“He’s still unconscious. I should take him.”
“I need you to keep Uther quiet until we get far enough away. If I stay with Uther, I’ll give him the death he’s so eager for.”
She was right, of course. An injured Mì-runach could be dangerous because they were more than willing to sacrifice themselves for others, which was all well and good, but they rarely did that sort of thing quietly. And stealth was the only advantage their small, weaponless group had at the moment.
Brannie went to Caswyn’s side and, with amazing ease, lifted the dragon in human form onto her shoulders. Aidan knew from vast experience that even in his human form, Caswyn was no “easy carry,” but Brannie made it appear effortless.
Maybe for her it was.
Aidan had seen the great General Ghleanna carry two dragons at a time off a battlefield and not even appear winded. Why should it be any different for the daughter of Ghleanna?
As soon as Aidan came to Uther’s side, the dragon began to argue about how he needed no help. Aidan quickly slapped his hand over his friend’s face. Uther’s voice was known to carry when he was drunk or badly wounded.
“Do me a favor, old friend,” Aidan whispered. “Keep your mouth shut.”
Uther began to argue behind Aidan’s hand.
“Unless you want Brannie the Awful to come back here and finish you off herself, you’ll stop talking and do what I say.”
The one eye not swollen shut widened. Getting put down like an old horse held no allure to Uther, so he put his arm around Aidan’s shoulder and together they silently followed the others.
* * *
Morfyd the White pried her niece’s blood-covered hands from her blood-covered face.
“Let me see, Rhian,” she begged.
“It hurts,” Rhian whispered.
“I know, love. I know,” she soothed.
Morfyd pressed her niece’s hands into her lap and gently washed the blood from Rhian’s eyes while all around them was chaos.
Ancient mountains had crumbled this day, the land split apart. All because someone had taught Zealots spells so ancient and powerful, the casters didn’t realize that even if the twins hadn’t destroyed them, the power of those spells would have completely drained them. Leaving nothing but burnt-out husks.
Of course, the twins hadn’t let that happen. Combining Talwyn’s power over nature with Talan’s dominion over death—even if he still had no power over human dead yet—had created a mighty force. The damage done would have been quicker, though, had Rhian been with them. But the spells cast had wounded her, and Morfyd was still trying to find out how much.
While she worked slowly, sensitive to her niece’s fear, anarchy reigned. The panic of horses, the screams of soldiers, the angry growls and snarls of war dogs as they all tried to move to safety.
And the one thing that could get control of them all, that could calm the men, the horses, and the dogs, and unite what was left of the legions . . .
That one thing was gone.
Annwyl. Gone.
And no one had any idea what had happened to her or where she was.
The blood removed, Morfyd was still unclear on how bad the damage to her niece was.
“I need you to open your eyes, Rhian.”
“I’m afraid.”
“I know, love.” So was Morfyd. But she’d never say that to Rhian. Since birth, her precious niece had been more sensitive than anyone else among their kin. Not weak. She would never be weak. No, she was sensitive. She felt more deeply, lived more heartily, loved with her entire being. But she could also break more easily and all that lovely goodness curdle. That was something none of them wanted. Not only because they all loved their sweet, loving Rhian, but because she was the only thing that balanced out the twins and their power. Without her, Morfyd could easily see her niece and nephew heading down a path from which they might never return.
“Open your eyes. Please.”
Frowning deeply, on the verge of fresh tears, Rhian blinked and blinked, then finally lifted her lids fully. More blood dripped out but—thank the gods!—her eyes were still there.
Morfyd had been afraid those Zealot spells had somehow removed sweet Rhian’s eyes.
Perhaps the Zealots had tried but couldn’t get past the strength of her magicks. Or she might have simply been less affected by their spell than they’d anticipated. Rhian’s power and training came mostly from her witch mother. The Nolwenn witches of the Desert Lands were as powerful as the Kyvich witches in the north. But her Nolwenn blood wasn’t all Rhian possessed. She was the third-born Abomination and the blood of dragons flowed through her veins along with her mother’s human blood. And nestled in that dragon’s blood was the power of her grandmother, Rhiannon the White. Like Morfyd, a white She-dragon—and the most powerful of Dragon witches among their kind.
Although Rhian had been born with the brown skin and hair of her Desert Land people, a shock of white on her scalp now fell down her back along with all that curly brown hair. It had developed over the last year and she kept it in a long braid so that it was almost lost among her mane of thick brown curls.
But it was there and Morfyd knew what that white hair meant. That Rhian’s powers were only beginning to develop. At some point, she would outshine her cousins and, perhaps, Rhiannon herself.
But until then, until Rhian finally discovered the extent of the power buried deep inside, she would need more protection than the twins. And Morfyd had taken it upon herself to be that protection for now.
“Can you see, Rhian?”
She turned her head, violet, bloodshot eyes searching.
“Yes,” she said on a deep sigh. “A little blurry, but I can see.” She tried to wipe her eyes with her fists but Morfyd stopped her, pushing her hands back into her lap. “What happened?” she asked.
“An ancient spell. One long buried. Used to destroy this land.”
“And Auntie Annwyl’s legions?”
“Damaged but many survived because of the twins.”
Rhian blinked, frowned again. “Uncle Brastias.”
Morfyd dropped her gaze. She’d been afraid to think of her mate. Afraid she’d break down and be of no use to anyone. But she wouldn’t lie to Rhian, who would see through that with little effort.
“I don’t know where he is, love. I can only hope—”
“I wasn’t asking,” Rhian said plainly. “Because I see him right there.”
Still crouching, Morfyd spun and saw her mate standing among the troops. He was covered in dirt and blood and bruises, spouting off angry orders, lashing into anyone not moving fast enough or still too dazed by all that had happened to function, but he was alive.
Alive.
“I’m not dying,” Rhian pointed out. “You can go to—”
Morfyd didn’t bother to let her niece finish. She simply ran to Brastias and threw herself into his arms.
He hugged her tight. “I’m fine,” he told her. “I’m fine. I’m just glad you are. I didn’t know where you were, but I had to take care of the troops or—”
“It’s all right.” She reminded him, “I can take care of myself. I may not handle a sword like my cousins, but I’m still a Battle Witch.”
Brastias’s name was called; his officers needed his assistance. But she could feel that he didn’t want to let her go, which was all she really needed to get her through the next few hours.
“Go,” she said, forcing herself to pull away. “Go and know that I love you.”
He still gripped her hand and kissed the back of it before finally releasing her.
When Morfyd returned to her niece, crouching in front of her, Rhian placed her hand on Morfyd’s shoulder and leaned in.
“This is bad,” she whispered, her eyes no longer bleeding, her sight perfectly clear.
“I know.”
“And Auntie Annwyl—”
“Yes.” Morfyd cut Rhian off, not wanting the troops to hear about their queen until the chaos had calmed down and Brastias had better control of the situation.
“Auntie Morfyd . . . there’s only one thing to do. You know that.”
“We can’t. They will hear.”