Rhona pul ed out any arrows she hadn’t dealt with on the field, shifted, put on clothes, and went into the castle. The Kyvich took up most of the Great Hal , healing the few of their number who’d been wounded. As she passed, they watched her but said nothing.

“Where are we going?”

Rhona stopped, faced Vigholf, who she’d had no idea was behind her. “I’m going to see my queen.”

“Al right.”

Confused, but too tired to fight about it, she kept going.

She arrived at the door of the war room and knocked. Dagmar Reinholdt opened it. “Sergeant.”

“The queen asked for me?”

“Yes.” Dagmar glanced behind Rhona. “And you brought a friend.”

Rhona didn’t bother to turn around this time; she merely rol ed her eyes. “No. I didn’t. He fol ows me.”

“Wel . . . some dogs are hard to shake,” Dagmar murmured. “You both may enter. And as Ragnar’s brother,” Dagmar said to Vigholf, “I depend on your honor not to repeat what you hear here, my lord.”

Vigholf stooped a bit to clear the doorway. “On my honor, Lady Dagmar.”

Dagmar closed the door and Rhona walked up to the table. The Dragon Queen stood on the opposite side, Talaith and Keita on the right, Ren—

final y getting his color and strength back—behind the queen.

“I have a mission for you, Sergeant.”

“Of course, my queen.”

“I need you to—”

The door swung open again and Rhona’s Uncle Bercelak, whom she hadn’t seen since she’d arrived, stomped in. He sneered at Vigholf as he passed him until he reached Rhiannon’s side. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?”

“No.” He took her hand and pul ed his mate out of the room, leaving the rest of them al standing there. It was, to say the least, an awkward moment.

That’s when Keita said, “Lovely battle today, you two. You both kil so nicely. Oh!” She snapped her fingers and cheerily added, “And don’t drink the water from the lake on the south side.”

“Why—”

Rhona tapped Vigholf’s chest with her hand, cutting him off. “Again I have to say, don’t ask. Just do what she says.”

“Choose someone else!” Bercelak bel owed from the other side of the closed door, startling them al .

“I wil not, Low Born! I choose whom I like from my army even if it is your niece!”

“Choose one of my other nieces, Rhiannon. But a Dragonwarrior. One who is ready for this. Not Rhona!”

“Who says she’s not ready?”

“Me! Addolgar! Her mother!”

No one looked at Rhona. Not that she blamed them. And when she heard the door open and close again, she wasn’t surprised that Vigholf had made his escape.

But then she heard, “Oy!” And realized it was Vigholf.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

“First off, you two,” he nearly roared, “we can hear you through the bloody door. And second, she is ready.” What?

“How would you know, foreigner?” her always-welcoming Uncle Bercelak snapped.

“Because I’ve been fighting by that female’s side for five bloody years. Can you say the same, Fire Breather?” he sneered and silence greeted the question. That’s when Vigholf finished with, “She’s ready. Now let’s get this over with.” Vigholf walked back in, slamming the door behind him, and stood behind Rhona once again, his arms crossed over his chest. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t dare. She wasn’t sure what her response would be. Rage at how he’d spoken to her queen and the queen’s consort? Gratitude for having faith in her skil s? Or mortification that he’d had to fight her battle for her?

Honestly, her feelings and response could go in any direction, so she silently stood her ground when the queen and her consort returned.

Bercelak looked more annoyed than usual—which said much, since looking annoyed was his usual state.

Standing to Rhona’s side, Bercelak snapped, “Soldier!”

Rhona straightened her back, raised her chin. “Sir.”

“You are to head into the west, leave tonight, on foot, let no one see you. Especial y since it seems that bitch Vateria has some sway over the Tribesmen.”

“Aye, my lord.”

“You are to find the missing queen—Annwyl.” Gods, Annwyl was missing? “And return her to her troops. Her legions are heading to the Euphrasia Val ey as we speak to join with our dragon forces. Do you understand your orders?” Although Rhona wanted to immediately answer, “Aye, sir,” as she always did, she knew she had one question. A question she felt the need to ask.

“Sir . . . I’m traveling into the west. Do you mean the Quintilian Provinces?” Bercelak paused, then answered, “Aye, Sergeant. It’s believed that’s where Annwyl was headed. Morfyd can tel you more. She stayed behind while the army advanced without her. Stop at the camp first. Anything else?”

What was there to ask? To say?

“No, sir.”

“For your own sake, Sergeant, I’d keep as low a profile as possible. Travel as human as much as you can, and do nothing . . . foolhardy. You have one mission—bring Annwyl back. Alive or dead. Understand?”

“Aye, sir. I understand.”

“Then go. And may the gods of war protect you.”