"You ain't going out there."

"Then why did you call me here?"

"To tell me what you been up to so I can handle that Gold."

Her lips pursed a bit, and she stared at him. He knew that expression better than any other. She wouldn't tell him anything now because she wanted to be the one to talk to that giant lizard standing outside their gates. The Beast believed herself a politician. She didn't understand that was the work of men. She handled correspondence and such well enough-especially since she was one of the few of them who could read and write really well-but it was up to the men to manage these things face to face, over a keg of ale with a wench or two for entertainment. Dagmar simply failed to learn this, and he worried what would happen when she found a worthy husband who wouldn't allow any of the nonsense Sigmar let her get away with.

Knowing well there was no point in fighting her when she got that particular expression on her face, Sigmar relented the smallest bit. "You'll wait behind the guards until you're asked for. Understand?"

"If we absolutely must waste time ..."

"We must." He glanced down at the canine that never left her side. Canute, she'd named him. Strange how he could remember the dog's name ... "And you'd best find a safe place for him. He'll look like a tasty morsel to that thing outside."

"Yes, Father."

"And don't annoy me anymore today."

"I won't, Father."

And they both knew she was lying.

Chapter 3.

Dagmar glanced down at her gown again and checked to make sure her head scarf was on properly before readjusting the spectacles balanced on her nose.

A dragon. A real dragon here, at her father's fortress and she was about to meet him. Not even another Northlander, but a Southland dragon. A scholar, a teacher, an intellectual.

Reason help her, but Dagmar realized she was so excited about this, she was almost ... dare she say ... giddy?

She wondered how old this dragon was. He could be six or seven hundred years old! Because of course the mightiest queen of Dark Plains would only send the most learned of scholars, the most experienced of delegates to represent her in the halls of The Reinholdt.

Dagmar cringed when she heard her father speak to the dragon.

"I be Sigmar," he told the dragon, and Dagmar barely stopped herself from yelling over the gates a more proper and dignified greeting.

"So you asked for me, Reinholdt?"

What a voice! Deep and low, and it lightly rattled the windows from its timbre alone, because he did not yell. He sounded calm and quite ... respectable.

"No. I asked for your Annwyl," her father practically snapped back.

Dagmar began to tap her fist against her leg.

"Well," the dragon replied smoothly, "she's indisposed at the moment, so she sent me as her emissary."

"A dragon emissary for a human?"

Dagmar gritted her teeth in frustration. What exactly was the old b.a.s.t.a.r.d doing? Why was he asking rude questions? Questions that could be asked and answered over dinner when the dragon was more relaxed. She knew for a fact that one of the local herders had cows grazing in the east fields-enough to feed a dragon, she was sure.

Honestly, was this her father's idea of good politics? No wonder she had to fight so hard to prevent war between the Reinholdts and the surrounding fiefdoms. Because her kinsmen were rude idiots!

"Again, Reinholdt, you wanted to see me or someone from Dark Plains?" the dragon pushed. It was obvious his patience was running out. Well, obvious to anyone with sense.

"Nay. Not me, dragon. The Beast made that request."

The Beast? Her father was introducing her as The Beast?

If she thought she could get away with killing them all and razing the land they all stood upon-she'd do it in less than a heartbeat.

"And may I meet The Beast?" the dragon countered.

Dagmar stepped forward, but Valdis grabbed the back of her dress and held her in place.

"Off!" she ordered.

"You'll wait," he snarled.

"You sure about that, dragon?" her father asked, and she knew now he was toying with the creature. And he had the nerve to wonder where she got her att.i.tude from.

"Yes," the dragon grumbled. "I am."

Her father must have motioned for her, because her brother released her gown and the soldiers protecting the front of the fortress moved out of her way. Dagmar walked outside, across the courtyard, and through the main gates. Her father's guards formed two lines, allowing her to pa.s.s. Dagmar walked up to the magnificent being. He glinted gold in the dull light of the two suns, each scale shiny and bright. He was like a bit of a sun himself, bringing a small amount of light to her world. His wings stretched out from his body. They, too, were covered in scales, but the wings seemed somehow weightless and fine, like the most exquisite metal ever created. The tip of each wing had a sharp, gold talon, and there were gold talons on each claw. Two bright white horns sat atop his head and long, shiny gold hair fell across his back and down his body, brushing gently against the ground. Beautiful gold eyes focused on her as soon as she stepped closer to him.

She'd had her greeting all ready for him. The words-a proper greeting for so important a diplomat-on her lips, but she couldn't speak. Not once she saw him.

In all her thirty years nothing so beautiful had ever crossed her path.

When Dagmar feared she'd embarra.s.s herself by her silence, she finally found her voice and opened her mouth to speak. But the words stopped in her throat again.

Only this time they stopped ... because he was laughing. At her.

It wasn't mere laughter either. Not a m.u.f.fled sound behind his claw. Nor a brief snort of disbelief. These were things she experienced on a daily basis and had grown quite used to. No.

This overgrown ... child was rolling around on the ground like he'd never seen anything more amusing than she. Ma.s.sive dragon legs and arms flailed while his guffaws echoed over the courtyard and around the countryside.

Some scaly lizard was laughing at her! The only daughter of The Reinholdt! And he was having this moment on Reinholdt land, no less!

Any awe and admiration Dagmar had were wiped clean in that moment, and she felt that distinct coldness she hid so well from outsiders. It swept through her like ice from an avalanche. The men behind her began to murmur amongst themselves, feet shuffled, and her father cleared his throat. A few times. It wasn't the dragon that made them uncomfortable. Not directly anyway.

Dagmar waited until his laughter turned into chuckles. "Are you done?" she asked, keeping her voice even.

"Sorry, uh ... Beast." It snorted out another laugh.

"Dagmar will do. Dagmar Reinholdt. Thirteenth child of The Reinholdt and his only daughter. I asked your queen here," she continued, "because I have news that may save her life and the lives of her unborn whelps."

The dragon's expression of humor quickly changed to a scowl. Apparently it did not appreciate the term she'd used, but she was past caring. All her dreams of building an allegiance with the Blood Queen faded as soon as that woman sent this idiot to represent her. No, Dagmar would have to find other allegiances for her father. The Blood Queen of Dark Plains simply would not do.

"Tell me, sweet Dagmar," it sneered, rolling back to its belly and lifting its head a bit. "And I'll tell her."

Dagmar remained silent for one very long moment, then answered simply, "No."

The dragon blinked in surprise and abruptly pushed itself up a bit so that its snout was barely inches from her nose. Its gold eyes were locked on hers, and she wondered how she ever saw them as pretty. They were as ugly as the rest of the dragon. Ugly and mocking and absolutely useless.

"What do you mean, no?" it demanded.

"I mean, you've insulted me. You've insulted my kinsmen. And you've insulted The Reinholdt. So you can return to your b.i.t.c.h queen and you can watch her die."

Confident she'd made her point, Dagmar Reinholdt turned on her heel and walked away from it. But she did stop a few feet away and glanced over her shoulder.

"Now that, dragon"-she happily sneered back, mocking the creature's tone-"that's funny."

Without another word, she returned to her father's fortress. But before she disappeared into its mighty embrace, she heard her father ask, "You are a bit of a dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't ya, dragon?"

And it was times like these when she truly did appreciate her father's coa.r.s.eness.

A woman! The Beast was a woman! Why didn't anyone tell him that? Why did everyone keep claiming he was a man? If Gwenvael had known, he would have handled the whole thing quite differently.

But he hadn't known and his first reaction at seeing her ... well, it had not been his finest moment. Even he'd admit that. Yet how was that his fault when everyone kept telling him that The Beast was some mighty giant warrior spit up from one of h.e.l.l's many pits?

Pacing restlessly in the abandoned cave he found high in the Mountains of Sorrow-a rather fitting name at the moment-Gwenvael tore at his mind trying to figure out how to fix this.

His first thought, naturally, was to seduce the woman. She had that look of a spinster, didn't she? A bitter, unhappy virgin who didn't trust men enough to allow them in her bed. In the past, he'd had great success with women like that. And yet ...

He sighed, rubbed his eyes.

And yet this one didn't seem like that at all, did she?

She was plain, that was true enough. But not hideous. He didn't feel the need to scream and run away at first sight of her. And she had those eyes-steel grey and cold as the top of this mountain. Eyes like hers could go a long way if managed correctly, but she wore a drab, grey dress that did nothing for her. No adornments on it, no low-cut bodice, teasing of her bosom. Nor was there a painfully high and prim collar up to her chin so that one demanded to know what she was hiding. The girdle was a boring brown leather, when a silver weave would have been much nicer. The eating dagger she had tucked into it was nice enough, but so? The boots on her small feet were grey fur as well. And she wore that head scarf tied over her hair as if she were about to go off and scrub a kitchen.

No, it wasn't looks that had gained her a name like The Beast. She wasn't ugly, but she wasn't such a gorgeous animal that men were devoured in her bed.

Nor was she a raving lunatic, which one would think a woman named The Beast by Northmen would be.

The coldness in those eyes ran through her entire body. Without a thought to what a powerful dragon could do if angered, she'd kept the information about Annwyl to herself. To be honest, Gwenvael wasn't even sure the Reinholdt men knew what she held.

The Reinholdt himself seemed to be completely clueless unless he had a war ax in his hands. Surprisingly short for a Northlander, The Reinholdt made up for it with width-his shoulders and chest disturbingly large, his muscles near busting from his clothes. Yet beyond his appearance, the stumpy Northlander reminded Gwenvael a bit of his own father, Bercelak the Great. His father was never as happy as when he was killing someone or something in battle-politics absolutely bored the older Black dragon.

Gwenvael scratched his head. Yes, yes, he could read the old Reinholdt well enough. But it was the girl ... dammit! She was the key. He knew it! It wasn't merely the knowledge she had about Annwyl either. There was something else about that girl ... woman ... whatever. Really, if he didn't know better, he'd swear she was a dragon with those d.a.m.n cold eyes and features. She had a young face, but those eyes were filled with ageless knowledge that she used for her own selfish gains.

Not that he couldn't admire that a bit since he did the same.

He had to go back. He knew he did. And he realized now that going back just to take her and seduce her would not work. Not with her. She wouldn't swoon at a mere look from his human self. She wouldn't be entranced by the extraordinary beauty of his face or the exquisiteness of his human body. Nor would she be intimidated by threats and yelling.

He'd have to go a different way, but first he'd have to get in and see her. To go back in his true form would be useless. He'd have to be human and ...

Gwenvael smiled, the etiquette of the Northland rulers and its people coming back to him in a sudden flash. Yes, yes. That would work. The woman he'd faced today knew her etiquette, kept her own council, and played by the rules. At least ... she did as far as everyone else was concerned.

It would only buy him a night, but that would be enough.

He'd make it enough, because he wouldn't fail Annwyl on this. Not this. She'd nearly broken his heart when she sent him off, kissing his cheek and holding him for a long time in a hug before telling him, "Don't listen to the others. I know you'll be amazing in the north. Just be careful and watch your back, Gwenvael."

That's when Gwenvael knew she had more faith in him than any of his own blood. She was entrusting him with her life and the lives of her babes. And if he had to go so far north that he entered the forbidden Ice Lands himself, he'd do it. He wouldn't let any harm come to Annwyl.

He walked to the mouth of the cave and stood there a moment, staring down at the countryside below, until that scent he knew so well tore into his nostrils. He should have caught it sooner, but he'd been deep in his thoughts and now he only had a moment to use the shadows around him. A gift from the blood of his loving Grandfather Ailean, Gwenvael's scales changed colors until he became one with the cave shadows surrounding him.

Right on time too, as they came into view seconds later. Four of them, all big, bold ... and purple.

Lightning dragons. Also called the Horde dragons. He'd fought their kind for the first time during a war nearly a century ago. They were barbarians but mighty warriors, and he had the permanent scars to prove it.

These days, some would say the Lightnings lived in peace with the dragons of the Southlands, but that wasn't remotely true. There was a truce, but it was a delicate one, easily broken at any moment. All that kept a new war from starting was the fact that the Lightnings were broken up into fiefdoms, similar to the way the Northland humans were. They didn't consider themselves monarchs but warlords. They were often so busy fighting each other, they rarely had the energy or time to take on the armies of the Southland Dragon Queen.

Still, Gwenvael had moved carefully through the territories leading to his Northland destination. Olgeir the Wastrel controlled the Outerplains-the borderlands between the north and the south-as well as the territory overlapping the Reinholdt lands, and he'd never bothered to hide his outright hatred of Queen Rhiannon. He kept the truce, but not happily. And Gwenvael didn't doubt for a minute what Olgeir would do if he caught one of Rhiannon's male offsprings on his territory. Especially the one the Horde males referred to as "The Ruiner."

The Lightnings moved past the cave, but one stopped, hovering in front of the entrance.

Gwenvael didn't move or make a sound. He certainly didn't charge the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He wasn't here to fight and he wasn't a fool who thought he could take on a Lightning scout party and come out still intact.

The Lightning sniffed the air and inched a bit closer. As Gwenvael could smell the lightning inside the barbarian, the barbarian could scent the fire in Gwenvael.

So Gwenvael slowly lowered himself into a crouch, readying his body and flame to attack.

The Lightning was mere inches from entering the cave when Gwenvael heard the caw of a crow overhead. The Northlands were simply inundated with crows, it seemed. And, at the moment, Gwenvael had never been so grateful, as the crow's s.h.i.t unceremoniously landed on the Lightning's snout.

The dragon's eyes crossed as he tried to see it and he snarled. "Why you little mother-"

"Come on, you idiot!" another voice yelled farther ahead. "Move!"

Wiping the s.h.i.t from his face, the Lightning followed after his comrades.

Letting out a sigh, Gwenvael stood at the very edge of the cave and looked up at the crows overhead. There had to be hundreds of them making good use of the limbs and vines that protruded from the mountain's rock face.

"Thank you for that," he offered kindly. And in answer, another crow unloaded itself, and Gwenvael hastily stepped back. "Oy, you tiny b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! Watch the hair!"

When all those d.a.m.n birds began to laugh at him, he was not pleased.

Chapter 4.