Without a word and with absolutely no anger, she slammed her foot down on the back of Triplet three’s back, pinning her to the ground. And the halberd she held in her hands stretched and lengthened until it could reach the other two. Metal spear tips grew out of both ends and she pressed each against her cousins’ throats, quietly waiting until they both raised their hands in defeat.

Brannie stepped back and, with a quick twist of her hands, she spun the weapon up and back until she held it behind her body. By now it had changed once again so that it was a six-foot metal staff.

And she’d done all that while wearing only his surcoat and a belt around her waist.

Uther and Caswyn gaped as well until Caswyn demanded, “I want one.”

Rhona rubbed her hands together and shook her head. “No. That is not a weapon for you.”

“Why not? I can handle anything. I’ll pay if that’s what you want.”

“It’s not about money,” Rhona explained calmly, quickly organizing the chain mail and armor they would wear for the rest of their trip. “You’re simply too stupid.”

Aidan snorted out a surprised laugh and Brannie’s eyes widened in shock at her cousin’s words.

“Rhona!” Brannie chastised. “What a horrible thing to say to someone!” She jerked her thumb at a stunned Caswyn. “And I say this as someone who doesn’t even like him.”

“Did you have to add that last bit?” Caswyn asked.

“Puddles!” she reminded him.

“It’s nothing personal really.” Rhona tossed each of them chain mail shirts. “He just doesn’t think fast enough. You do. Where’s the shame in that?”

“You didn’t have to call him stupid!”

“Dumb?”

“Rhona!”

Now she tossed metal sword belts at them. Their sword belts were usually leather but these were different. Aidan examined his. It was made of chain mail, was flexible, and had a clasp at the front to secure it rather than tying it into a knot.

“All I’m saying,” Rhona explained to Brannie, “is that your weapon is the kind that can help some warriors or get others killed. I trained you, Branwen the Awful, when you were just Branwen the Black. I know exactly how you work and how fast you think on the battlefield. I also know your mother started training you long before that. And what every Cadwaladr knows is how to make anything a weapon. Your battle-mind is”—she snapped her fingers several times—“fast. We all just witnessed that. But that weapon is only as fast as the one who wields it.”