“What’s happening?” the king asked. A cold but prepared Kachka Shestakova stood by his side.
“My brother Ainmire . . . we’ve been betrayed, King Gaius.”
“How badly?”
Aidan glanced at his mother, brother, and sisters as they made their way down the stairs. “His eyes are gone. Torn out of his head since the feast.”
“So,” he said simply, “very badly.”
“I fear he’s not alone. I fear he’s—”
Aidan froze. He knew that sound. He’d been in enough battles over the years. Enough attacks. Seen them. Caused them. Been blindsided by them.
“Down!” he commanded, staying by the king and Kachka, instinctively knowing that Brannie would watch out for Orla.
Everyone dropped as the first boulder rammed into the front of Stone Castle.
“What is that?” Gormlaith screamed.
“We’re under attack! Everyone go!” Aidan jumped up and motioned for them all to head down the stairs.
As they moved, more boulders hit the front of the castle and Aidan could hear the cries of soldiers coming from outside.
Then it stopped and Aidan turned to see his eyeless brother standing in front of the open doors. The hand pressed over Ainmire’s chest was covered in a massive amount of blood, but still he lived.
Zoya stopped by Aidan’s side, saw what he was looking at.
“Nina Chechneva! The doors!” she ordered.
The witch spun around, lifted her arms, and brought her hands together. The massive stone doors shut in Ainmire’s face, closing him out.
“Come, handsome dragon,” Zoya said, tugging on Aidan’s arm. “We must go and you must go with us.”
Aidan took one more second to stare at the hall he’d been raised in before turning and following after the others.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They reached the end of the cavern. There were two ways to go from there. East or west.
Gaius stopped when Kachka did. She looked up at him. “My plans have not changed, dragon king.”
“We still need to meet with the dwarves,” Gaius said to Aidan.
The Gold nodded. “Do we have any idea where Father is?” he asked his kin.
The blank looks on their faces told Gaius all he needed to know. It was as if Aidan were asking about a stranger.
Eyes crossing, Aidan turned to his Mì-runach brothers. “Take Orla out of here,” he told them, pointing toward the eastern tunnel. “She knows the way. Follow her down that tunnel and get her to Devenallt Mountain.”
“And leave you here to face your mad eyeless brother and his fanatic friends alone?”
“As long as I know my sister is safe—”
“And your mother!” Gormlaith tossed in, her grin wide as her eyes pleaded with her son.
Aidan stared at his mother for several seconds before turning back to his friends. “As long as Orla’s safe, nothing else matters.”
Uther placed his hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “For our queen, for our honor, brother.”
“For our queen, for our honor,” Caswyn repeated.
Kachka motioned to the Khoruzhaya siblings, Nina Chechneva, and Tatyana. “Go with them, comrades. Make sure to keep the She-dragon and the Mì-runach safe.”
“And the rest of Aidan’s family!” his mother tried again.
“The rest of us,” Kachka went on, ignoring Gormlaith, “will go and get our prize before the idiots do. We will meet back in the Southlands. Yes?”
Aidan hugged Orla and kissed her forehead.
She stepped away from Aidan and turned to Brannie. “You’ll go with Aidan, won’t you? Keep him safe?”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Aidan asked, smiling a little.
“She’s a Cadwaladr, brother. And meaner than you.”
“She’s right,” Brannie agreed. “I am meaner than you.”
He smiled down at his sister. “Go. I’ll see you soon.”
She nodded and took Uther’s outstretched hand. Together, with Kachka’s comrades, they headed down the tunnel, the rest of Aidan’s kin following without even bothering to tell Aidan good-bye.
“I like your sister,” Zoya noted, “but rest of family I do not like.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “Neither do I.”
“And what about your father?” Gaius asked.
“My father trusts few, but I doubt he left the mountain.”
“So you think he’s with the dwarves.”
“I do.”
“And will his presence still help us or hurt us now?”
“King Gaius . . . I honestly don’t know the answer to that.”
Dagmar barely managed to hold on to the pile of books in her arms until she reached her study. Once she was inside, she dropped them on her desk and let out a relieved sigh.
“Didn’t think those books or you would make it.”
She sat in the back of the room, curled into a chair like a cat. Long black hair, parted in the middle, reaching to the floor, framing a beautiful face. Her armor was made of leather and steel; small blades were threaded through the jerkin and leggings, ready to be used at any moment. Dark brown eyes watched Dagmar impassively, as the pair stared each other down.
Finally, Dagmar admitted, “I hate when your kind insists on dropping by.”
“Most beings would be honored by my presence before them.”
“Then go find those beings. I have work to do.”
She laughed. “I see why Rhydderch Hael has always spoken so highly of you.”
“Rhydderch Hael is not a friend of mine,” Dagmar practically snarled, the father of dragons having pissed her off all those years ago when Annwyl’s twins were born. “But he should have told you, when he spoke so highly of me, that I worship none of you.”
“He did mention that. You’re a follower of Aoibhell. That great bastion of reason.”
“And who are you exactly?”
“Mingxia, goddess of war and love.”
“I thought Eirianwen was the goddess of war.”
“Goddess of war and death and she is. But I am the Eastland god of—”
“By all reason, I don’t care!” Dagmar finally snapped. “Why are you here? What do you want? Because if it’s just to chat—”
“It’s begun.”
“What’s begun?” The god raised an eyebrow and Dagmar felt air leave her body. “But how? Are they right outside now?”
“I know you think that everything begins and ends in Garbhán Isle, my dear. But it doesn’t.”
“Really?” Dagmar asked, her arms crossed over her chest. “You’re giving me attitude?”
“I think this is a bad idea, Uncle.”
Rhys the Hammer, third born to Ailean the Wicked, and one of the few Cadwaladr known for his patience, stopped long enough to let the hammer he favored slam into his nephew’s snout.
“Any more questions?” he asked his kin as his brother Addolgar’s son rolled on the ground, knocking over trees and holding his cracked snout between two claws. “No? Good! Let’s keep moving.”
“That was a little harsh, Daddy,” Rhys’s eldest daughter gently chided.