“Auntie Keita has asked me to accompany her and Uncle Ragnar back to the Northlands for a visit.”

Dagmar thought on that a second, nodded. “All right. I’ll have to talk to your father first, of course, but I doubt he’d say no.”

“Good. Thank you.”

Arlais turned away, and Dagmar was about to refocus her attention on the bills. But before she could pull off her spectacles, she sensed that Arlais was standing right next to her.

She looked up and . . . she was.

“What is it?”

“You’re just going to let me go, aren’t you?”

Dagmar blinked, confused. “What?”

“When Var wants to go only a few miles away to Uncle Bram’s house you’re all, ‘Over my dead body’ and ‘How can my dearest child leave me?’ But I say I’m going to go all the way to the bloody Northlands and you’re all, ‘Bye! Don’t let the Garbhán Isle gates hit you on the ass!’”

“Arlais!”

“You don’t care about me at all, do you?”

“That’s bloody nonsense!”

“Is it? Really, Mother? Really?”

“Stop yelling!”

“I bet if it was one of those five little bitch sisters of mine, you wouldn’t even think of letting them leave!”

“The oldest one is seven!”

“I’m eight!”

“But a very mature eight!”

“Oh! You are the worst mother ever!”

“I don’t know how that’s possible!” Dagmar screamed back. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

The boy tried to run past Elina, but she caught him and held him tight. “No!”

“I have to get to Uncle Bram! I have to warn him!”

“I will go!” Kachka whistled for her horse. She started running before it arrived. “Elina, get that boy back to his mother!”

The horse ran past Elina and Var and caught up to Kachka.

Kachka reached out and caught hold of the Steppes horse’s mane, launching herself onto its back.

Elina, still holding Var by his shoulders, turned them both and found her horse already standing there. Waiting.

“I love this horse,” she told the boy as she walked over and mounted. She reached down and grabbed the boy’s arm, hauling him onto the horse with her.

“You will wrap your arms around my waist,” she ordered him. “And you will not let go. You will also watch my left side.”

“Okay. But don’t forget I’m on your left side. I don’t want you mourning me second.”

“Do not worry, little Var. Just hold on and keep your head low.”

“Low? Why?”

Elina turned, her bow raised as she heard something rushing up behind them. She shot two arrows, one after another, and the dragon who’d been charging toward them on all fours reared back with a roar, the arrows hitting him in the mouth he’d been opening to unleash flame on both Elina and Var.

“That is why,” Elina told the boy before she clicked her tongue against her teeth and the horse sprinted off.

Frederik had been about to go into Aunt Dagmar’s study, but he heard her and Arlais getting into it before he even reached the door. In no mood for any of that, he kept walking until he was outside. He briefly gazed up at the tower, but . . . no. He was definitely not in the mood to check on that stupid thing either.

So Frederik kept walking. Past the castle grounds, through the woods, and near a stream. He stopped there and stared at . . . nothing. At least nothing in particular. He just stood there, staring . . . silent.

Good thing, too—otherwise he never would have heard that distinct sound of something cutting through the air, right over his head.

And, as Bercelak had trained him again and again, Frederik dropped into a crouch and rolled to the side. When he jumped to his feet, a sword was buried where he’d just been standing.

At the lake, where his kin stood waiting for orders, Bercelak pointed at three of Addolgar’s sons. “You lot, I want you and . . .” He pointed at three of his nieces. “. . . you three, go with them. I want you in the air, watching—”

“Bercelak!”

Bercelak turned to find one of his brothers pointing at him. “Some prissy queen’s guard here to see you?”

Bercelak went up on his back claws and recognized the red dragon as Aberthol. One of Rhiannon’s guards.

Assuming he had a message from Celyn, Bercelak motioned Aberthol over with a wave of his claw, then focused on his nieces and nephews.

“I want you lot in the air, over Garbhán Isle. Look for anything that seems strange or out of place. I don’t care what. If you see something, let your mum or father know and they’ll get in touch with me. Understand?”

One of Addolgar’s sons raised his claw.

“What?”

“Aren’t we in Garbhán Isle, Uncle?”

Bercelak gritted his fangs together. Say what you would about his sons, at least none of them were this bloody stupid.

Taking a breath—he’d learned long ago that yelling at Addolgar’s sons did nothing but make them become absolutely useless; they were so bloody sensitive—Bercelak struggled to keep his temper under control.

“Aye. We are in Garbhán Isle. But . . .” Bercelak’s words faded off when he noticed that his nephew was no longer listening to him, but busy staring behind him.