Brastias motioned to her guards and they immediately followed after their queen. Not that she needed them to keep her safe. Her barely contained rage should do that until she got back to Garbhán Isle.
“Well, well,” Gwenvael said, his gaze on the castle steps. “The lovely Priestess Abertha.”
Brastias swung around to see that Gwenvael was correct. The lovely—and infinitely cruel—Abertha stood on the steps of Baron Pyrs’s castle, her white robes pristine, the suns shining down on her head, casting her in a glow that brilliantly hid her true evil nature.
But, at least she was alive. Alive! Shocking, to be honest. Brastias had always thought if Annwyl had the chance, Abertha would be the first person she would kill. Ten years ago, it wouldn’t have even been a question. But it seemed that Dagmar Reinholdt’s work with the queen had been effective.
As he looked past the priestess, the only bodies Brastias saw were of her guards. A “misunderstanding” that could easily be explained away, unlike the death of an important and “innocent” priestess.
“My dear lady,” Gwenvael noted, smirking, “you seem . . . disappointed. Did Queen Annwyl not give you what you crave?”
Abertha tried to smile, but all she could manage was a small grunt as her lips sort of turned up in the corners. It was not attractive.
Briec, seeing Abertha alive, turned away from her without speaking, but he swung his tail out and, instinctively, the priestess dropped to the ground before the sharpened tip could slash her face or toss her slim human body into the unforgiving stone walls.
“I’m going home,” Briec said, shaking out his wings. “I suggest you do the same, Brastias.”
Brastias agreed. It was never a good idea to linger after Annwyl had one of her “moments” as Morfyd liked to call them.
He mounted his steed and briefly watched Priestess Abertha get to her feet. As she did, Baron Pyrs ran down the steps toward Brastias. Now that Annwyl and the dragon brothers were gone, the baron wasn’t afraid to venture from the safety of his castle walls.
“My Lord Brastias—” he began.
“I am no lord, Baron Pyrs. Merely a humble general of Queen Annwyl’s armies.”
“Yes, but—”
“And if you see me again, it’ll most likely be to tear down the walls of your fine home, stone by bloody stone.”
Brastias turned his horse to ride away, but the baron quickly moved to stand beside him.
“Brastias, wait—”
“It’s not me you need to be talking to, my lord. I’m a soldier. I bring war, I don’t stop it. If you want to beg for the safety of your family after this foolishness, then you’d best get in touch with Lady Dagmar. She is the one you need to plead your case to. She’s the one who will keep you alive. Do we understand each other?”
Pyrs let out a breath, nodded. “We do.”
Not needing to hear anything else, Brastias headed back to his home and his mate.
Chapter Four
A door slammed somewhere deep in the castle and Celyn put his claws over the back of his head and prayed for death. Another door slammed, followed by raised voices and more door slamming.
When death did not come—the bastard!—Celyn rolled to his back and opened his eyes to look around. For a few moments, he had no idea where he was. He looked at his claws and realized they were hands. Lifted his head a bit and realized he was in his human form, dressed, and on a bed.
Letting out a breath, he slowly lowered his head back to the pillow and moved just his eyes to look around.
A castle. He was in a castle.
Celyn raised himself up on his elbows, but then he had to stop because he was afraid he’d end up tossing whatever was in his stomach all over the room.
This was his fault. His fault. He knew better than to go drinking with his sister.
Foolish dragon.
The door to the room he was in slammed open, and he gasped at the pain that sound caused in every part of him.
“We need to get out of here,” his sister told him.
Branwen the Awful was Celyn’s younger sister, but with only two decades between them, they were considered almost twins by dragon standards. Plus, they looked a lot alike with their black hair, black eyes, and square jaws like their mother’s. But Brannie was more Cadwaladr than Celyn. She drank like their kin, fought random beings like their kin, and loved war like their kin. Understanding Celyn’s happiness at being a member of the Queen’s Personal Guard eluded her.
“What’s wrong?” Celyn asked as he slowly placed his feet on the floor and his poor, throbbing head in his hands. No more drinking. Ever, he promised himself for the millionth time.
“Annwyl killed some guards or something, and no one is very happy about it. And Fearghus isn’t here.”
“Dammit.” Their cousin Fearghus had a way of controlling his mate that no one else had. Especially important when she began killing things because she got in a bit of a mood. “Who did she kill?”
“Not sure. But Dagmar was sent for.”
Dagmar Reinholdt. The Northlander who’d become steward to Queen Annwyl and Battle Lord to Garbhán Isle although the human female had never lifted a sword or axe once in her life. A good thing since she had no skill with weapons. But what she did have was a potent skill with war strategy and a bone-deep love of plotting.
“You’re right,” Celyn agreed. “We need to go.” Unless, of course, they wanted to get caught in the middle of one of Annwyl’s misadventures, which he did not.
Forcing himself to stand, Celyn asked, “Did you bring me here last night?”
“I did. You were too drunk to shift back. I was afraid you’d accidentally wipe out the town.”
Once standing, Celyn swayed, but a steadying hand on the bed’s headboard kept him from falling to the floor.
“You never could handle your liquor, brother.”
“Shut. Up.”
“Because I, as always, speak truth?”
“No. Because your voice is typically loud and grating.” He rubbed his brow. “Why do I ever let you talk me into going drinking with you?”
“Because I’m your sister and you adore me?”
“No.”
Brannie laughed. “Come, brother. Before we get trapped by one of our kinsdragons’ stupidity.”
His sister was right. More times than he cared to think about, Celyn had ended up in the middle of his royal cousins’ problems and dramas. And, as a Cadwaladr, he was obligated to help in any way he could. Because a Cadwaladr always protected family. Even when family was a bunch of bratty royals who seemed to find reasons to argue with everyone.
Celyn took a few tentative steps, stopped, and asked his sister, “I am dressed, right?” Because he honestly couldn’t remember.
“You are. You passed out in your clothes last night and sadly I didn’t have time to take them off so that when I sent the maids in to clean the room, they could find your naked ass waving at them and scream in human terror. You know how I love that.”
Celyn glared at his sister. “What is wrong with you?”
Brannie shrugged. “Nothing. Why?”
Celyn went to the bedroom door and eased it open, peeking into the hallway.
“Well?”