“You wanted to see me, Mum?” Var asked. He’d quietly moved up beside her just as she’d taught him when he was old enough to understand. Which, it turned out, happened to be about day five after his birth.

“Yes. Your aunt Ghleanna is returning to Bram’s castle near Bolver Fields—”

“Where the Battle of Fychan took place a few centuries back.”

Dagmar stared over at Annwyl until she glanced up from her book. “What are you glaring at me for?” the queen asked. When Dagmar did nothing but continue to stare, Annwyl said, “He asks questions, I answer them. Maybe I told him about a few battles, pointed out a few books he could read for more information . . .”

Dagmar slowly let out air through her nose, a trick she used because it made it sound like she was giving a low, animalistic growl. Quite effective during negotiations and very effective when dealing with Queen Annwyl.

“Anyway,” Dagmar went on, “you’ll be going with her.”

Dagmar pushed her son’s travel bag into his arms, and the boy’s grey eyes grew wide when he understood what she was saying to him. That he’d be traveling with his great-aunt Ghleanna without his mother going along.

“But,” Dagmar quickly cut in, “this is just for tonight. I’m not going to just send you off to live with Bram. We’re going to ease into this and—”

Var’s arms wrapped around Dagmar’s waist, cutting off the rest of her words. She stroked his golden head and kissed the top of it.

“You know I’ll miss you, don’t you?” she said softly.

“Not going into battle, Mum,” her son quickly reminded her. “Just over to Uncle Bram’s for a day . . . to read. In quiet.”

As if to drive that point home, five of his sisters charged from their room and down the stairs and out the front doors . . . screaming, “Destruction-ho!” all the way. And behind them? Their father. He wasn’t screaming, though. He was roaring, teasing his daughters as he loved to do every morning.

Gwenvael stopped by Dagmar and Var. He kissed her, then focused on the way she was hugging her son.

“Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“Good,” he said, then charged out the door after his daughters, the screaming amplifying once he caught up with them.

Var rested his chin against his mother’s chest and gazed up into her face. “Wonderful, blissful quiet.”

“I understand. I understand.”

“Where’s Arlais?” Annwyl asked.

Busy brushing Var’s hair off his face, Dagmar asked, “Who?”

“Your eldest daughter?”

Dagmar blinked, still confused, then she jerked. “Oh. Yes. She’s with Keita.”

Var pulled away from her abruptly, gazing at his mother in mute horror. Annwyl slammed her book shut and was staring at her the same way as Var.

Dagmar tossed up her hands. “What? What did I do?”

“You handed off your ridiculously pompous and bloodthirsty child to Keita?” Annwyl demanded.

“Keita likes spending time with her. She only has male offspring.”

“She’s the family poisoner,” Annwyl reminded her, and with such a tone, too! So much tone!

Dagmar gave a shrug and admitted, “Arlais will need some skills beyond being a royal and beautiful, and the only one who can spend more than five minutes with her and not have an overwhelming desire to smother her with a pillow, is Keita.”

Var glanced at the queen and nodded. “Mum is right, Auntie Annwyl. Keita is the only one who can do that.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Elina sat at the small table in the alcove. She hefted the pitcher of clean water and began to pour into the battered pewter mug.

But she missed the mug and poured onto the wood table.

Snarling a curse in her native tongue, she hauled the pitcher back so she could hurl it at the wall, but Celyn was suddenly there, yanking it from her hands.

“I can pour water for you,” he said with a smile while gripping the pitcher as if he were protecting a small child from her wrath.

Elina slammed her hands down on the now-wet table. “I do not need you to pour water for me. I am not invalid.” She pushed her chair away and stood. “I can manage fine on my own.”

And to prove that, she tried to walk around the table but ended up banging her leg against it. Again.

That’s when the table went flying, Elina roaring with rage.

Celyn placed the pitcher on the floor and stepped over to Elina’s side. He tugged her over to the bed and forced her to sit.

“I know this is frustrating—”

“You know nothing, Dolt.”

“Then I can guess. But taking it out on my should-be-dead aunt’s furniture doesn’t help anything. Least of all you.”

“You should have let Glebovicha finish me.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Elina.”

“So I am stupid?”

“Aye! At this moment, you are! Very fucking stupid!” He took in a breath, let it out, was calm again. “I’m not trying to say this will be an easy transition for you, and I’m sure that you are very hurt right now—”

“Hurt?”

“Aye. Hurt. How could you not be hurt? Glebovicha is your mother.”

“I know that. But I am not child. I am not hurt. I am angry that she would go this far. And disappointed in myself for failing yet another task!”