“No. The other one.”

His brother’s face fell. “The slag?”

Vigholf shoved his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t be a bastard, Ragnar! Not all of us follow the dictates of monks.”

“It doesn’t make me a monk because I’m a bit choosy about my bed partners. How did he get his claws on her anyway?”

“She was on the wrong side of the Outerplains, it seems.”

“Foolish dragoness, and again he’s breaking the truce by snatching one of their females.” Ragnar began to pace. What he always did when he was trying to work something out. “So they’re all going back for The Honour.”

“Of course. A fresh dragoness to fight for until the last dragon is standing? Who among our kinsmen would miss out on that?”

“When is it?”

“I don’t know. Da hasn’t given a date yet, which is strange for him. He usually likes to get them mated off and out of his hair as fast as possible. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.”

“I know. He wants her to call on her kin. Get them to fly in here to help her, and then he can get his war.”

“And every warlord will side with him if they think the queen made the first move. But I don’t think the little Red called on anyone. The Gold, her brother—if he knew about his sister, he didn’t show it.”

“He didn’t know. Neither did Dagmar, or she would have told me.”

“Even after she found out you’d been lying to her all these years?”

“She has more to gain by giving me information than withholding it. And what I did is not something I’m proud of, brother, so do not speak of it again.”

Vigholf had no idea why his brother would let it bother him so, but Ragnar was not an easy dragon to understand.

Ragnar stopped pacing. “The Southland dragons haven’t arrived because she hasn’t called to them. She’s going to try and get out on her own.”

“Why the hell would she try that?”

Ragnar faced him, his smile bright. “The beauty, my dear brother, of a mother-daughter relationship.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’ll move heaven, earth, and any number of hells to get out of there without her mother finding out.”

Vigholf shook his head. “You’re going to use this, aren’t you?”

Ragnar threw his arm around his younger brother, giving him a rough hug. “What kind of scheming, plotting bastard would I be if I didn’t?”

Gwenvael slept on and off for the rest of the day and well into the night. The scent of more food woke him up, and another meal and a delicious concoction of wine mixed with healing herbs had him up and wandering around his aunt’s house. It seemed a large step down for a princess who’d hoped to inherit her mother’s throne upon her death—and the death of any other siblings in her way—but Esyld seemed to be quite content.

They chatted for a while, Gwenvael busy bringing her up to date on his kin while leaving out any political talk completely. He left her tying dried herbs together and still laughing when he went out to find where Dagmar had wandered off to.

He found her behind Esyld’s house, sitting on an overturned trunk and staring out over a small stream. With bottle of wine and fresh fruit in hand, he walked up to her.

“See?” he teased. “I noticed you were gone.”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and kept her head down. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“Most don’t.” He stepped in front of her and examined her closely. Her spectacles were on top of her head, and she was digging in the pocket of her gown for something. She was nervous and sniffling.

Knowing he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her, Gwenvael gripped her chin and tilted it up until she looked him in the eye.

Tears. Real ones.

She jerked away from him. “I’m fine. You can stop looking at me like that.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

He sat down next to her on the trunk. “I have wine.”

She wiped her eyes and ignored him until he opened the bottle and held it out for her.

“It’s good wine.”

She took the bottle from him and swigged several gulps down. She handed it back to him and muttered, “It’s a bit weak.”

Gwenvael took a healthy gulp and almost choked it back up. “Weak,” he squeaked out. “Definitely.”

Locking the top on the bottle, Gwenvael placed it down in front of them. “Now I want you to tell me everything. Tell me the price you had to pay to free me from the Horde.”

She began to sob and when Gwenvael tried to put his arms around her shoulders, she shrugged him off. He felt cold fear grip him. “Gods, Dagmar, what did they do to you?”

Still sobbing, she reached into a hidden pocket of her skirt and pulled out a piece of parchment. She shoved it at him.

He glanced at the seal but didn’t recognize it. Quickly tearing it open, he read it. It was written in the ancient language of all dragons; although a few of the letters were penned slightly different, a few of the words possessing different meanings, it was still readable to his eye, if not to a human’s like Dagmar.

“It’s to my mother. From a Ragnar of the Olgeirsson Horde.” He blinked, raised a brow. “Ragnar? That wouldn’t be sweet, caring Brother Ragnar you told me about, would it?” She nodded, continuing to sob.