Ghleanna tried to walk away once more but Brannie still had hold of her and yanked her back.

“I’m not going to allow Keita the Viper to kill an entire ruling family. There has to be something else we can do.”

“Do you plan to negotiate with royals?”

“That’s not really my strength, Mum.”

“All right then.”

“But Keita can negotiate with anyone. Between her smile and her cock-sucking skills, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“She has a mate now, so she doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore. Except to him, I’m assuming. But if you think the Empress can be stopped from either joining Salebiri or just destroying us for the fun of it, then I strongly suggest you go with Keita. Because her plan is to wipe out the entire family, if necessary. And although she may never raise a sword or have her own battle cry . . . if she wants them dead, she’ll make sure they’re dead. Unless you can convince her otherwise.”

“This isn’t fair, Mum.”

“You didn’t want to listen to orders—from your queen, no less—but now you have one of your precious moral obligations to motivate you. That should make you feel better.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Too bad. As I’ve told you since hatching, Branwen . . . life’s rough for a Cadwaladr.”

“Daddy always said life doesn’t have to be that rough.”

“Your daddy lied.”

“Mum!”

* * *

“So what do you think, dear Aidan?” the queen asked about her sacred space, arms spread wide, her grin wider.

“It’s lovely, my lady. Very relaxing.”

“That’s what I wanted. A place I can come simply to relax. To think, to strategize without all the distractions I have to deal with in my court.”

“It seems perfect.”

“It is perfect,” she said, squeezing Aidan’s forearm. “Perfect and private. It’s the only place I can go and be assured the Zealot clergy can’t listen in or even hope to invade my sanctuary.” Arms raised again, the queen slowly turned. She was just so proud! Aidan couldn’t help but smile along with her.

“Only those I’ve chosen may come here, dear Aidan. And you are one of the . . . one of . . .”

Now scowling, the queen’s words trailed off, her angry crystal-blue eyes locked on what now walked toward them.

Her name was Brigida the Most Foul. It was once just Brigida the Foul, but the royal twins had renamed her some time ago and it had stuck.

The ancient She-dragon—who many felt should have died long ago merely from old age—was a Cadwaladr and, like Rhiannon, one of the rare white Dragonwitches.

She wore dark gray robes, the hood pulled onto her head but not quite covering her face. And that face! Aidan knew that old age was hard on everyone, but Brigida had clearly given up much more than most to maintain her life in this world and the mighty powers she possessed.

There were scars on top of scars on her face and neck. Even some gouges. What, exactly, had the dragoness fought in her search for power?