The Dragon Who Loved Me. G.A. Aiken
sister, that I am a Protector of the Throne.”
“Blah, blah, blah!”
“I made the decision to tell my brothers nothing, but I’m here to protect my nieces and nephew myself with the help of Ren. So please . . . get over it already!” Keita looked at Rhona in the mirror. “And you should have kept your gods-damn mouth shut.”
“I’m off duty, cousin, which by Cadwaladr law means I can beat you ugly.”
Talaith blinked. “There’s Cadwaladr laws?”
“When necessary,” Rhona said, and picked up her sword and the remnants of her beloved spear. “You two argue this out. I’m off to find my father.”
“You’re leaving?” Keita demanded.
Rhona faced her cousin. “You asked me to escort you and Ren here safely. You’re now here safely. What you do from here is up to you.” She walked to the bedroom door. “I’m off at dawn,” she told them and walked out, closing the door behind her.
Talaith watched her mate’s cousin leave the room. “Is she all right?”
“She’s Rhona.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means what it says—she’s Rhona. Now let’s get something to eat. I’m starving for real food.”
Talaith locked her gaze back on Keita. “Don’t try to change the subject—Ren’s not taking my daughter anybloody-where.”
Keita pressed her fingers to her temples. “If you’d only listen—”
“No. She and her cousins are perfectly safe here, Keita. I’ll not risk sending them to a country I know nothing about with Ren. Or anyone that’s not me, Briec, or Izzy.”
“But—”
“No. And that’s the end of it. And just so we’re clear, don’t think for a second you’ll get the twins past the Kyvich. I know that coven. They’ll hunt Ren down and rip the scales from his hide. So if I were you, sister, I’d let this go.”
Dagmar and Vigholf walked into the Great Hall from the kitchen. “When are you leaving?” Dagmar asked.
“Tomorrow, I think. I’m traveling with Rhona and if I don’t keep an eye on her, she’ll scurry off without permission.”
Dagmar stopped and looked up at him. Vigholf was as handsome as his brother, but in a different way. Maybe it was the scar across his jaw. Because nothing about him looked as innocent as Ragnar the Cunning. “Keep an eye on her?”
“Someone has to.”
“You do know she’s a—”
“A Cadwaladr. Yes. I’m quite aware of her blood ties since everyone keeps reminding me,” he finished on a mutter. Although Dagmar only thought of Vigholf as her friend’s brother, she still felt the need to make it perfectly clear to him how things were with many Southland females.
“I wouldn’t crowd, my lord. I’ve found the females of this clan and this territory hate that.”
“I’m not crowding. I’m . . . helping.”
“I’m a Northlander, too, Vigholf. I know how the males of my country ‘help’ females. It can be smothering for some of us. I don’t know Rhona well, but if she’s like the rest of her kin . . .”
“I’m careful. It just seems like she watches out for everyone else but no one watches out for her. Besides . . . I think she likes it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“Aaah,” Dagmar said at the same moment Rhona bounded down the castle stairs, her weapons strapped to her back and wearing what appeared to be the clothes Annwyl had left behind.
“Did you eat?” Vigholf demanded as she headed out the Great Hall’s big front doors.
Rhona’s answer was to flick two fingers at Vigholf and keep going.
“See?” Vigholf pointed out with a shocking amount of confidence. “She likes it.”
Now Dagmar knew. When it came to females, Vigholf was nothing like his brother—but he was a true Northlander.
Sulien held up the broken spear, one piece in each hand. “A warhammer did this?”
“You saw that hammer the Lightning almost hit Addolgar with. And that’s not even the one he uses during battles. That one is bloody huge. Nearly as big as the bastard’s head.”
Her father chuckled and stepped around her. “The only purpose of this spear was to protect you—and it did. Its job is now done.”
He started to throw the pieces into a bin he kept for trash.
“Don’t you dare throw that out.”
“Why not? It’s broken, and repairing it would be useless. It’ll only break again.”
“But you made it for me.”
“You cling to what is meaningless, child. Just like your mother sometimes, only with her it’s mostly grudges.”
He tossed the spear into the trash, and Rhona had to fight every instinct she had to not dive into that bucket after it.
“Besides,” her father continued, “I have something better.”
Sulien crouched in front of a trunk, opened it. “I was going to give it to you when I saw you back at home, but this is even better.”
Her father stood and handed her a small metal stick. She’d guess it was only three feet long—and that was it.
“Oh . . . a stick. How . . . uh . . . nice.”
“Don’t be foolish, Rhona. It’s more than a stick.”
He took it from her, held it in his big hand. And Rhona smiled when a sharpened tip suddenly appeared at the end. “Oh! It’s a long knife.”
Then it extended another four or five feet, turning it into a metal spear. “Oh, Daddy! That’s—”
It extended again and grew wider, stretching to and through the opening at the top of the tent.
Eyes wide, Rhona grinned. “That’s . . .” She simply didn’t have words for what it was. There were quite a few weapons among their kind, many of them created by her father or his kin, that could extend from small to big and back again, so that the dragons using them wouldn’t have to constantly switch weapons depending on their current forms. Usually banging the weapon at a certain angle on its base extended it or a shield and they were easy enough to make small again.
But this . . .
“No matter what form you’re in, you’ve got a weapon.”
“What do I press?”
“Nothing.” The spear quickly slipped into its original size, and her father handed it to her.
“But . . .” After years of training by her father’s side, before she’d joined Her Majesty’s Army, Rhona knew what was needed for their weapons to work. “Don’t you need a chant? A spell? Something?”
“Only in the creation of it.” He leaned in. “Want me to show you?”
“Are you joking? Yes!”
He laughed. “Go on and try it first. See what it can do.”
Rhona held the weapon in her hand. It seemed so . . . ordinary. A metal stick. Nothing more. But then she called for the tip and it was there. She used her free hand to touch it.
“Careful,” her father warned. “It’s bloody sharp.”
It was.