They final y took a break the next afternoon by a stream. Food was retrieved from travel bags and water replenished from the stream. Each of them sat on smal boulders or overturned tree stumps.

“It could be worse,” Vigholf softly murmured into Rhona’s ear. “It could be summertime. So miserably hot.” Izzy dug into her pack and pul ed out several pieces of fruit, which she offered to everyone. Annwyl declined with a shake of her head, Branwen took two, Vigholf took one, and Rhona declined with a flat, “No.”

With a shrug, Izzy returned to her stump and began to eat. While she did, she asked Rhona, “So how’s my father?” When Rhona didn’t answer, Vigholf replied, “Rude.”

“So he’s fine then?”

They both chuckled.

“And how’s the war in the north? Going wel ?”

“Rough, I’m afraid. Those Irons . . .”

Vigholf shook his head and Izzy said, “They just keep coming.”

“That’s it. How are there so bloody many of them?”

“We’ve thought the same thing. Right, Brannie? Because they do just keep coming.” She ate some more fruit, then added, “But you know, I have to say, the way their army works . . .”

“I know,” Vigholf immediately agreed.

“. . . their organization, their discipline. And they’re so bloody ruthless.”

“You admire them,” Rhona observed, watching Izzy closely. Maybe too closely.

“How could you not? There are things they do in their ranks that we could start doing. Changes we could make that would help us in the long run.”

“Stil planning to be general one day, Iseabail?” Rhona asked and Vigholf definitely heard a sneer in that even if Izzy didn’t.

Izzy shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? I have as much chance as anyone. But I know it’l take hard work.” Then she grinned and added, “Discipline.

Organization.”

They al laughed except Rhona, who continued eating and scowling.

Izzy offered Vigholf bread. “So you were at Garbhán Isle. How’s my mother? Rhian?”

“They’re fine and Rhian is adorable.”

“I can’t wait to see her. She’s probably so big now.”

“I think she’l be tal . Maybe not as tal as the twins, though. They’re growing like vines.” That’s when Rhona asked Izzy, “Aren’t you going to ask about Éibhear and Celyn?” Both Vigholf and Branwen cringed at that question, but Izzy only shrugged again. “Should I ask?” Rhona sniffed in disgust—a sound Vigholf was wel acquainted with—and went back to eating her dried beef.

Izzy placed her food down and swiped one hand against the other to brush off crumbs. “Is there something you want to say to me, Rhona?” she asked.

“No,” Rhona lashed back. “Because why would I want to say anything to the whore who got between two cousins?”

“Rhona!” Branwen snapped. “Have you lost your mind?”

Before Rhona could reply to that—and Vigholf knew the female was going to reply—Annwyl suddenly yel ed, “What the hel are you doing in my head?”

They al stopped, the four of them looking at the queen.

“Out! Out of my head! Fearghus said you’d never be in my head! Why are you in my head? ” Rhona leaned over and whispered to Vigholf, “By the c**k of the gods, she’s gone ’round the bend.”

“Are you sure?” Annwyl asked no one. She reached down and pul ed a scrol out of her travel bag. When she unrol ed it, Vigholf saw it was a map. “Aye. I see it. But are you sure? Wel , how the hel s would she know? She’s just a . . . oh, fine! And never do this again.” Annwyl rol ed up the map and stood. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Vigholf asked her. “Go where?”

“I don’t have time for a litany of questions. Let’s just move.”

Izzy and Branwen scrambled to their feet, grabbed their things, and set off. Reluctantly Vigholf and Rhona fol owed. But Annwyl caught Rhona’s arm and held her back a moment while the two younger females went on. Unwil ing to leave Rhona alone with a woman he was sure was completely insane, Vigholf stopped as wel . Gods knew what the Mad Queen would say to her.

But she seemed quite clear-eyed and level-headed when she told Rhona, “Cal my niece a whore again, Cadwaladr, and I’l slit your throat.” And with that, the queen walked away.

Vateria returned from the dungeons, her servants busy wiping the blood from her hands, neck, and face.

“What is it?” she asked her mage.

“They’re dead.”

“Who is?”

“The platoon I told you last night would be bringing Annwyl the Bloody here.”

“How do you know that?”

Her mage smiled, and she casual y flipped her hands, slapping her servants in the face. “Forget I asked.” She peered at the powerful Dragonmage. “Can’t you just . . . get her?”

“She’s protected from Magicks.”

“By that bitch Dragon Queen?”

“No. By the other gods.”

“Oh. I see.”

“If we want her dead, it’l have to be the close-up kil I’m afraid.”

“And how are we supposed to do that when she’s already kil ed a platoon of Laudaricus’s men?” Junius smiled. “Wait until she comes to us.”