“Maybe the Rider woman said something to her,” Briec suggested. “Cried about how bad she feels.”

“Cried? A Steppes Rider?” Dagmar shook her head. “Not likely.”

“Besides,” Morfyd said, “look at her.”

They did, focusing on the outsider. She and her pale-haired sister had eaten and drunk enough for a small army, just between the two of them. Then, when the music began, it was the two of them who immediately got in the middle of the dance floor, clasped hands, and began to show everyone the dances of their people. It wasn’t that the moves were especially complicated so much as they were physically challenging. They required incredibly strong legs and stamina. Something that both females seemed to have an abundance of.

Yet there was no sadness between them. No sad sighs that showed the woman or her kin mourned the loss of her eye.

Dagmar, of course, didn’t believe she had “gotten over it” as Briec liked to tell people to do when he got tired of them complaining. But Dagmar could also tell this female wasn’t faking her enjoyment of the festivities either.

“That eye patch is so cute on her,” Morfyd noted.

“Gods,” Briec snarled, “you sound like Keita. Can we stop talking about eye patches and focus on the bigger issue—the Mad Queen of Garbhán Isle?”

“Has anyone talked to Fearghus?” Dagmar asked.

“I did.” Morfyd sighed. “He does not seem overly concerned.”

“How is that possible?”

“You forget, brother, he fell in love with her when she still had no control over her rage. When she tried to kill our father—while he was in his dragon form. When she cut off her brother’s head. When she challenged our mother in front of her entire court. That was the Annwyl he fell in love with. So that Annwyl’s sudden return doesn’t exactly concern him as it does you and I.”

Morfyd turned her body toward them and lowered her voice a little more. “And there’s something else we haven’t discussed.”

“Which is?”

“Where the fuck is Brigida?”

“We have no proof that old hag has returned,” Briec scoffed. “Just the word of Celyn.”

“Say what you will about our cousin, Briec, but he’s never been a liar. He doesn’t make up stories. And I doubt even liar Gwenvael would dredge up the name of Brigida the Foul. So if Celyn says she brought him back here, I believe it. But then where is she? Why has she not shown herself to us?”

“What about Mum? Has she seen her?”

“I went to Devenallt Mountain earlier,” Morfyd said, “and checked in, but Rhiannon has seen no sign. But just the mention of that She-dragon’s name had our father insisting that our mother not attend the feast tonight. And he doubled her guard. He almost called Celyn back, but I thought it best to keep him here with the Riders.”

“How concerned should we be about this Brigida the Foul?” Dagmar asked.

“Very,” the siblings replied in unison.

Brannie cut through her dancing kin—laughing as Gwenvael swirled around her like the big girl he truly was—and tracked down her mother. She was chatting with Keita when Brannie stepped between them.

“Guess what Éibhear just told me?”

“That Celyn has fallen for the one-eyed Rider?”

Brannie pouted at Keita. “Your brother has the biggest mouth.”

“He didn’t tell me anything. Anyone with two eyes can see . . . hmm. Guess that’s a bit of an inappropriate phrase in light of recent events.”

Ghleanna patted Keita on the shoulder. “Look at you, realizing that on your own. Guess that Northlander bastard has had a good effect on you.”

“What does that mean? I’m a lovely dragoness. Everyone adores me.”

Ghleanna snorted. “Uh-huh. Sure they do.”

“In fact, I am so helpful and loving, I’ve been desperately trying to help that barbarian female to enhance her personal style a bit.”

Brannie frowned. “Her personal style?”

“I had a lovely gown picked out for her—”

“Gown?”

“—and that She-barbarian sister of hers slashed it to ribbons!”

“You tried to put a Daughter of the Steppes into a bloody dress?” Ghleanna demanded.

“Why wouldn’t I? It would have looked darling on her! And the eye patch she’s wearing now matched it perfectly.”

“Riders don’t wear dresses, silly hatchling.”

“How sad for them.”

“Why? They love their life.” Ghleanna combed her hand through her short crop of black hair. “But my baby son with a Rider?”

“Oh, what?” Keita asked lightly. “My idiot brothers can make humans their mates, but not your precious son?”

“All my offspring are better than you House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar bastards, because they’re not spoiled brats. But that’s not what I mean. The women rule in the Steppes and my son is not about to become the first husband of many. He’s a Cadwaladr. He’s first, best, and most important.”

“Do you even remember you have other offspring?” Brannie asked.

“If I’m forced to.”

“Mum!”

Chuckling, Ghleanna threw her arm around Brannie’s shoulders, pulled her in close, and kissed her forehead while putting her in a minor headlock.