, dropped to one knee, and scratched at the human flesh for all he was worth. Short of ripping his scales off—something he was loath to do—this was the only way to really scratch the damn thing properly. In fact, his human fingers scratching against his chest felt so good, he didn’t even notice the freezing cold or that he was no longer alone.

“Uh…brother?”

Ragnar’s hand stopped on his chest, but he didn’t turn around.

“What?”

“The others are wondering if you’re returning. Or should I leave you to keep…touching yourself? And where did that fruit come from?”

“I am not touching—” Ragnar stopped his reply. Honestly, why bother? “Who can take over for us for the next few weeks?”