The Dragon Who Loved Me (13 page)

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Authors: G.A. Aiken

BOOK: The Dragon Who Loved Me
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“Sergeant.”
“Just a soldier then?”
“Just a soldier.”
They watched the soldier spear a Tribesmen and his horse with one thrust, and crush another with her shield.
Rhiannon and Dagmar looked at each other—and smiled.
Chapter 12
 
Finally, the Tribesmen pulled back, disappearing into the forests that surrounded Dark Plains. But Rhona had fought them long enough to know they weren’t gone, merely regrouping, using the trees and their forest-loving gods to shield them.
Rhona landed by one of her wounded cousins and pulled her forearm over her shoulder. Rhona walked-carried her kin toward the castle gates. Halfway there her load abruptly lightened, and she realized Vigholf had taken her kin’s other arm, allowing the She-dragon to get off her wounded leg.
Once inside the gates, Rhona handed over her burden to the healers and searched out her father. She found him rounding up weapons. He would work through the night with his apprentices to repair the damaged ones and sharpen the rest so that when the Tribesmen attacked again, they’d be ready and armed.
“Rhona,” he said when he saw her, wrapping her in a hug. “Good work, child.”
“Sergeant Rhona!” Addolgar called out. “You’ve been summoned by the queen. Dress and meet her in the war room.”
Sulien caught Rhona’s forearm and held her. “What does the queen want with my daughter?” he demanded of Addolgar.
But Rhona pushed his claw off. “Daddy, when the queen calls, I go.”
Addolgar motioned toward the castle with a jerk of his head, patting Rhona’s shoulder as she walked by.
“Don’t do anything foolish, child,” her father called after her.
 
 
Vigholf tended to a few dragons who couldn’t reach the swords or arrows embedded in their backs.
Once done with that, he was about to go in search of Rhona when her father stepped in front of him.
“You,” he said and, for a moment, Vigholf was sure Sulien had heard about Vigholf and Rhona cuddling under a tree all night. He was a ridiculously large dragon with forearms the size of large bulls. It would not be a fun fight. “Go with her.”
Vigholf blinked. “Go with who?”
“Rhona. She’s been called to talk to the queen—don’t let her face that alone.”
Vigholf quickly shifted to human and yanked the clothes off some poor, large-boned soldier who’d been walking by, and demanded, “Where is she?”
 
 
Rhona pulled 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 Hall, 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.”
“All 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 rolled her eyes. “No. I didn’t. He follows me.”
“Well . . . 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—finally 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 pulled his mate out of the room, leaving the rest of them all standing there. It was, to say the least, an awkward moment.
That’s when Keita said, “Lovely battle today, you two. You both kill 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 bellowed from the other side of the closed door, startling them all.
“I will 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 skills? 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. Especially 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 Valley 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 tell 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.”
With a quick bow of her head to the queen, Rhona walked out of the room in search of her father.
 
 
“They’re sending you to do
what
?” Sulien demanded of his eldest daughter.
“Don’t make me repeat it, Daddy,” she muttered, digging through his chests of excess clothes, uniforms, and armor. “Just help me find something that will let me blend in with other travelers.” She motioned to what she wore. Standard protective gear with the Dragon Queen’s colors and seal on it. “Can’t blend in this, now can I?”
“Not in the bloody Provinces you can’t.”
“Scream it a little louder. Don’t think they heard you in the Desert Lands.”
Sulien gripped his daughter’s shoulders and turned her to look at him. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded.
“It’s my orders.”
“To head into the Provinces and end up crucified?”
“Not if I can get in and out without being noticed.”
“If you’re going to rescue that mad bitch, you’ll be noticed all right.”
“Those are my orders—”
“Gods, girl! Stop saying that!”
Rhona sighed. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to lie to you? Tell you what you want to hear?”
“That would be a start.”
Rhona smiled and he saw himself in that smile. Of all his offspring, Rhona was the one who took so much after him. She had his face, his strength, and his skills. From the beginning he knew her place was behind a forge of her own, not fighting wars to prove something to her mother. He adored Bradana more than words could say, but if there was one thing they’d always fought over, it was his Rhona.
It wasn’t that Sulien thought his daughter didn’t have what was necessary to be a soldier or even one of those bloody Dragonwarriors. But having what was necessary and having your heart in it were two vastly different things. From the time Sulien had met his mate, he’d known what she was. A warrior. Without a doubt. It was in her eyes, in the way she walked, in the way she lived. She was a warrior and would take no less from this world. And that same look and attitude had been in all their offspring—except Rhona.
Rhona’s skill with weapons was so that, like every good blacksmith, she’d know what was the right weight, what worked well during a fight, what could kill and what could maim.
But her mother had seen her skill as a calling to be a Dragonwarrior, and to this day it bothered her beyond reckoning that her eldest daughter had not gotten farther than a “mere soldier.” Cadwaladrs, in Bradana’s mind, were supposed to be Dragonwarriors, leading the way into battle. Making orders, not taking them. So round and round mother and daughter went. Rhona never going further than a good soldier because her true calling was to be a Master Blacksmith. And her mother still trying to prove that her eldest just needed a little push in the right direction.
A push right into death, it seemed.
Rhona held up a chain-mail shirt. “What about this?”
“No.” He snatched the shirt from her and slapped it back into the trunk. “You’ve got your mother’s”—Sulien awkwardly motioned around his daughter’s chest—“assets.”
“Assets?”
“Here. Wear this.” He handed her a chain-mail shirt that he’d spent years perfecting.
“Daddy, I can’t take—”
“You will and you’ll wear it under your traveler’s clothes. Here are the leggings that go with them.”
“But this is—”
“My best work and I can’t imagine who else you’d think I’d be saving it for if not for me own daughter.”
Rhona smiled at him. “Thank you, Daddy.”
“Don’t get weepy on me. Don’t think I can handle it.” He turned from her, unable to look at that beautiful face. “By the time we’re done, you’ll be the most well-armed traveler ever known.”
Once he’d equipped his daughter as best he could, Sulien walked her outside his tent and there they said their good-byes. He hugged her tight, kissing the top of her head and making her promise she’d at least
try
to be careful. Assuring lies given, he watched his daughter walk off into the busy crowd of warriors and guards and witches preparing for another assault from the Tribesmen. At the right moment, Rhona’s kin would create a diversion that would give Rhona the time she needed to slip out undetected.

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