“There you are.”
Startled, Dagmar dropped Gwenvael’s claw and reached for her eating dagger. She whirled around to face the threat, prepared to protect Gwenvael with her life, when the dagger slipped from her hand and skipped depressingly along the ground, landing at the intruder’s feet.
“Hhhm. Not much of a fighter then?” The woman in witches’ robes picked the blade up and trudged over to Dagmar. “Shouldn’t bring this out unless you really know what you’re doing.” She handed Dagmar the blade. “Because nothing could be worse than getting killed with your own weapon.”
Dagmar gawked at the woman. “Who are you?”
“Esyld.”
“Esyld who?”
She didn’t answer Dagmar’s question, but leaned over Gwenvael. “Poor thing. I was afraid he wouldn’t make it this far, but he has much strength in him.” She glanced at Dagmar. “And much passion to protect you.”
“I’ll ask you again. Who are you?”
“A friend. I’m only here to help. But we need to get both of you inside where it’s safe.”
She motioned Dagmar back, and raised her hands over Gwenvael.
“What are you doing?”
Again there was no answer, but the woman began to chant.
Flames rose over Gwenvael’s body and then receded, leaving him human.
“Much easier to handle this way for me.”
“How did you … ?”
The witch grabbed hold of Gwenvael’s arm and leg and lifted his body onto her shoulder. “Come on then.”
Even in his human form, Gwenvael was a mighty weight. No human witch her size could pick him up.
“You’re a dragon.”
“That I am.”
“Your kind is everywhere,” Dagmar couldn’t help but sneer. “I never seem to know when I’m dealing with one.”
“But you’re learning,” the female said with a laugh. “I can tell.”Chapter 15
Dagmar followed Esyld to a small house deep in a copse of trees. To be honest, it was a charming little place. Smoke puffed from a chimney, with an herb garden right out front and a stone walkway that led to the door. Large trees surrounded the house, the branches and leaves providing cover.
The dragoness had left the front door open and walked right in, Dagmar behind her.
The inside of the house was as comfortable and charming as the outside, although it had only one room. Dagmar could see herself happily living here alone. In truth, she knew she’d enjoy it and had hoped when she reached her fortieth winter or so she’d get a small place like this near her father’s fortress. She knew her sisters-in-law would happily push that situation on their spouses.
Esyld carried Gwenvael to the long bed pressed against the wall. She lifted him off her shoulder and placed him down carefully. With a soft smile, she brushed his hair from his face. “He’s grown up so handsome.”
Dagmar’s eyes narrowed. Who the hell was this? And why did she feel it was acceptable to touch him in such a way? “Are you going to tell me who you are or not?”
“I already did. Name’s Esyld.” And before Dagmar could argue, she pointed at Gwenvael. “See these?”
Dagmar crouched beside the bed, pushing her spectacles on top of her head so she could closely study how his skin puckered in several places.
Many places, in fact. All over his body.
“What is this?”
“A brutal torture.”
Esyld pulled off her robes. She wore a simple blue gown beneath. It set off her red hair perfectly. “You’re not one of the Horde.”
“No, I’m not.” She knelt on the floor beside Dagmar. Her finger slightly hovered over one of the raised welts. “This is the old way of doing damage to a dragon. When in dragon form, your scales are forcibly pulled away from the flesh and small, jagged pieces of steel are slipped beneath. That process alone is quite painful. It’s not easy to pry scale from flesh. You usually have to use a knife in between the seams.”
“I never noticed … what I mean to say is …” Dagmar, tired of crouching, went on her knees and rubbed her eyes with her fists. Was she actually about to ask for more information on blasted dragon seams? “Forget I was trying to say anything.”
“You’d have to look very closely to notice the seams. Now once the scale is released back into place, it heals shut, locking in the jagged piece of metal. The pain is quite excruciating,” she said easily, almost cheerfully. “Even worse, the flesh underneath heals over it, intensifying the pain.”
Dagmar’s balled fists landed in her lap. “All that for vengeance?”
“They wanted him to suffer.” She rested her arm on the bed. “It’s doubtful they’d hoped to get any information from him. A royal he may be, but also a descendent of the Cadwaladr Clan. You can never get them to talk.”
“He’s …” Dagmar straightened her spine. “He’s a royal?”
“Son of the Dragon Queen herself.” Esyld regarded her intensely. “He never told you, did he?”
“He was quick to tell me about that time he woke up in a sewer in Kerezik. But his royal lineage … That never came up in conversation.” And reason knew, he never acted like a royal.
The dragoness chuckled. “That’s my Gwenvael.”
And Dagmar felt it again. That strange feeling in the pit of her stomach any time Esyld asserted some kind of hold on Gwenvael. “Who are you?”