Chapter
22
Dagmar followed the captain of the
guards to the barracks. As they walked in, the guards and soldiers
moved out of her way, none of them speaking to her or each
other.
“We found them last night. Just . . .
lying there.”
Dagmar studied the soldiers. The
morning light streaming in through the windows making it easy to
see that their throats had been slit but no other damage had been
done. There were no signs that they’d fought back. Perhaps they
didn’t have the chance.
“Did you see any signs of Tribesmen
inside the castle walls?” Dagmar asked the captain. “Perhaps when
they left the bodies. Because this is clearly the work of their
assassins.”
“That’s just it, my lady. We don’t
think the bodies were left, as you say.”
“One second there was nothing there,”
one of the soldiers volunteered. “The next second . . . there they
were.”
“They just appeared?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Dagmar raised her hands, palms out, to
silence them although none had said anything. “The fact that we
have no idea how these bodies got here is irrelevant. All we do
know is that assassins were inside castle walls. This cannot happen
again.”
“We’ll take care of it.”
“Deal with the bodies first. Quietly
and quickly. We can give them a proper burial later.”
“Aye, my lady.”
Dagmar headed to the exit, her dogs by
her side. She motioned to the captain to follow. “You won’t discuss
any of this,” she told him. “They must all swear to
it.”
“Aye, my lady. But why?”
“Not sure yet. Just . . . let’s keep it
quiet, eh?”
“Understood. And the
assassins?”
“Do a room-to-room search for them. If
you find anything, inform me immediately.”
“If we find assassins?”
“Kill them. Then bring their bodies to
me. Discreetly.”
“Aye, my lady.”
Dagmar walked back to the castle and
inside. The Tribesmen had been quiet today. Something that did not
make her feel better.
“Commander Ásta,” Dagmar called out
when she saw the Kyvich witch with her troop leaders.
“Lady Dagmar.”
“Is everything all right? Any problems
last night?”
“No, my lady.”
“You sure?”
“Did you hear there was a
problem?”
“No,” Dagmar lied. “Not at all. Guess
I’m just a little nervous about all this.”
The Kyvich smiled at her. “Something
tells me, Lady Dagmar, that you don’t get nervous over
anything.”
“Of course I do. My whole life is
filled with worry.” She pointed toward the gates. “Is there a
reason you haven’t followed the Tribesmen out into the woods and
finished them there?”
“That’s not our job.”
“Pardon?”
“We’re here to protect the children and
only the children. We will not leave them to take on a battle that
your people should be
fighting.”
“So if the Tribesmen get past the
gates, wipe us out . . .”
“Not our problem. The children are our
concern. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Annoyed, Dagmar headed downstairs to
where they kept the children.
“What’s wrong?” Talaith asked as soon
as Dagmar sat down at the small table with her.
“Nothing,” Dagmar lied again.
“Everything all right here?”
“Fine.”
“No problems last night?”
“No. None at all. Why?” Talaith leaned
across the table a bit. “Are you sure everything’s all right,
Dagmar?”
“Yes, yes. Everything is
fine.”
Talaith sat back. “How’s it going
outside?”
“It’s being handled, but it’s clear
that Annwyl has made enemies of pretty much every Tribesman from
here to the Desert Land borders.”
“So they’re not giving
up?”
“No, but we’ll be fine,” she assured
Talaith.
“As my guests keep reassuring me.”
Talaith looked over at the squad of Kyvich who stood on guard duty
inside the room.
“Would you rather be down here
alone?”
“Might as well be. They’re not exactly
chatty.”
“I don’t mean for your social life,
Talaith. I’m talking about the safety of the children. So please,
do me a favor and suck up the misery for a little while
longer.”
“Oh, fine. Here. Have some tea. It’ll
make you feel better.”
While Talaith poured Dagmar some tea,
Dagmar watched Ebba search among the children’s
bedding.
“Lose something, Ebba?” she
asked.
“Can’t find the children’s swords. And
you know how they get when they don’t get in their morning
training. Cranky doesn’t begin to describe it.” She winked at
Dagmar and went back to her search while Talaith complained about
the Kyvich. She didn’t complain about anything in particular, just
that they existed.
Slowly, Dagmar shifted her focus to the
children. The three of them sat cross-legged on the floor in a
circle. Rhian drew symbols on parchment and appeared much more
worried than usual, her smooth brow pulled down into a very deep
frown; Talan played with one of the dogs; and Talwyn read. To
everyone’s surprise, Talwyn was an advanced reader like her mother.
Very advanced. She could read at least three languages that they
knew of. The language of the humans in this region, the language of
dragons, and now, according to Ebba, she could read the language of
centaurs.
As Dagmar watched her, the
seven-year-old girl lifted her head and looked at Dagmar through
dirty, unkempt hair, black eyes like her father’s and yet she
seemed so much like Annwyl. Especially when the child suddenly
smiled at her.
And it was at that moment that Dagmar
realized . . . the captain of the guard would never find those
assassins alive.
Fearghus watched Ragnar hover over his
brother. Briec hadn’t moved since he’d been struck, the healers
working on him through the night, but no one had told the rest of
them anything and he was beginning to get anxious.
After several minutes, Ragnar came to
his side.
“Well?”
“It seems that—”
“I don’t have time for one of your
carefully worded replies, Northlander. Just tell me if my brother’s
going to live or die.”
“I don’t know. He’s completely
unresponsive, barely breathing, and . . .”
“And?”
“His spine’s been split.” Ragnar shook
his head. “Neither I nor the healers know how to fix that. Perhaps
your mother or Morfyd . . .”
“Will they even know what’s happened to
him?”
“No. We’ve been cut off. I can’t
contact my brother or Keita or anyone.”
“Neither can I.” Fearghus cleared his
throat. “If he survives . . . will he walk?”
“I don’t know. But I do doubt he’ll
ever fly again.”
“Thank you,” Fearghus said and walked
out of the chamber. He went around the corner and tried to control
his breathing. He couldn’t allow the troops—or his kin—to see
this.
“Fearghus?”
He looked up at his Aunt
Ghleanna.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she
asked.
“Nothing’s definite. We keep it quiet
for now. Just say he’s recovering.”
“That’s all well and good for everyone
else, but I’m asking as your aunt. How’s me Briec?”
He shook his head, working hard to gain
control. “It’s bad. Ragnar, the other healers . . . they say
there’s nothing they can do.”
“What about your mum?”
“She’s his best bet, but we’ll never
get him out of here now.”
“But if we finish the tunnels, strike
the next blow . . . the last blow.” She gripped his forearm. “Then
we can get your brother back to Devenallt Mountain and let your mum
heal him. Don’t give up on him, Fearghus. Please.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“I’ll get the ones working on the
tunnels to move their collective arses. We’ll get this done.” She
pressed her claw to his cheek. “We don’t give up on each other in
this Clan, boy. Don’t you forget that.”
“I won’t.”
She nodded and stomped off, ordering
recruits to get to the tunnel, while all around them the cave walls
shook from the never-ending siege from the Irons battering them
mercilessly, giving them no way to get out—to get his brother out
of here and someplace safe.
Yet Fearghus knew his aunt was right.
They didn’t give up on each other, and he wouldn’t start
now.