What a Dragon Should Know
Page 9
“You ain’t going out there.”
“Then why did you call me here?”
“To tell me what you been up to so I can handle that Gold.”
Her lips pursed a bit, and she stared at him. He knew that expression better than any other. She wouldn’t tell him anything now because she wanted to be the one to talk to that giant lizard standing outside their gates. The Beast believed herself a politician. She didn’t understand that was the work of men. She handled correspondence and such well enough—especially since she was one of the few of them who could read and write really well—but it was up to the men to manage these things face to face, over a keg of ale with a wench or two for entertainment. Dagmar simply failed to learn this, and he worried what would happen when she found a worthy husband who wouldn’t allow any of the nonsense Sigmar let her get away with.
Knowing well there was no point in fighting her when she got that particular expression on her face, Sigmar relented the smallest bit. “You’ll wait behind the guards until you’re asked for. Understand?”
“If we absolutely must waste time …”
“We must.” He glanced down at the canine that never left her side. Canute, she’d named him. Strange how he could remember the dog’s name … “And you’d best find a safe place for him. He’ll look like a tasty morsel to that thing outside.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And don’t annoy me anymore today.”
“I won’t, Father.”
And they both knew she was lying.
Chapter 3
Dagmar glanced down at her gown again and checked to make sure her head scarf was on properly before readjusting the spectacles balanced on her nose.
A dragon. A real dragon here, at her father’s fortress and she was about to meet him. Not even another Northlander, but a Southland dragon. A scholar, a teacher, an intellectual.
Reason help her, but Dagmar realized she was so excited about this, she was almost … dare she say … giddy?
She wondered how old this dragon was. He could be six or seven hundred years old! Because of course the mightiest queen of Dark Plains would only send the most learned of scholars, the most experienced of delegates to represent her in the halls of The Reinholdt.
Dagmar cringed when she heard her father speak to the dragon.
“I be Sigmar,” he told the dragon, and Dagmar barely stopped herself from yelling over the gates a more proper and dignified greeting.
“So you asked for me, Reinholdt?”
What a voice! Deep and low, and it lightly rattled the windows from its timbre alone, because he did not yell. He sounded calm and quite … respectable.
“No. I asked for your Annwyl,” her father practically snapped back.
Dagmar began to tap her fist against her leg.
“Well,” the dragon replied smoothly, “she’s indisposed at the moment, so she sent me as her emissary.”
“A dragon emissary for a human?”
Dagmar gritted her teeth in frustration. What exactly was the old bastard doing? Why was he asking rude questions? Questions that could be asked and answered over dinner when the dragon was more relaxed. She knew for a fact that one of the local herders had cows grazing in the east fields—enough to feed a dragon, she was sure.
Honestly, was this her father’s idea of good politics? No wonder she had to fight so hard to prevent war between the Reinholdts and the surrounding fiefdoms. Because her kinsmen were rude idiots!
“Again, Reinholdt, you wanted to see me or someone from Dark Plains?” the dragon pushed. It was obvious his patience was running out. Well, obvious to anyone with sense.
“Nay. Not me, dragon. The Beast made that request.”
The Beast? Her father was introducing her as The Beast?
If she thought she could get away with killing them all and razing the land they all stood upon—she’d do it in less than a heartbeat.
“And may I meet The Beast?” the dragon countered.
Dagmar stepped forward, but Valdís grabbed the back of her dress and held her in place.
“Off!” she ordered.
“You’ll wait,” he snarled.
“You sure about that, dragon?” her father asked, and she knew now he was toying with the creature. And he had the nerve to wonder where she got her attitude from.
“Yes,” the dragon grumbled. “I am.”
Her father must have motioned for her, because her brother released her gown and the soldiers protecting the front of the fortress moved out of her way. Dagmar walked outside, across the courtyard, and through the main gates. Her father’s guards formed two lines, allowing her to pass. Dagmar walked up to the magnificent being. He glinted gold in the dull light of the two suns, each scale shiny and bright. He was like a bit of a sun himself, bringing a small amount of light to her world. His wings stretched out from his body. They, too, were covered in scales, but the wings seemed somehow weightless and fine, like the most exquisite metal ever created. The tip of each wing had a sharp, gold talon, and there were gold talons on each claw. Two bright white horns sat atop his head and long, shiny gold hair fell across his back and down his body, brushing gently against the ground. Beautiful gold eyes focused on her as soon as she stepped closer to him.
She’d had her greeting all ready for him. The words—a proper greeting for so important a diplomat—on her lips, but she couldn’t speak. Not once she saw him.
In all her thirty years nothing so beautiful had ever crossed her path.
“Then why did you call me here?”
“To tell me what you been up to so I can handle that Gold.”
Her lips pursed a bit, and she stared at him. He knew that expression better than any other. She wouldn’t tell him anything now because she wanted to be the one to talk to that giant lizard standing outside their gates. The Beast believed herself a politician. She didn’t understand that was the work of men. She handled correspondence and such well enough—especially since she was one of the few of them who could read and write really well—but it was up to the men to manage these things face to face, over a keg of ale with a wench or two for entertainment. Dagmar simply failed to learn this, and he worried what would happen when she found a worthy husband who wouldn’t allow any of the nonsense Sigmar let her get away with.
Knowing well there was no point in fighting her when she got that particular expression on her face, Sigmar relented the smallest bit. “You’ll wait behind the guards until you’re asked for. Understand?”
“If we absolutely must waste time …”
“We must.” He glanced down at the canine that never left her side. Canute, she’d named him. Strange how he could remember the dog’s name … “And you’d best find a safe place for him. He’ll look like a tasty morsel to that thing outside.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And don’t annoy me anymore today.”
“I won’t, Father.”
And they both knew she was lying.
Chapter 3
Dagmar glanced down at her gown again and checked to make sure her head scarf was on properly before readjusting the spectacles balanced on her nose.
A dragon. A real dragon here, at her father’s fortress and she was about to meet him. Not even another Northlander, but a Southland dragon. A scholar, a teacher, an intellectual.
Reason help her, but Dagmar realized she was so excited about this, she was almost … dare she say … giddy?
She wondered how old this dragon was. He could be six or seven hundred years old! Because of course the mightiest queen of Dark Plains would only send the most learned of scholars, the most experienced of delegates to represent her in the halls of The Reinholdt.
Dagmar cringed when she heard her father speak to the dragon.
“I be Sigmar,” he told the dragon, and Dagmar barely stopped herself from yelling over the gates a more proper and dignified greeting.
“So you asked for me, Reinholdt?”
What a voice! Deep and low, and it lightly rattled the windows from its timbre alone, because he did not yell. He sounded calm and quite … respectable.
“No. I asked for your Annwyl,” her father practically snapped back.
Dagmar began to tap her fist against her leg.
“Well,” the dragon replied smoothly, “she’s indisposed at the moment, so she sent me as her emissary.”
“A dragon emissary for a human?”
Dagmar gritted her teeth in frustration. What exactly was the old bastard doing? Why was he asking rude questions? Questions that could be asked and answered over dinner when the dragon was more relaxed. She knew for a fact that one of the local herders had cows grazing in the east fields—enough to feed a dragon, she was sure.
Honestly, was this her father’s idea of good politics? No wonder she had to fight so hard to prevent war between the Reinholdts and the surrounding fiefdoms. Because her kinsmen were rude idiots!
“Again, Reinholdt, you wanted to see me or someone from Dark Plains?” the dragon pushed. It was obvious his patience was running out. Well, obvious to anyone with sense.
“Nay. Not me, dragon. The Beast made that request.”
The Beast? Her father was introducing her as The Beast?
If she thought she could get away with killing them all and razing the land they all stood upon—she’d do it in less than a heartbeat.
“And may I meet The Beast?” the dragon countered.
Dagmar stepped forward, but Valdís grabbed the back of her dress and held her in place.
“Off!” she ordered.
“You’ll wait,” he snarled.
“You sure about that, dragon?” her father asked, and she knew now he was toying with the creature. And he had the nerve to wonder where she got her attitude from.
“Yes,” the dragon grumbled. “I am.”
Her father must have motioned for her, because her brother released her gown and the soldiers protecting the front of the fortress moved out of her way. Dagmar walked outside, across the courtyard, and through the main gates. Her father’s guards formed two lines, allowing her to pass. Dagmar walked up to the magnificent being. He glinted gold in the dull light of the two suns, each scale shiny and bright. He was like a bit of a sun himself, bringing a small amount of light to her world. His wings stretched out from his body. They, too, were covered in scales, but the wings seemed somehow weightless and fine, like the most exquisite metal ever created. The tip of each wing had a sharp, gold talon, and there were gold talons on each claw. Two bright white horns sat atop his head and long, shiny gold hair fell across his back and down his body, brushing gently against the ground. Beautiful gold eyes focused on her as soon as she stepped closer to him.
She’d had her greeting all ready for him. The words—a proper greeting for so important a diplomat—on her lips, but she couldn’t speak. Not once she saw him.
In all her thirty years nothing so beautiful had ever crossed her path.
