“By all the war gods—what did you say to him?”

“It’s not what I said, Father, but what I couldn’t. I know there’s more information from Brother Petur. You remember him, yes?” Good gods, why did she pull that man’s name out of her ass?

Perhaps because her father didn’t find Petur remotely threatening. He belonged to an order that preached tolerance over war. Unlike Brother Ragnar’s Order of the Warhammer or her other favorite, Order of the Burning Sword.

“Can’t you show him on a map how to get to that idiot’s convent?”

“It’s not a convent, Father; that’s for women.” And how many times had she wished he’d sent her to one? “It’s a monastery. And I gave him the directions there, but he wants me to go with him.”

“Not in my life, girl. I’m not letting you out of here with that … that … weeper.”

“Come now, why not? Surely you’re not worried about my chastity.” She laughed, even as delicious visions of dessert cream and a liberty-taking dragon tail swam into her head.

“What do you mean ‘why not?’ He can’t protect you. He’ll be too busy sobbing like a bloody girl while you’re captured by some other warlord!”

“Keep your voice down! And his size alone will protect me.” Her father grunted, which gave her hope she could convince him. “How about we do this? I go with him today, which will take a few hours, and then he can take me to Gestur’s. He’s barely two hours on foot from that monastery. I can bring the messages that you have for him and be back on safe Reinholdt ground before nightfall.”

Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to have it all worked out.”

She shrugged. “It’s been ages since the cousins have been here. And Gestur can bring me back next month when he travels here.”

“Next month?” Her father looked at her strangely and she had no idea what his expression meant. “I don’t like it. And you still ain’t given me much of a reason to send you.”

“A legion.”

“What?”

“As I told you, he wants to protect Annwyl the Bloody. He’s promised us a legion of her troops.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do. That’s fifty-two-hundred men, Father.”

“Southlanders,” he sneered.

“Human targets, I say. Keep Jökull busy until you can tear the skin from his bones.”

A rare smile crossed her father’s face. “Like your mother sometimes, you are. You’ve got a vengeful streak.” Her father’s compliments were rare and strange, but she took them eagerly nonetheless.

“I do. And if helping the weeper gets us what we need … It’s a small price to pay. For once, Father, please trust me.”

“I always trust you’re up to something, little miss.” But he was no longer fighting her and they both knew it. “But you’re sure, though? About being alone with him? You sure you’ll be safe with him—he’s still a male and I seen how your sisters-in-law have been watching him.”

She eased the door open a bit, and her father looked in to see Gwenvael blowing his nose into a cloth and continuing to make choking noises. Dagmar raised her brow. “Unless I suddenly turn into Eymund … I’m relatively certain I’ll be just fine.”

Chapter 10

“My lady? My lady, please wake up.”

Morfyd opened her eyes. “What is it, Taffia?”

“You’d best hurry, my lady. The guards have called out warning that your mother approaches.”

“I’ll be down in a bit. The suns have barely risen.” Then she turned and buried her head into a warm, hard chest.

“My lady, if you do not go down to meet her, she will come up here.”

“Mhhm.”

Yes, yes. Her mother coming up to her room, seeing her cuddled up to Brastias …

Morfyd jolted awake, her entire body tensing as she sat up. “Good gods! She’s here? Why is my mother here?”

“I don’t know, my lady. But she approaches and will land soon.”

Scrambling out of bed, Morfyd pointed to her wardrobe. “Get my robes, Taffia. Hurry!” She saw Brastias watching her. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

She sighed impatiently, pouring water into the bowl on her basin. “I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

“Then when? When will you tell any of them?”

“Do you like having your arms and legs? Because my brothers will ensure that you do not. And my father—” She shuddered at the thought. Bercelak the Great had torn the wings off a young dragon once who’d stopped by her parents’ cave nearly every day for an entire moon cycle to prove his love to Morfyd. Her father had been incensed. “You’ve only turned forty!” he’d yelled, shaking her poor suitor’s wings while blood flew around the chamber. “You’re a child!”

“How long will you keep using your family as an excuse?” Brastias asked softly.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and realized he’d already gotten out of bed and was nearly dressed, heading toward the window.

“It’s not that easy,” she told his back while he pulled his shirt on.

“It’s easy enough for the rest of your kin.”

“You can’t compare us to what Fearghus and Briec—”