But from what Dagmar had heard when information still flowed freely, they kept getting between Annwyl and those she wanted to kill. They thought they were protecting her. Annwyl saw it as plain rude.

The tribe the Kolesovas came from were considered annoying by their own people. Large, hearty females who didn’t know how to lower their voices or keep from insulting people. They found men to be weak and stupid and only good for breeding. More than once Dagmar had had to step in when they’d get drunk and round up men too young to fight to send to their multitude of daughters left back in the Steppes.

Six months ago, when Annwyl had sent them back with orders to “protect all those I love at Garbhán Isle,” there had been three sisters.

On their trip back, though, the three women fell into the hands of a battalion of Zealots. At least four hundred strong. All human. All loyal to Chramnesind.

Two days later, when the dust finally settled, only two of the sisters were left. But the battalion had been wiped out completely. The remaining pair brought back the body of their younger sister Inessa so they could have a proper funeral pyre and several days of mourning without worrying that more Zealots would come for them.

Those were the longest ten days of Dagmar’s life. It wasn’t the funeral pyre. The Southlanders and dragons did the same. And her people, the Northlanders, also burned their dead, putting them on wooden boats and setting them out to sea in flames.

So, no, it wasn’t the pyre that had bothered her. But the singing. For five days, the two women stood in the middle of the courtyard with their sister’s rotting corpse and sang songs of mourning to her “trapped” spirit.

Finally, on the fifth day, they’d built a funeral pyre and put their sister upon it and set her aflame.

Dagmar had let out a sigh of relief, thinking it was all over.

It wasn’t.

What came next was five more days of singing songs of celebration for their sister’s “freed” spirit.

And despite ten days of continuous singing, their horrid voices not only didn’t fade, but they bloody traveled. For miles, their voices traveled.

Once the mourning and celebration were over, the two Riders had gone on to obey Annwyl’s orders . . . by following Dagmar around. As if they were her dogs. But, unlike her dogs, they couldn’t follow orders. At least not from her. The Daughters of the Steppes had no respect for the “North-women” as they called Dagmar’s womenfolk. They thought them weak and unworthy of the respect they offered warrior women like Annwyl and Izzy.

Lately she’d been finding them camped outside her room inside the castle, like two stray dogs that had latched on to her for some reason. Except Dagmar’s dogs smelled better.