LITMIR.BIZ

      Naked and in human form by the lake where her kin had made camp, Rhona studied the many scars littering her body. “I’m like a bleedin’ pin cushion,” she muttered.

      “Rhona?”

      Rhona turned, smiled. “Hello, Talaith.”

      “Think we can talk?” her cousin Briec’s beautiful mate asked, and Rhona could hear the concern in the woman’s voice. The stress. Not surprising. Most of them gone for five years, with no visits from her daughter for the entire time and none from Briec after the first two.

      Rhona looked down at herself. “Got any clean clothes I can wear? Mine are all a bit stinky at the moment.”

      Talaith laughed a little. “Maybe in Annwyl’s closet.”

      “That’ll do.” She started to head away from the camp, but Talaith caught her arm, pulled her back.

      “Here.” Talaith took off the fur cape she wore and wrapped it around Rhona’s naked body. “At least until we get inside. For the sake of the servants.”

      “Such a prude,” Rhona teased.

      “I’m worried,” Talaith admitted when they were away from Rhona’s kin but not quite at the castle gates. “I haven’t heard from Briec in several days.”

      “You’ve heard from Briec?” Usually only immediate blood relations could contact each other directly and at long distances. Unless, of course, they were . . .

      “Witch,” Talaith reminded Rhona. One of those Desert Land witches, mortal enemies of the Kyvich, Rhona had heard. So having the scantily clad, tattooed females around must be especially hard for Talaith. “Learning to contact my mate was one of the easier things I’ve had to relearn since the return of my powers. And with a little more effort and a lot less complaining, Briec could be an amazing mage, so it’s been quite easy. I don’t hear from him every day, but he’s never gone this long. . . .”

      “When I left all was well. We’re at a standstill.” Although Rhona was well aware all that could change in a moment. But what was the point of worrying her?

      “Can you check with your mum?” Talaith asked.

      Rhona stopped walking, tightened the fur around her body. “Uh . . .”

      “Uh? Uh what?”

      “No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”

      “Why the hells not?”

      “Keita—”

      “Och! That female!” Talaith raised her hand to silence Rhona’s immediate defense of her cousin. “What is she up to now?”

      “Maybe you should ask—”

      “Forget it.” Talaith caught Rhona’s hand, pulling her along with a surprising amount of strength. Then again, Rhona did often forget that Talaith was once an assassin. A very good one.

      With a little snarl, Talaith said, “Let’s find that damn female.”

      “How is everything going?” Dagmar asked while Vigholf tucked into a heaping bowl of delicious-smelling beef stew.

      “Fine.”

      The bowl suddenly disappeared, his spoon dangling in midair.

      “You’d get between a dragon and his food?” Vigholf asked, only half seriously.

      “When he insists on answering my question like a true Northland male—yes.” She lifted the bowl, holding it in both hands. The scent of it wafted to his nose and Vigholf couldn’t help but growl a little. “But unlike most of my countrymen, you can and do create and execute full and complete sentences. So I ask again . . . how is everything going?”

      “I see my brother has taught you very well.” Honestly, during the last five years, Vigholf had been forced to stretch his opinion on what was right for females to be involved in and what was not.

      “Yes. Your brother did train me well,” she replied. “And he told me I could trust you as I trust him.”

      Those words meant much to Vigholf because his brother would have never said them to Dagmar unless he’d meant it. “You can, my lady.”

      “Dagmar. Please.”

      “First off, Dagmar, your mate is well. Mean. But well.”

      “Mean?” She placed the bowl of food back in front of him. “Are you sure you have the right—”

      “Gwenvael the Ruiner, yes?”

      She nodded, eyes wide behind those spectacles his brother had made for her many years ago.

      “He is quite . . . loyal to you, I’m afraid,” Vigholf explained. “And has been for the last five years. But for someone like him that is not easy. Especially since, like his brothers, he has not returned here for the last three years. He’s turned impatient, mean, and nasty; and he takes it out on the rest of us—and the enemy. The Irons call him Gwenvael the Defiler.”

      The woman burst into laughter, something Vigholf never thought he’d hear from the dour little human. She stuttered to a stop. “Sorry. Private joke. And . . . uh . . . why do they call him that?”

      “He has a tendency to dismember the bodies. Sometimes while the owner of that body still breathes. I told you . . . he’s become quite mean without you.”

      “I see.”

      “As to the war itself . . .” Vigholf sighed. “That’s a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.”