Aidan laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You and Izzy. The pair of you. On a battlefield, no one wants to face you. But off the battlefield, you two are like little girls. Gossiping. Getting in trouble. And, like true Cadwaladrs, drinking too much.”
“That’s always my cousins’ fault.”
“You’re actually blaming your cousins?”
“Of course.”
Brannie stretched out beside Aidan. “I still can’t believe it. Keita? A Protector of the Throne.”
“You underestimated her all these years. Now, don’t you feel bad?”
“No.”
Rolling onto his stomach again, Aidan covered his face with another, smaller blanket.
“Are you actually about to go to sleep?” she asked, flabbergasted.
He lifted the blanket a bit so she could hear him clearly. “I am not about to sit up all night listening to you analyze the truth about your cousin simply because Izzy isn’t here to do it with you.”
“But so much happened today. The battle. The mountain. Uncle Bercelak being released like a horrifying bird of prey. And, to top it off, Keita’s a Protector of the Throne. How do you just go to sleep after all that?”
“By closing my eyes. Try it.”
“I’ll be up all night.”
“Please don’t be. I know you, Branwen. If you’re up all night, you’ll keep me up all night.”
“I will?”
“We both know you won’t shut up.”
She shrugged, nodded her head. “True. If Izzy were here, I’d just talk to her. But she’s not.”
“I’m not nearly as chatty as the Great Iseabail the Dangerous.”
“No. You’re what we call a listener, which is of no use to me at the moment.”
“Perhaps a servant can get you some warm wine. That helps some to sleep.”
“Or we could just fuck.”
Aidan sat straight up, the blanket still covering his head.
“What?” he barked.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Why are you asking me to fuck? Is this because of Keita?”
“Ew! What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly.
“I’m just suggesting it because a distraction would do us both good. Don’t you think?”
“No.”
“But you’re not chatty and I need to get some rest before tomorrow. Fucking usually helps. If we were still with the army, I’d grab Sergeant—”
“Stop talking.” He pulled the blanket off his head, pushing his gold hair off his face. “Are you just using me for sex?”
“At the moment, yes. It’s the easiest way to work out anxiety.”
“I just read a good book,” he suggested.
“That’s what Annwyl does.” She glanced off. “And me dad.” She shrugged, dismissing his suggestion. “I’m not much of a reader. I’d rather have someone tell me a story than make me read a book. With words.”
Aidan’s eyes crossed and he fell back onto his bedding.
* * *
“I don’t know why you’re mad.” She felt the need to argue when all he wanted her to do was stop talking. “It was a valid question.”
“It was a valid question for a camp whore.”
“Now you’re being a baby.”
Aidan propped himself up on his elbows. “Do you really think so little of me?” he asked.
“I have no idea how to answer that.”
“Thank you very much.”
“No, no. I mean, I don’t know what you’re asking me. Do I think so little of you . . . how?”
“That I am just good for sex?”
“Of course, I don’t think that. You’re not good just for sex. You’re good for lots of things, as well as sex.” She grinned as if she’d made some brilliant observation that he should appreciate.
Aidan tossed one of the blankets at Brannie, hitting her directly in the head. It hung over her face and she didn’t bother to remove it. But she did keep talking.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she told him . . . through the blanket.
“I have honor. I may be a murdering, torturing, son-of-a-bastard Mì-runach, but I’m not a whore, Branwen the Awful.”
With a sigh, she pulled the blanket off and tossed it down beside him. She stretched out, their arms nearly touching.
“Well, don’t ever say I didn’t offer you anything,” she muttered.
He turned his head to look at her. “Are you saying you offered me your pussy?”
“No,” Brannie said immediately, but then she started giggling. “I guess I am.”
Now they were both laughing. And after the day they’d had, it felt really good.
Not no-strings-attached sex good, but . . . good.
Chapter Seven
A hand over her mouth woke Brannie up. She had her blade out and pressed against Aidan’s throat before she realized who he was.
He was on top of her, his weight holding her down. And strangely, she didn’t mind. It felt kind of nice, but she didn’t have time to think about that too much. Because Aidan’s expression told her something was very wrong.
It was morning. The two suns up outside the stables. The nearby horses in the other stalls restless.
Brannie listened beyond that, ignoring the sounds she recognized to focus on what was more strange to her.
She heard it. Muffled sounds coming into the small courtyard. She closed her eyes and listened harder. Yes.
Muffled hooves. The Daughters of the Steppes muffled their horses when they were planning a late-night attack.
She motioned to Aidan, her index and middle finger together, waving forward twice.
He nodded and slipped off her. She grabbed the unimpressive sword of the guards Keita had killed the day before and got to her feet.
Aidan was already gone, disappearing into the stables to make his own way out. He didn’t make a sound, but that was his way. Unlike the Mì-runach that she’d known over the years—her cousin Éibhear included—Aidan didn’t go screaming into battle, covered in dirt and blood and cutting down all those in his way. He didn’t choose a time to move like a jungle cat as his brethren did. Instead he moved like that at all times, whether in battle or merely walking down the road toward town. Often striking the killing blow before his enemies knew they were under attack.
Standing outside the stall she’d slept in, Brannie briefly thought about the two other Mì-runach down at the end of the large building. She decided against waking them. No matter how injured they still were, they would go out of their way to join the fight, if there was one.
Then again, how often wasn’t there a fight when someone muffled their horse’s hooves?
Brannie walked to the doors and eased one side open just enough to be able to look out. Her lip curled.
They were Zealots. One of the squads Salebiri had been sending out to scorch the land, Brannie guessed, based on the way their cloaks were singed at the edges. Some even had burn scars on their hands and faces, as if they hadn’t moved away from the flames they’d begun fast enough.
There were about twenty, all human from what she could tell.
It still shocked Brannie to no end that there were dragons who’d involved themselves in this foolishness. Insane. Why devote one’s self to a single mad god when there were so many nicer ones to choose from?
Five more Zealots came from inside the castle, pushing the royal family out into the courtyard. Keita was not among them, so Brannie could only hope that her cousin’s skill at survival had kicked in and she was hiding somewhere safe.
A priest was helped down from his horse and, with a beautiful smile and missing eyes, he spread his arms wide and cheerily called out, “May your sight shine bright, Lord Breeton-Holmes! Salutations and great joy to you!”
Lord Breeton-Holmes didn’t answer. The poor man was so terrified, all he could do was stare blankly at those who’d invaded his tiny home.
It wasn’t like Breeton-Holmes was a danger to anyone. He had no army. Showed no sign he wanted to be anything more than a royal with a small castle and shiny horses that were basically useless for any kind of real work. But for the last few months the Zealots had been attacking these small royal estates and forcing the inhabitants to either join their cause—usually by sacrificing at least one eye—or suffering greatly for choosing to stay loyal to their own gods and to Annwyl.