How to Drive a Dragon Crazy

by G. A. Aiken

  Thinking he should go track down his cousin, Éibhear was reaching for the tent flap when he heard from behind him “. . . game with me . . . arrrggghhhh!” He spun around at the scream.

  “I bloody hate when you do that!” Izzy yelled up at the tent ceiling.

  “Where the hells did you come from?” Éibhear demanded, knowing he would have heard the woman come back in if she’d snuck in under another part of the tent.

  But he must have startled her because Izzy snatched the small blade she had holstered to her thigh, spun, and threw it at Éibhear’s head. He jerked to the side in time to avoid the damn thing impaling his nose, but the blade tore across his cheek instead, leaving a healthy-sized gash.

  Fed up and bleeding, Éibhear barked, “Izzy! It’s me!”

  And Izzy barked back, “Yeah. I know!”

  Brannie rushed in to the tent, dark brown eyes blinking wide. “Izzy? Where did you come from?”

  “Out, Branwen,” Éibhear ordered his cousin, and Izzy looked at Brannie, watched the dragoness begin to get irritated with her kin.

  “I don’t take orders from you, Éibhear the Blue.”

  “And I”—Éibhear placed his huge hand over Brannie’s face and forced her back out the tent—“take orders from no one!”

  “That was just rude, you big bastard!” Brannie yelled from outside the tent.

  Éibhear faced Izzy. “Why do you keep throwing things at my head?”

  “It’s such a large target—”

  “Izzy.”

  “Why are you here, Éibhear?” she asked, frustrated. The conversation with Rhydderch Hael . . . it annoyed her. It had been more than a decade since she’d heard from him. It used to bother her. For years, when she was a child, Rhydderch Hael had been with her. She’d been taken from her mother at birth by a bitch goddess and it was Rhydderch Hael who’d protected her. He’d sent three loyal human soldiers to save her, to watch out for her. For years Izzy and her three Protectors had traveled around the Southlands, the god’s voice in her head, sometimes in her dreams, promising that one day she’d be with her mother again. And he’d kept that promise. Izzy had loved him then. Not just as a god, but as someone who cared for her. But her mother had tried to warn her. Tried to tell her that the gods were never to be trusted. Izzy hadn’t listened, though, and now Rhydderch Hael wanted something from her. What that was . . . she had no idea. But she wasn’t looking forward to it, she knew that much.

  So having Éibhear here when she was already irritated, looking annoyingly adorable with those damn warrior braids in his blue hair, but acting pushy and demanding, did nothing but piss her off.

  “I was sent to get you,” he explained, watching her closely. Probably confused as hell. Good! Let him be confused. “To bring you back to Garbhán Isle.”

  “Why? I’ve heard nothing from my mother or Rhi,” she said, mentioning her baby sister.

  “I was just told to bring you back.”

  “By who?”

  “Ragnar.”

  Izzy groaned at that. “Oh, gods.”

  “What?”

  “If you heard from Ragnar, he heard from Keita who heard from Morfyd or Briec, which means—”

  “Tell me this ends at some point.”

  “—Mum and Rhi are going at it again.” She shook her head and walked over to the large, plain wood desk that was covered in maps and missives and weapons. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “You don’t have time for your mother and sister?”

  She faced him. “You have nerve to talk. When were you home last?”

  Instead of answering her direct question, he pointed at her arm and asked, “Your arm . . . it’s healed rather quickly.”

  Now she didn’t answer him. The last thing she needed was for Éibhear the Blue to know about her conversation with Rhydderch Hael. Gods . . . what a mess that would be.

  “I’m not going back to Garbhán Isle, Éibhear.”

  “You’re not?”

  “If it was important, Annwyl would have sent messengers for me. So my mother and Rhi will have to work this out on their own or wait until I’m done here.”

  “Until you’re done doing what?”

  Izzy focused on the map spread out on the table, looking for places the enemy might hide. “The Queen wants the ogres wiped clean from this region. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “All right then.”

  But instead of leaving, Izzy looked up to see the big bastard take off his fur cape and toss it onto a nearby chair. Then he began to remove the many weapons he had strapped on his body.

  Fascinated—gods, was he getting naked? And would she mind?—Izzy walked around the table and leaned her butt against it, arms crossing over her chest. Éibhear removed the majority of his weapons until he finally was able to drop onto her bed and stretch out with his arms behind his head, incredibly long legs crossed at the ankles.

  When he closed his eyes and let out an exhausted sigh, she finally asked without rancor, “What the battle-fuck are you doing?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “I’m Mì-runach. I don’t stop until I fulfill my duty.”

  “Which means what exactly?”

  “That until you’re ready to go, I’m here with you. By your side. Attached to you until I can deliver you to Garbhán Isle.”

  “Attached to me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Like a parasite?”

  “I prefer loyal companion. But don’t worry.” He smiled up at her. “You’ll get used to me.”

  Somehow, Izzy doubted that.

  Chapter 5

  Princess Rhianwen, Daughter of Talaith and Briec the Mighty; Granddaughter of Dragon Queen Rhiannon and Bercelak the Great; Sister of the feared General Iseabail the Dangerous; Nolwenn Witch by birth; Niece of Morfyd the White, Fearghus the Destroyer, Keita the Viper, Gwenvael the Handsome, Lady Dagmar, Beast of the Northlands, and Annwyl the Bloody, human Queen of Dark Plains; and future great artist of the Southland realm, sat in the forest doing what she loved best. Drawing.

  Rhi loved getting away from the castle when she could, spending some time on her own. Especially when outside royals staying in the guest homes had the whole house buzzing with activity—for the servants—and annoyance—for Rhi’s kin. Auntie Annwyl didn’t like outsiders or royals, so both combined . . .

  But that was all right. Because the visiting royal, Lord Pombray, had a son of seventeen winters. And he was quite handsome and tall. He was human, but Rhi was at least half human. Her mother was a Nolwenn witch and her father a mighty Southland dragon prince. It wasn’t easy being made of two completely different species—many believing it was an abomination that she and her twin cousins even existed, though that wasn’t something Rhi allowed herself to worry about—but there were definitely benefits.

  For instance, Rhi’s superb sense of smell allowed her to scent Lord Pombray’s son nearly a mile back. He smelled very good, so she didn’t mind much.

  Glancing around, Rhi quickly swiped her hands down her hair and fluffed out the edges of her gown. Then she picked up the board she’d pinned a piece of parchment on and pretended to sketch while simultaneously looking serene. She knew she looked serene because she often practiced in the mirror in her room. She’d found that boys responded better to a serene countenance than to an angry, kill-everything-in-my-way one. A major reason why Rhi’s cousin Talwyn had pretty much given up on boys in general.

  “Princess Rhianwen?”

  She slowly looked up, smiled, and nodded her head at the young royal. Not even eighteen and he’d already begun to grow a very nice beard and he had such a handsome smile. He stood before her now with his arms behind his back and what looked to be his best clothes on. “Lord Albrecht.” She carefully lowered her drawing to the ground. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh, yes, yes.”

  “Do you have everything you need? Are your rooms satisfactory?”

  “Oh, they’re won
derful. And so large.”

  “Our guest house is quite popular among our visitors because of the size.” And because it meant the visiting royals weren’t forced to put up with Rhi’s kin at every meal. Her father and his brothers were bad enough to human royals, snarling in the mornings and basically ignoring them in the evenings. But it was Annwyl the Bloody, Rhi’s aunt and the Southland’s human queen, who made it near impossible to have royals, human or otherwise, staying within the queen’s castle for any length of time. She had little patience for outsiders, trusted few, and when she threatened to remove someone’s head, she often meant it. So Rhi’s Aunt Dagmar had had a large guest house built on Garbhán Isle for any visiting royals. It was a small castle that was equipped with its own staff and human guards. Once the house was finished, royals were more comfortable traveling to Dark Plains for important meetings with their queen. Something Rhi could easily understand.

  “The queen believes in providing visitors with a lot of space.”

  Albrecht nodded, glanced off. Rhi waited. No use in rushing him.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” he finally said.

  “Oh, you didn’t really. I was just sketching. I like to come out here where it’s quiet. It can get so busy in the house.”

  “I’m sure.”

  When he appeared at a loss for words, she prompted, “Would you like to join me for a bit?”

  “Um . . . yes. Yes, I would.”

  He started to walk toward her, but stopped. He blinked and suddenly brought his arms around, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. “I nearly forgot. These are for you.”

  “Oh! Those are beautiful!” She held her hands out and Albrecht was leaning down to hand them to her when a stream of flame torched the gorgeous blooms and had the poor boy screaming like a small animal.

  “What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Briec the Mighty’s voice boomed across the glen.

  “Father!”

  “Quiet, Rhi!” her father ordered, while he stomped through the trees. At least he was in his human form. She had the distinct feeling Albrecht would have soiled himself if Briec the Mighty had faced him while in his silver dragon form.

  Her father pointed at the boy. “What makes you think you’re worthy of my perfect, perfect daughter, you worthless human? Now get from my sight before I have you turning on a spit for my evening meal!”

  Holding his singed hand, Albrecht bolted off and Rhi got to her feet.

  “Oh, Father!” She stomped her foot. “How could you?”

  Face blank, her father shrugged, and asked calmly, “How could I what?”

  Talaith, Daughter of Haldane, sat on the big table in the dining hall and watched one of her sisters-by-mating pace in front of her. Matching the woman step by step, as always, were two of her well-trained battle dogs.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so upset,” Talaith said again.

  “Because I should have said no. To think I actually agreed to this!” Dagmar Reinholdt, Steward to Annwyl the Bloody and Battle Lord of Garbhán Isle, stopped and faced her. “I should have said no.”

  “But you didn’t. So suck it up already.”

  Steel-grey eyes narrowed on Talaith behind round spectacles. “You’re not being very sympathetic.”

  “I didn’t know I had to be.” Talaith tossed up her hands. “Look, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Your nephew is one blood relative. How bad can he be?”

  “You met my father. That should tell you something.”

  “I liked your father.”

  “Which disturbs me endlessly.”

  Talaith took Dagmar’s hand. “It’ll be fine.”

  “You’re right, you’re right. I’m panicking over nothing.” She pulled her hand back—Dagmar never liked to be touched except by the children and her mate, Gwenvael—and took a deep breath. In that instant, Dagmar Reinholdt had put herself under control again. It was something that Talaith absolutely envied about the small Northlander. Her ability to keep control. It was a skill Talaith didn’t have when she became angry enough and Annwyl never had in the first place.

  When Talaith had first seen Dagmar Reinholdt, she’d dismissed her as a sad, plain woman that the hedonistic Gwenvael the Handsome was hoping to fuck. In her plain gray gowns and fur boots, and with a gray scarf on her head, it seemed she was just some old maid. Oh, how wrong Talaith had been. There was nothing sad about Dagmar. Instead, she was fascinating and terrifying all at once; her time in Annwyl the Bloody’s court had allowed her to flourish.

  Being the power behind the crazed throne was a role that suited Dagmar very well, but having even one member of her own blood kin coming to the south was setting the poor woman’s teeth on edge. It was the first chink in Dagmar’s armor that Talaith had seen that had nothing to do with Gwenvael.

  “So . . . how is your day?” Dagmar asked, trying to calm herself as she waited for the arrival of her kin, which should be any minute now.

  “Not bad. But, as you know, sister, that can change in a—”

  “Mum!”

  “—second.”

  Sighing, Talaith slid off the table. A few moments later, her youngest daughter ran into the Great Hall, tears streaking down her face. But even all that sobbing could not take away from Rhi’s natural beauty. She had the brown skin and long curly hair of Talaith’s Desert Land bloodline, but like her father, her hair was a gorgeous silver and her eyes a vibrant violet.

  Rhi threw herself into Talaith’s arms and openly sobbed against her shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” Talaith asked, worrying something terrible had happened.

  “Ask Daddy!”

  Talaith’s fear disappeared and she immediately looked over at Dagmar. Together, they both crossed their eyes and waited.

  “I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about,” Briec complained as he stalked into the hall behind their daughter. “I was saving you from a life of misery and boredom.”

  “What did you do now?” Talaith demanded of her mate.

  “Why do you have to say it like that?”

  “Because I know you so bloody well.”

  “He was just trying to hand me some flowers!” Rhi sobbed out. “And you burned him!”

  “You expect me to let some worthless low-born human get near my daughter? You don’t really think I’d let that happen, do you?”

  “But I like him!”

  Briec rolled his eyes. “I’m sure he’s a very nice boy who will one day get a very nice girl and they’ll have very nice babies together. You, however, are a royal princess of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar and you will not be involving yourself with riffraff!”

  Bursting into tears, Rhi again buried her face against Talaith’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know why you’re getting so hysterical,” Briec complained. “You sound like that crying boy!”

  “Both of you stop.” Talaith pushed her daughter back a bit, looked into her tear-streaked face. “Who was trying to hand you flowers, Rhi?”

  “That idiot,” Briec answered for their daughter.

  Rhi glared at her father. “He’s not an idiot! Albrecht is a perfectly nice—”

  “Albrecht?” Dagmar faced Briec. “You burned Lord Pombray’s son?”

  “He was trying to hand her flowers. We all know where that will lead.”

  Dagmar’s hands curled into fists. “By all reason, what is wrong with you?”

  Briec shrugged nonchalantly. “Nothing. Why?” And Talaith knew that he truly didn’t understand why everyone was so concerned.

  “You’d best get Morfyd,” Talaith told Dagmar before the woman could find a way to remove Briec’s scales while he slept. “She can heal the boy.”

  Dagmar headed toward the exit but stopped long enough to glare at Briec.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  The Northland female snarled at Briec and stormed off.

  “I don’t know why everyone is so upset. Did any of you really think I’d let some ludicrou
s boy get close to my perfect, perfect daughter?”

  “I am not perfect!” Rhi argued. “Why do you keep saying that?”

  “Because I’ve graciously decided to overlook any minor flaws you may have gotten from your mother. Tragically, those can’t be helped and I love you in spite of them.”

  And if Rhi hadn’t caught Talaith’s arm and held her, Talaith was positive she would have ripped the smug bastard’s nose off!

  “My brother did what?”

  “What part of that statement did you not understand?” Dagmar demanded of her mate’s Dragonwitch sister, Morfyd.

  “But . . . but why?”

  Dagmar sighed. “Apparently young Albrecht gave Rhi flowers. I think he’s smitten.”

  Morfyd fell silent, eyes briefly gazing off, before she replied, “Well . . . that was clearly a bad idea. He’s not all that handsome.”

  “Morfyd!”

  She refocused back on Dagmar. “Don’t yell at me.”

  “Don’t make me! Rhi is a lovely girl. Boys will be showing interest. That doesn’t mean your brothers can go around burning them all.”

  “Of course not. But still . . . my father—”

  “Is not known for his rational thought when it comes to his daughters. It’s why I’ve never questioned the decision to name your Brastias general commander of Annwyl’s armies. The mere fact he’s survived this long with your brothers and father in close proximity says much about the man’s survival skills. That being said, Rhi will continue to grow only more beautiful as the years go by and I cannot afford to have this reign known for its dragons burning every young man that comes near her.”

  “This reign? Don’t you mean Annwyl’s reign?”

  “Morfyd!”

  The Dragonwitch held up her hands. “Calm yourself. I’ll have him healed by nightfall. I don’t see why you’re so upset,” she muttered as she headed toward the guest house. “I was only saying that Briec wasn’t necessarily irrational during all—”

  And that was when Dagmar stopped listening. Instead, she rubbed her now throbbing head and tried to think of how the rest of her day was going to go. But as she stood there, fingers against her temples, she knew someone was standing behind her. She wasn’t always so observant, but like the time she’d been out alone in the woods surrounding her father’s lands and she’d sensed a hungry wolf watching her from a nearby boulder, Dagmar always knew when a predator was close.