Читать книгу Light My Fire - G.A. Aiken - Страница 13
ОглавлениеChapter Seven
Branwen the Awful—a name she was immensely proud of because her own mother had given it to her after a particularly brutal battle—pulled open the jail door and walked inside, her brother behind her. The building wasn’t very large, but Annwyl kept control of crime with the fear of her wrath. Those who went beyond some mild stealing, ended up executed faster than they could imagine.
Well-lit and relatively clean, this jail didn’t stink of death and pain like many others Brannie had been to over the years. There were no guards at the front. And no one was manning the wood desk.
With her hand on the hilt of her sword, Brannie slowly and carefully made her way down the hall toward the cells. She didn’t bother to turn to see if her brother followed suit. Battle readiness was trained into each Cadwaladr offspring from hatching. Being close in age, Brannie and Celyn had been trained together by their older siblings, cousins, and mother, while their father, however, had patiently taught them how to read and write.
Brannie held up her hand to halt her brother and tilted her head to the side to hear a little better. But she needn’t have bothered. A burst of raucous male laughter had Brannie charging down a hall filled with cells. She turned a corner and quickly stopped, holding out her arm to again halt her brother.
At least ten well-armed guards stood outside the doorway of the last cell at the end of the hall. They had their backs to Brannie and Celyn, busy being entertained by whatever nightmare was going on inside that room.
She silently indicated to her brother how many men she saw and that they were all armed. They both eased their weapons from their scabbards and moved down the hallway toward the laughter.
Brannie locked on to the one who would be her first victim. He wasn’t the biggest, but she could tell from the way he stood, he was the best trained among them.
Holding her blade in both hands, she raised it high near her shoulder and centered her body so that when she was ready, she could charge with ease. But before she could take that next step, her brother caught her shoulder, his fingers briefly gripping and releasing. Together, the pair walked up behind all those guards. Brannie went up on her toes to look over the tallest of the human males; her brother didn’t have to bother.
Is that her? she mouthed to her brother. And Celyn nodded.
Brannie blinked and looked again.
Pale-skinned with bright blue eyes and long, pale-blond hair that reached down her back, she wore a shirt and leggings made from deerskin, and fur boots. The woman had one leg pulled up onto the chair she sat upon and one arm wrapped around her calf. The other hand held a mug of ale as she regaled the men who were supposed to be guarding her.
“Another,” one of the men begged.
“All right,” she said. “One more from before the time of the first Anne Atli. The story of Olezka Tyushnyakov.”
“How do you pronounce these names?” one of the men laughingly asked.
“He was very big man,” she said in what Brannie knew to be a very thick Outerplains accent. “Arms like chest of oxen. Legs like stumps of trees. And strong. He could take sword made of hardest steel and break it between his giant hands. Many said he had no heart, he had no soul. But he did. All men do. But Olezka did have weakness.”
“Women?” one called out.
“Ale?” called out another.
“Too obvious.” She leaned in, glancing around as if she was about to tell them a deep, dark secret—and the men leaned in with her. She had their absolute attention and it wasn’t simply because she was a woman. “Kittens.”
The men reared back. “Kittens?”
“Kittens. Little, fluffy kittens. He adored them. Had hundreds, all around his hut. He had many wives, but they all hated him because of the damn kittens. So much fluffy fur. Impossible to clean.”
“Well . . . what happened?” one of the men pushed.
“He went out hunting one day and when Olezka Tyushnyakov returned, he found his children crying, some of his wives dead . . . but what made him truly angry? His kittens were dead.”
The men, these guards, gasped in horror. Brannie looked at her brother, but all he could do was shrug.
“So what did he do?” a guard asked.
“He knew who had done this to him.”
“Who?”
“His brother.” More gasps. “And because it was someone who had once been close to him, his rage . . . it could not . . . would not be contained. He exploded and laid waste to an entire region. He left no one alive. Not man. Not woman. Not even child. They all burned.” She raised one finger. “All except his brother . . . he wanted the man to see just what he had wrought. And the kittens.” Her head tilted a bit as she let this last part sink in. “He protected all the remaining kittens.”
Brannie bit her lip to stop from laughing out loud, and Celyn’s eyes rolled so far back into his head, she feared they would stay that way forever.
Slipping his weapon into his scabbard, Celyn waved his sister back and stepped forward, clearing his throat. Glaring, all the guards faced him, separating a bit when they saw the size of her brother.
He gave his most charming smile as he stood outside that cell.
“Hello,” he said, his voice lower than she’d heard it in a long while. “Remember me, little human?”
And, apparently, the storyteller did remember Brannie’s brother, based on the way that pewter mug the human had been drinking from spun out of the cell and slammed right into Celyn the Charming’s forehead.
Celyn gripped his forehead, which now throbbed ten thousand times more than it had less than a minute before. The hysterical giggling of his sister not helping matters one bit.
“What the hell—?” he roared.
“You!” the evil wench accused. “Dragon! Left me here to die!”
“Vicious harpy of hell—”
“Left me to rot. In this cell!” She got to her feet, kicking her chair behind her. “And now you return. For what this return? To see my suffering? To relish in it?”
“What suffering?” Celyn demanded. “From the width of your hips, you look like you’ve been eating quite well!”
She pointed a finger. “Are you calling me fat?”
“I’m calling you healthy, as in not starving. As in not suffering, you whiny cow!”
She walked out of her cell and into the hallway, not one of the guards attempting to stop her. Celyn had the feeling she’d had free rein in this place since he’d left her here.
In fact—he glanced into her cell—someone had decorated her room so that it was warm and friendly. Almost inviting. There was even a tapestry tacked to the wall. A tapestry! In a jail cell!
What the hell had been going on here? Had she bewitched all these weak-minded human males? His sister was right—nothing was easier to manipulate than human males. They were bloody pathetic!
“What do you want, useless dragon?” the woman demanded. “Why do you come here after all this time?”
“My queen has requested your presence, Rider.”
“To execute me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Perhaps Celyn had drunk so much the night before, he’d lost his mind. It had been known to happen. Especially to the uninitiated who’d taken a few sips of his grandfather’s ale.
But when he looked at his sister, her eyes were wide and her hand was over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud—and he didn’t think he was imagining that part.
“Could we just go please?” he asked the woman. Nearly begged.
“So you can continue my shame?”
Deciding not to engage this crazy female one second longer, Celyn simply stretched out his arm and pointed toward the exit.
“Wait,” one of the guards said, a catch in his voice. “You’re leaving us?”
“I must go, comrade,” the Outerplains female explained sadly. “I have been ordered to leave by this cruel, worthless dragon.”
“I let you live, didn’t I?”
“I do not speak to you!” she growled back at him.
“Will we ever see you again?” another guard asked.
And at that point Brannie walked off, unable to take a second more of this.
“If not in this life, comrade, then in the next.”
“No,” Celyn said, grabbing the back of the woman’s shirt. “I won’t listen to another word.” He began walking, dragging her with him. “I refuse to. I absolutely refuse.”
The dragon rudely pulled Elina out of her home for the last eight months and into the bright sunlight of the town square.
The sunlight didn’t actually bother her. She’d been allowed to come and go as she’d pleased since being tossed into the jail. She’d soon become friendly with the townspeople, earning a little money at the local stables.
“Where are you taking me? To the gallows?” she asked.
“You need to stop talking that way. I’ve never met anyone so ready to die,” the dragon complained.
“I am always ready to die. At any time.”
He stopped. “Why?”
“Why what?”
A female who had dark hair and eyes like the fool before her stepped in. “I’ll let them know you’re bringing her.” Then she ran off laughing.
The dragon gave a short snarl before facing Elina. “Why do you want to die?”
“I have no desire to die.”
“Then why do you seem so ready for it?”
“To die with honor. If you cannot avoid death, then you must die with honor. Do you not plan to die with honor, dragon?”
“No,” he said plainly, dark eyes staring at her. “I plan to fight death all the way, dragging those trying to kill me along for the ride.”
“I would agree with you, dragon . . . except I am guilty of trying to kill your queen.”
“But you didn’t do a very good job. Perhaps if you were better at it, I’d feel more inclined to take your head myself. But at this point, it would feel like stepping on a squirrel. Annoying. Sad. And a little messy.”
Elina assumed that to a dragon she must seem like a small animal, but still . . . she didn’t appreciate being called one.
Pulling her arm away, Elina glanced around the town and nodded east. “Isn’t there a gallows that way?” she asked, walking off in that direction.
The dragon cut in front of her and, after a very long sigh, he leaned down and lifted Elina up, placing her on his shoulder.
As he stalked away from the gallows, he muttered something under his breath, but Elina couldn’t quite make it out.
Strong, cool fingers pressed against his temples, making soft circles before slipping into his hair.
Éibhear the Contemptible relaxed into his mate, enjoying how Izzy’s chain mail pressed against his back while she stood there rubbing his head.
They were all waiting. Still in the war room, everyone quietly chatted amongst themselves.
“You know,” Izzy said softly, her words for him alone, “you no longer have to be so bitchy to your cousin.”
“I didn’t say a word to him.”
“You don’t realize, but your silence speaks volumes. You don’t think Celyn notices that? And when you do deign to say something to him, you’re definitely bitchy.”
Éibhear smirked. “I wouldn’t call it bitchy. I just call it terse and unpleasant.”
“It’s been years, Éibhear. Years. It’s time to let it go.”
“We buried our issues ages ago.”
“But you still do not speak to one another.”
“Not true. When he sees me, he says, ‘Hello.’ And I always reply, ‘Cousin.’”
Izzy returned to his lap, her arms slipping around his neck. “I want you two to be friends again.”
“Izzy . . . we were never that close. He, like everyone else in the family, always thought I was an idiot.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because they said . . . ‘Éibhear . . . you’re an idiot.’”
“I don’t see how you can be so close to Brannie but so cold to her brother.”
“Brannie and I are close because of you. And she stopped calling me idiot after I threw her into that jungle pit with the hungry crocodile.”
Izzy laughed, but stopped abruptly when the war room door opened and Brannie walked in. “Celyn will be here in a minute,” she announced to the room before rushing over to Izzy’s side and pulling up a chair next to her.
She sat and stared at Izzy, her lips a thin line because she clearly had something to tell her.
“What?” Izzy whispered.
“You have to experience it for yourself, cousin.”
“Tell me,” she ordered, leaning forward and wiggling her bum around on Éibhear’s lap . . . something that he greatly enjoyed. “I must know, you cow!”
Éibhear often had to remind himself that in battle these two were an unbelievable team, bringing blood, death, and pain to all who challenged them. But when not in battle . . . they were absolutely ridiculous.
The door opened again, this time kicked in by a stern-faced Celyn. He stalked into the room with a pert-assed bundle tossed over his shoulder.
Without a word, he lifted the woman off and placed her on the floor in front of the big wooden table with all the maps.
Izzy glanced at Éibhear, both of them—he guessed—sharing the same thought. She looks awfully healthy for a woman who has been trapped in the city jails for the last eight months.
“There you are!” Rhiannon said, getting to her feet and towering over the woman. “Oh, hello, my dear.”
The woman, so very pale, dropped to one knee in front of Éibhear’s mother.
“My lady. I regret what I have tried to do,” she said, her accent as strange as her eyes. But Éibhear hadn’t met any Riders from the Steppes of the Outerplains before. He knew they had their own languages and laws, but what those languages and laws were, he had no idea. “But I implore you to take my head quickly and with no remorse. It is the least I deserve.”
Rhiannon studied the woman for a long moment before looking at her nephew-by-mating. “What the bloody hells did you tell this female, Celyn?”
“I haven’t told her anything,” Celyn growled as he walked toward the back of the room and an empty seat. “But apparently she lives for death . . . or something.”
“That is not what I said,” the Rider snapped at Celyn. “Do you even attempt to listen, dragon?”
“Not when all I hear is insanity.”
“Insanity? Why? Because I have honor?”
“Squirrel!” Celyn yelled before dropping into the chair and crossing his arms over his chest.
Izzy looked at Éibhear, but when he only shrugged, she sighed in exasperation and looked at Brannie. And Éibhear knew at the moment . . . he no longer existed for his mate. Why? Because there was entertainment afoot that involved the torment of a family member and, eventually, juicy gossip.
Shaking her head, Rhiannon leaned down and placed her hands on the woman’s shoulders. “Please, dear. Get up. Get up.”
While glaring at Celyn, the woman got to her feet.
“My dear girl,” Rhiannon said sweetly, capturing the woman’s attention, “I have no intention of executing you. If that’s what you fear.”
“I do not fear, Queen Rhiannon. Simply expect.”
“Squirrel!”
Those pale blue eyes locked on Celyn again. “Quiet.”
The queen glared at her “very favorite personal guard!”—as she insisted on calling Éibhear’s cousin—and slipped her arms around the woman’s shoulders. “You have nothing to worry about here, my dear. All that happened before is in the past. Now, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
She led the Rider around the enormous table and over to Annwyl. “This, my dear,” Rhiannon announced, “is Annwyl.”
The human blinked. “Annwyl? The Annwyl?”
Every dragon and human in the room winced at that, knowing how sensitive Annwyl the Bloody was about her reputation and her name. Yet it was a well-deserved reputation. At one time, she would have killed a man—or anything really—as soon as look at him, though Annwyl always had a reason. Always. But with the help of Dagmar, things had mostly changed. Mostly.
Shame there were so few who understood that.
“You are Annwyl?” the woman asked again.
Annwyl sighed, her face a sad, resigned mask, as she replied, “Aye. I’m Annwyl. The Annwyl.”
“You are the Southland queen who earned the respect of the decadent and lazy Southland male. That is not easy thing to do.”
“Well . . . thank you.” Annwyl gave a very small smile. “That’s nice.”
The woman nodded. “Your blood-soaked hands and heartless willingness to kill all those who dare invade your territory bring some respect from the Mighty Daughters of the Steppes. Although the imperialist, decadent life you and your royals lead on the backs of your defenseless peasants still disgusts most of my people greatly.”
Izzy cringed, Brannie dropped her head into her hands, and everyone else fell silent, except Gwenvael who snorted a laugh. Of course that got him a hard slap to the back of the head from their father.
“Isn’t that nice,” Annwyl practically snarled between clenched teeth.
“It is,” Rhiannon quickly cut in. “Very nice. Especially because we need a little favor from you . . . uh . . . what was your name again, dear?”
“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains.”
“Ah, yes. That name.”
“Do you actually ride bears?” Gwenvael felt the need to ask.
“The old ones say that our ancestors rode the black bear. But now we only ride the horse. They are easy to manage and do not have the big claws.”
“Do you have a shorter name we can use?” Fearghus asked.
“No,” she stated flatly, but when everyone simply stared, she added, “I joke.”
Talaith scratched her nose. “Funny.”
“Since you are not kin or part of my tribe, you may call me Elina Shestakova, Daughter of—”
“Elina then,” Rhiannon quickly cut in. “That’s such a nice name. Isn’t that nice, everyone?”
There were barely muttered agreements.
“Now, dear Elina, as I said, we need you to do us a small favor and all will be forgiven regarding that nasty business of you trying to kill me.”
“What is it you need?”
“We need you to arrange a meeting with the leader of all your tribes.”
“You want to meet with the Anne Atli?”
“Is she the one who rules all the tribes of the Steppes?”
“Yes. Anne Atli rules all the tribes. It not only is her title but also was the name of the first female Captain of the Horseriders, and it is the name taken by every female leader who has come after her.”
“Then, yes, that’s who we want to meet with.”
“I am unable to promise I can arrange such a meeting. I will have to go through the leader of my tribe, Glebovicha. But I will do all I can.”
“Is Glebovicha the one who sent you here?” Celyn asked.
The Rider took a moment to answer. “Perhaps.”
“So,” Celyn barked, “the woman who sent you here to die is the woman you need to go through to get to the tribes’ leader?”
“Why are you talking to me?” she suddenly bellowed.
“Because I’m fascinated by your willingness to die!”
“Enough!” Rhiannon ordered. She stopped, took a breath. “Will you do this for me, Elina?”
“I will. Of course.”
“Excellent!” the queen cheered, wrapping her arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugging her tight. “Such a . . . dear . . . sweet . . . girl!” she added between sniffs of the top of the human’s head. “And tasty-smelling.”
“Mum!” Morfyd instantly chastised.
“What?” Rhiannon pushed the woman away. “She . . . just smells nice, is all. I wasn’t planning to eat her or anything. As I’ve been told many times . . . that’s still wrong.”
Now, his sister said inside Celyn’s poor, abused head, this is where Rhiannon says that someone has to take the poor little pale waif home.
Ah, yes. The downside of his siblings being able to communicate with him with their mind—that one’s siblings could talk whenever they wanted. Like now. About ridiculous bullshit.
I’m not taking her anywhere. She’s beyond irritating.
Of course you’re not taking her anywhere.
That hadn’t been what he’d expected his sister to say.
What do you mean?
I mean our parents are not about to allow you to go anywhere.
Our parents? I’m not a seventy-year-old hatchling, Brannie. I can go where I like.
Uh-huh. Sure you can.
Confused by the entire conversation, Celyn heard the queen state, “You’ll sleep here tonight in a proper bed, and get started tomorrow. We’ll make sure you have food and a fresh horse for your trip.”
“I have horse. I get own food.”
Celyn rolled his eyes.
“What?” the woman demanded, immediately catching his annoyed expression. “What is that look?”
“You won’t take food? You’re going to starve instead?”
“The forests are filled with food. I hunt.”
“As well as you assassinate? Because you might starve.”
“Celyn,” his mother said softly. “Let it go.”
“Fine. I’ll let it go.”
“Wait,” Rhiannon said, raising her index finger. “Celyn has a good point.”
“I can hunt my own food. I do not need his help,” the Rider sneered at Celyn.
“Clearly you need someone’s help.”
The woman made a noise, and Celyn snapped back, “Did you just hiss at me, female?”
“Stop it,” Rhiannon cut in. “Both of you. I am queen here—”
Fearghus suddenly cleared his throat and gestured to Annwyl with a tilt of his head, so Rhiannon amended her statement to, “I am the most important queen here—”
“Mum, that’s not what I—”
“—and I think it’s necessary for you, dear Elina, to have someone to ensure your safety. And I think that should be—”
“Bercelak,” Ghleanna suddenly cut in. “Bercelak should escort her.”
Celyn’s uncle stared at his sister until she elbowed him in the ribs.
“Oh. Right. I guess I should do it.”
Celyn heard Brannie chuckle inside his head. Told ya.
Elina didn’t know what was going on. Nor did she care. She suddenly had something important to do! Someone was trusting her to do something that could change . . . everything.
The Tribes of the Steppes didn’t have alliances. They didn’t have truces. Instead, they took payment to not attack the territories closest to them. Those who didn’t pay risked an onslaught beyond comprehension. Of a seemingly never-ending army of Riders raining terror and pain and blood down upon their heads.
Most paid.
An alliance would be a good thing. A change in the right direction. Elina’s people weren’t barbarians. They weren’t demons in human form. They were merely herders who had grown tired of being trampled upon by the armies of big cities and royal landowners. So although battalions of Queen Annwyl’s army had been allowed through the Outerplains closest to the Eastern Coast, they weren’t allowed past the Conchobar Mountains into tribe lands. But an alliance with Annwyl the Bloody . . . ?
Of course, the problem wasn’t the Anne Atli, was it? It would be Glebovicha. She would not be happy about the “weakest of my tribe” talking to Anne Atli. Only with special permission from tribal leaders did one get to speak to Anne Atli about tribal business. Glebovicha would not like that.
Yet in this task . . . in this task Elina would not fail. She could and would do this. Not only for her honor but for her people.
Even if it meant being forced to spend more time than was acceptable with that idiot dragon.
She’d prefer the cranky man who kept growling. He clearly didn’t want to go with her, but . . . wait. Was he a dragon, too?
Elina looked closely at the man. Like the annoying dragon, he had dark eyes, black hair that reached past his massive shoulders, and a strong square jaw. Then again, so did the short-haired woman sitting next to him.
Exactly how many dragons were here? And how did they manage to walk around as human? As dragon, they were so gigantic, she didn’t understand how they could get all that bulk stuffed into these considerably smaller human bodies.
“I have another task for my dear mate,” the Dragon Queen told the short-haired woman. “So Celyn can take her.”
“No,” the short-haired woman snapped back. “He can’t. He must protect you.” She smiled, but it was so forced that Elina instinctively leaned away. “That’s his most important job,” she finished between a smile that involved clenched teeth.
The queen’s arm slipped around Elina’s shoulder, pulling her closer. Her smile was there, but as false as the other female’s. “Perhaps you forget who I am, Low Born,” the queen said in a cheery voice. “I am the queen. I rule. And if I want one of my personal guards to do a task, he will do that task. Do we understand each other?”
The female stared at the queen for several long moments until her fist suddenly came down on the empty seat beside her, decimating it in the process. She was up and near the queen when another male went around the big desk and cut between the two females.
“No, Ghleanna. No, no, no, no, no.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her back.
Looking over the man’s shoulder, the female pointed a damning finger at the queen. “You may rule these lands, Rhiannon the White, but you do not rule my family!”
“Everything belongs to me. Everything!”
“That is enough!” The idiot dragon stood up. “Enough.” He looked at the short-haired female. “Mum”—Oh, that’s his mother—“I’m an adult. She’s my queen. I follow her orders. Not yours.” He looked at Queen Rhiannon and nodded his head. “And I will be happy to escort her . . .” He gestured at Elina with a flip of his hand. “. . . to wherever.”
“My name you do not know,” Elina accused.
“It’s impossibly long! What do you want from me?”
“Respect! But I do not think you understand word, worthless one!”
“Keep in mind, She of the Impossibly Long Name, that I am your protection. You might want to be nice to me.”
“Nice to dragon who forgets woman he takes to prison?”
“Would you let that go?”
“No! I will never let that go!”
“Fine! Suit yourself! And would you stop laughing!” he bellowed at the younger dark-haired female who also looked just like him. God, how many of these dragons who could become human were there?
The younger female, who hadn’t been laughing, merely smiling, shrugged at Elina. And when the dragon turned away, she pointed at her head and mouthed, He’s crazy.
Yes. Elina, sadly, could see that.
