“No.” Olgeir sneered. “Stay here. I’ll handle the boy. Like I always have.”

He stormed off, motioning to three of his best guards to follow.

Olgeir would bring Ragnar’s head back himself and mount it over his treasure.

His idiot offspring’s mother would complain, but she’d have to get over it.

Chapter 26

For three days the Blood Queen of Dark Plains held on. For three days the entire kingdom had been in mourning.

Yet the pain felt by the dragons who considered her family was a palpable thing, rippling through them all. Every day she’d see servants rush from the castle so they could sob among their own without upsetting the dragons any more than they already were. Even those cousins and aunts and uncles who hadn’t had a chance to get to know Annwyl before the birth mourned for the loss their kin suffered.

To be blunt, Dagmar simply wasn’t used to it. The Northlanders didn’t show their pain. They didn’t mourn. They simply set their dead to flame, either on pyres or at sea, and once the remains were nothing but ashes, three to five days of drinking ensued. Neighbor enemies didn’t attack at these times, probably one of the only lines not even Jökull crossed when at war. Drunken tears and sobbing were allowed only because they could be written off. “It was the drink,” she’d heard her kinsmen say more than once. “More than six kegs of ale and I’m a blubbering mess.”

Yet there had been no drinking in Dark Plains. Only the grim readying for battle and defense, and the painful expressions of those who were feeling the loss of Queen Annwyl.

To combat all of it, Dagmar had kept busy doing what she did best: planning, plotting, and executing.

A good portion of the defenses were up and ready. Some of them were buried deep in the ground beneath them, ensuring it would at least be hard for the Minotaurs to break through into the Garbhán Isle dungeons. Others were topside and at the ready. And a few were tests she’d insisted upon. She’d argued over the tests with Brastias, who seemed grateful to have something else to focus on. He thought they were simply too limited and specific, which may have been correct, but Dagmar still liked to test out her ideas when she could.

While the defenses were being built, the merchants and prostitutes had been moved from inside the main gates to a town about a league away from the edge of Garbhán Isle. This way the servants didn’t have to travel too far to get daily supplies, but strong defenses could now be erected that would protect the main gate.

Dagmar had happily helped with all that as well, glad to be of some assistance during this time. Yet there was still much work to be done, and she had every intention of making sure as much as possible was finished before she returned home.

As Dagmar walked across the enormous courtyard studying her list carefully, wind whipped around her, lifting the hem of her dress and her hair. It reminded her she had yet again forgotten to braid her hair and wear her scarf over it. She raised her gaze to the sky, her eyes momentarily blinded by the two suns blaring overhead. She saw the dragons at the last minute, dashing to the side as five of them landed.

She didn’t recognize them as any of Gwenvael’s kin, but she could tell they were old. No matter the color of their scales, their manes were nearly white and grey with age. They landed and looked around. The old Gold in front looked down at her and she knew immediately this male was a problem.

They weren’t here to give their condolences, or to offer assistance. In fact, she knew exactly what they were here for.

Knowing this would turn ugly very fast, Dagmar went to put her plan in motion.

Gwenvael cut in front of his father, pressing his hands against the old dragon’s shoulders and stopping him midway down the Great Hall steps.

“Father, no.”

“You dare come here?” Bercelak snarled at the dragons in the courtyard with such lethal anger that Gwenvael feared the veins pulsing across his father’s temples would burst.

The Elders had shifted to human and wore the boring, brown robes they brought with them. Four of them stepped hastily back at Bercelak’s angry words, but only Elder Eanruig had the balls to look bored.

“There is no disrespect intended, Lord Bercelak,” Eanruig sighed. “But I made it clear to Her Majesty that we would come for the babes after they were born.”

Gwenvael and his father locked gazes before Gwenvael swung around and demanded, “What now?”

“We’ve come for the babes, young Prince. They will leave with us and be raised where we choose is best for them.”

“You’re not taking those children.”

“The Elders have decided, Lord Gwenvael, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“I don’t care. You’ll not take those children. Fearghus will decide where they live and how they are raised. Not you. And not some bloody council.”

Briec came down the steps from the Great Hall, stopping beside Gwenvael. “What’s going on?”

Their father couldn’t even answer. He simply shook his head, his hands resting on his hips as he paced back and forth on the long step.

Gwenvael looked at his brother, the anger fairly choking him. “They’ve come for the babes.”

Briec focused on Eanruig. “Under whose authority? Clearly not our mother’s.”

The Elder smirked, and Gwenvael winced when Briec began to yell in his head, We’re killing him! We’re killing him right now!

Gwenvael placed his hand on Briec’s shoulder. We can’t. Let’s just be calm.