Читать книгу Light My Fire - G.A. Aiken - Страница 14

Chapter Eight

Elina watched the people or dragons or whatever they were walk out of the room. No one said anything to her. She seemed to cease to exist once the rude dragon had agreed to travel with her.

Deciding it was probably best to get moving now rather than wait a day, Elina turned toward the door . . . only to find the rude bastard standing between her and the exit.

“What now?” she demanded, glaring up at him. Good thing her people were tall, because these dragons when human . . .

“We’re not leaving tonight,” he told her. Ordered her, really.

“Will we not?”

“We will leave in the morning. Be ready to go at daybreak.”

“And what do I do until then?”

“Manage to stay alive? That would be great.”

Without another word, he walked out.

Elina stared at the open doorway. It had been a long time since she’d disliked someone so much. Especially a male. Like most Daughters of the Steppes, she’d been taught that men served three purposes—breeding, child rearing, and trash removal. She needed no one’s protection. She’d gotten here alive, hadn’t she?

But she had to remember that the dragon was not her problem or priority. She had a task she needed to accomplish and she’d committed to that. And it was a task she would truly enjoy doing, unlike the task that had brought her here.

Confident that she could tolerate the dragon until she reached her homelands, Elina headed to the doorway.

She stepped into the hall but took a quick step back when two females suddenly moved in front of her. Both wore chain mail and had weapons hanging from belts around their waists and strapped to their backs. Many in Elina’s tribe would love for her to look this much like a warrior and be able to back up that battle-ready appearance. But she really had no desire to be a warmonger. It simply was not in her blood.

The one with short black hair and black eyes, who seemed to be the sister of the rude dragon, smiled at Elina. “Hi.”

Elina gave a typical Rider greeting. “Hope death finds you well today.”

“Um . . . okay.” She cleared her throat. “I’m Branwen. This is Izzy.”

“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the—”

“Yes, yes. We got that. Earlier. Your . . . extensive name.”

“Have you come to kill me?” Elina asked.

“Uh . . . no.”

“Then move.”

They did, and Elina stepped between them and began walking. She studied the castle as she walked. There were beautiful tapestries on the walls. Some depicting battles. She stopped to look closely at one and realized the two females were still behind her.

She faced them and asked, “Do you fear I still plan to kill your Dragon Queen?”

“Surprisingly, no,” the one called Branwen replied.

“So you follow because you find me attractive? Sadly, for you,” she went on honestly, “I do not desire females. But there are many in my tribe who do. I can introduce you. You can become one of their many wives.”

“What? No.”

“There is no shame. Many of our tribes are made up of only females. They do not like men. They do not like cocks. They only like the pussy.”

“No, no, no,” Branwen quickly corrected. “We like the cocks.”

The brown-skinned woman, Izzy, suddenly turned to her comrade. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know. But she’s completely freaking me out! I think it was that greeting. Who says hello like that?”

“If death does not find you well,” Elina explained, “he will take you. So we hope he finds you well.”

Izzy nodded. “See? That is quite logical.”

“You have eyes like bastard dragon,” Elina noted about Branwen. “And you were with him earlier at jail. Do you share mother? Or do all your dragon people who are not royal look alike?”

“We share mother.”

“Now you’re starting to talk like her?” Izzy asked.

“I can’t help it! The way she talks is oddly entrancing.” She took a breath. “He’s my brother.”

“I pity your soul. He is bastard. And deserves painful death. You, however, seem very nice. I am glad to know you.” She nodded at Izzy. “And you, too, dark-skinned female with big shoulders. You remind me of bear I once hunted during snowstorm. I use his pelt now on my hut floor.”

Since the females did nothing but stare at her, Elina turned and went in search of food.

Celyn caught up with his parents in the Great Hall. “Mind telling me what that was about?”

“You have a job here, Celyn,” his mother said in her most “I’m a general and you’re not” tone.

“I’d believe that, Mum, if Brannie wasn’t busy telling me in my head that you two wouldn’t let me go because you consider me weak. Do you consider me weak?”

“Of course not!” Ghleanna tapped her mate’s arm. “Tell him, Bram. Tell him we don’t consider him weak.”

“Ow, Ghleanna,” Bram whined, rubbing his poor arm.

“Tell him.”

“Because gods forbid a Cadwaladr be considered weak.”

“Yes,” mother and son said together.

“No one considers you weak, Celyn,” Bram said. “You have to know that.”

“Then what’s going on?” He stepped closer. “Brannie called me Fal. Am I Fal in this?”

Fal was Celyn’s older brother and one of the most useless dragons in the Cadwaladr Clan. He’d been sent to the Desert Land borders to guard the salt mines. Only the most worthless or corrupt troops were sent to the salt mines. And it was too horrifying a thought that Celyn might be considered a Fal.

He was not a Fal!

“First off,” Ghleanna snapped, “don’t talk about your brother that way. Fal has many . . . talents.”

“Do you pause like that when you talk of me?”

“Of course not!”

“Son,” Bram said, his hand resting on Celyn’s shoulder. “We have complete and utter faith in you.”

“Then why don’t you want me to escort that girl? It’s one of the things Cadwaladrs are called on to do all the time.”

“And we’re sure you’ll do it very well.”

Celyn reared back, horrified.

“What?” Bram asked, panicked. “What did I say?”

“That’s what you said to Fal before Uncle Bercelak had him shipped off to the salt mines.”

“Oh.” Bram glanced at Ghleanna. “Did I?”

Disgusted, Celyn turned and stalked off. He now, officially, had the worst headache of all time!

Dagmar, her dog Adda by her side, searched the library until she tracked down her nephew Frederik. She wanted to fill him in on all the latest. Not because she needed him to do anything, but because he was always a good source of rational thought in this insane household filled with a mad queen, her dragon consort, and the dragon consort’s entire bloody family.

Frederik had been left on Queen Annwyl’s doorstep by Dagmar’s older—and idiotic—brothers some ten years ago. It was something done by many a Northman when faced with a boy he didn’t know what to do with.

And, at first, Dagmar had found the boy’s presence the highest inconvenience. As Battle Lord to Queen Annwyl and Steward of Garbhán Isle, Dagmar had little time for boys who seemed tragically . . . stupid.

Yet she’d been as wrong about Frederik as her own people had been wrong about her simply because she was a woman. Frederik had not been stupid. Cursed with as poor eyesight as herself? Yes. Stupid? Oh, very far from it. In fact, he’d been much smarter than she’d been because he’d successfully hidden his keen mind from his kinsmen, forcing them to send him away rather than deal with his supposed uselessness.

But Frederik had become quite useful to Dagmar once he’d gotten some spectacles to help with his close-in sight and was given the freedom to be who he was. He was a thinker, that one. He had a talent that was nothing but a curse in the harsh Northlands, but worthy of praise in the gentler south. A smart, quick-thinking plotter. But he was never cruel. Never heartless. Simply bright and cunning.

Just like his aunt.

Unlike Dagmar, however, Frederik did manage to find the hidden warrior within. It hadn’t been easy for him. Not like it was for her other nephews, who many believed had been shot from the womb with small warhammers at the ready. Frederik had had to work much harder to get as far as he had, but—as always—he’d been very smart. He didn’t ask any of Gwenvael’s brothers for battle training. Instead, he’d approached Bercelak the Great. A bold and risky move that had impressed everyone.

Because of his bravery, many dragons and humans came to Frederik about sensitive issues that they hoped he’d bring directly to her. It should have bothered Dagmar, but it didn’t. There was something about knowing that dragons feared her the way many humans did that had a rather heady effect.

Especially considering where her life had started. As a “girl child” of the great Reinholdt. True, girls were revered in the Northlands because they were so rare, but they were also protected to the point of smothering. It wasn’t until Dagmar came to the Southlands that she’d found her home, where she could happily be her true manipulative, plotting, conniving self. And she’d found a dragon who was the perfect match for her.

Although, Dagmar had to admit that as things had changed so drastically between them over the last few years, she’d thought Gwenvael’s feelings for her would change too. But she’d forgotten he was not a human male. He was a dragon and dragons were different. Difficult, but different.

She was grateful, though, because she still loved the devious bastard. With all her hard heart. Important since the last ten years they’d been forced to need each other more than they’d ever thought possible.

Dagmar turned a corner in the expansive library that Éibhear and Frederik had organized together and that Frederik now meticulously maintained, and she stopped as she neared a large table covered in books and scrolls.

Frederik, always sensing when Dagmar was nearby, lifted his head from his work. He had the Reinholdt eyes. Grey and cold . . . just like her own. He smiled at her, a warm and loving smile that disappeared as soon as that ball of parchment hit her in the forehead.

She sighed and glared at the offender, desperately trying to ignore all those giggles. “Does someone want to miss supper yet again?”

“You’d starve us?”

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

Small feet landed on the table, small balled fists were placed on small hips. “I’ll tell my father that you dare starve his precious offspring.”

Dagmar pointed a finger at her eldest daughter, Arlais. “You would think you’d be grateful.”

“Grateful for what exactly?”

“That I didn’t smother you at birth. A situation that can change at any moment.”

“Auntie Dagmar!” Frederik admonished, even while he laughed.

“She started it!”

“You’re the adult.”

“She’s the demon spawn.”

“Auntie Dagmar!”

Dagmar’s saving grace came up behind her. As beautiful as his father but as cold and devious as his mother, her eldest child and only son looked over his six sisters.

“All of you, out,” the boy said calmly, a thick book tucked under his arm, cold grey eyes locked on the eldest girl.

“We don’t take orders from you,” Arlais snapped.

A silent battle raged between grey eyes and gold until Dagmar’s daughter snarled, “All right, fine!”

She jumped off the table and motioned to her younger sisters. “You lot, come on.” She walked toward the door but stopped next to Dagmar. “Perhaps you should keep in mind that while you may be the daughter of a warlord, I am the daughter of a prince.”

Dagmar slowly looked at her child. “And perhaps you should keep in mind that I am the one woman not afraid to send your insolent ass to a nunnery.”

Arlais sniffed, her haughtiness resting on her shoulders like a mantle. “My father would never allow that to happen. And when I rule, you’ll suffer my wrath!” And with that, the spoiled little bitch marched out the door, her golden-headed younger sisters happily following.

Once they were gone, her son turned to her.

“What?” Dagmar demanded, but already knowing what he was going to say.

“You’ll have to learn to handle them on your own eventually, Mum.”

“When they’re older and less annoying—”

“They are, tragically, just like my father. So they’ll never be less annoying.”

“Unnvar, your father does love you.”

“Perhaps, but I don’t see how that knowledge helps me in any way.”

Dagmar shrugged. “My father’s love kept me going for thirty years before I escaped the Northlands. I hope the same for you.”

“You do know, Mum, that my father is your only true weakness?”

“I know.” She sighed. “I’ve learned to live with that flaw . . . just as you’ll have to.”

With a sad, forlorn sigh, Var nodded his head and walked away.

Frederik cleared his throat. “Are we really sure he’s—”

“Yes, Frederik. He’s ten.”

“If you say so.”

Annoyed and more than a little angry, Celyn returned to the room he’d been in before and dropped face-first onto the bed.

What had he gotten himself into? Trying to prove something to his parents, he’d bargained himself into a right shitty situation with that female. He’d passed her on the way to his room. She’d been studying some silver chalices and he wondered if she planned to steal them. The Riders were known thieves. He doubted she was much better.

Which was worse? he wondered. Being so unappreciated by his own parents or being forced to deal with that harpy all the way to the Steppes of the Outerplains?

He didn’t know.

Honestly, how could any female, dragon or human, be as annoying as that woman? There were dragons who lived in the Steppes who were said in legend to be annoying, but they weren’t friendly or organized and wanted to be left alone, so other dragons did. That meant Celyn didn’t know exactly how annoying they might be, but he refused to believe even the Steppes dragons could be as annoying as this one human female.

Celyn rolled to his back and stared up at the ceiling.

All right. So he’d forgotten her. Not his best moment, he’d admit. But she had been sent to assassinate his queen. How could she be so haughty about it all when she’d come here to do something that would normally get her head bitten off?

In fact, he’d saved her life. Because if Uncle Bercelak had gotten his cruel claws on her, he would have torn her to pieces for such an affront. But it had been Celyn who spirited her away in time.

Yet did he get any credit for that? A bit of appreciation from the death-ready female? No! The squirrel simply nattered at him. The way real squirrels nattered at Dagmar’s dogs from the safety of the trees.

Natter, natter, natter.

And now? Now he would be stuck with her for days. Listening to her complain about his life while wishing for her own death.

The bedroom door opened, and his sister and Izzy walked in.

“Oh,” Branwen gushed, “she is fabulous!”

Celyn lifted himself up on his elbows. “Why is this happening to me? I’m a lovely, lovely dragon. Everyone adores me. Human. Dragon. Centaur. Even those little things in the forests . . . with the ears . . . and the little fluffy tails?”

“Rabbits?”

“Aye! Rabbits. They love me, too.”

His sister smirked. “Only because you don’t eat them. Because you equate dragons eating rabbits with humans eating rats. . . . It’s beneath you.”

Celyn glared at his sister. “They still love me.”

Izzy perched herself on the footboard of the bed, long arms wrapped around even longer legs. “It may not be that bad.”

“She threw a pint at my head.”

“Nailed him, too,” Brannie unnecessarily added.

“She was upset,” Izzy reasoned. “Women do not like to be forgotten about. It insults us.”

“She wasn’t my bloody responsibility.”

“She is now,” Brannie muttered, but when Celyn glared at her, she quickly turned her eyes to the ceiling.

“I only did this because my parents think I’m Fal.”

“No, they do not! Who told you such a despicable thing?” Izzy turned to Brannie. “Why would you tell your brother such a despicable thing?”

With a roll of her eyes, Brannie admitted, “Mum and Da don’t think of you as Fal. He’s a failure at life all on his own.”

“But they clearly didn’t want me to go. Why?”

Brannie shrugged. “You talk too much.”

“What?”

“You ask too many questions. ‘Why are we doing this? Where are we going now? Is all this armor really necessary? Why do you insist on yelling at me? Do all humans smell like you?’ It’s bloody endless.”

“I’m curious is all. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Yes. When you constantly ask questions.”

“It’s not like I ask them during battle.”

“No. But you do ask them constantly every other time.” Brannie gave another shrug. “I think Mum and Da were worried you’d end up getting killed by the troop leaders. Or you’d cause a war. But Uncle Bercelak refused to have your talents wasted. So you were assigned to Rhiannon’s protection guard.”

“Wait. Are you telling me that’s it? That was their big problem?”

“Aye. They don’t want you to go anywhere because you’re good at protecting Rhiannon and she doesn’t get violently annoyed by your constant chattiness. Unlike every soldier in our battalions.”

“Are you telling me that I’ve attached myself to that Rider female because of this?”

“Looks like it!” Brannie’s head flew back from the pillow Celyn winged at her. “What was that for?”

“I’m now trapped with this vile little female because of you!”

Brannie giggled. “Yeah. I know.”

The bedroom door opened again and Éibhear’s giant bulk filled the open space, completely blocking out the light from the hallway.

Silver eyes searched the room before he said, “Oh . . . you’re in here, Izzy.”

“I am,” Izzy said. “Why don’t you join us? We’re just chatting.”

In answer, Éibhear grunted. Like a bull. Reminding Celyn they still weren’t very close.

Many years ago, Celyn’s relationship with Izzy had come between Celyn and Éibhear. But Celyn’s logic at the time had been if the blue idiot was going to pass up his chance at a woman like Iseabail the Dangerous, that was his bad decision. Why Éibhear insisted on blaming Celyn for his own shitty decision-making skills, Celyn would never know.

Celyn had actually loved Izzy at that time. But it had been a young love. Both of them just figuring out what they would want from their mates one day; and something Celyn refused to ever regret no matter how much Izzy’s adoptive kin made their own blood cousin suffer for it.

Besides, from their temporary passion had grown a great friendship. One that meant more to him than he’d ever thought it would.

And yet . . . Celyn wasn’t above using his past with Izzy to get what he wanted now. And what he wanted now was to get that ridiculous female out of his life. For good. Without worrying about listening to that speech from Bercelak about “making commitments and sticking with them.”

“You know what’s going on here, don’t you, Éibhear?” Celyn asked his cousin.

The giant dragon—gods! Éibhear was so bloody huge as human—locked those silver eyes on Celyn. “What’s going on?” he grumbled.

“Yeah,” Izzy asked, confused, “what’s going on?”

“I’m trying to get Izzy back, you know? It won’t take much. I was the best she ever had.”

“What the battle-fuck are you doing?” Brannie demanded, her eyes wide in panic. Izzy didn’t look much better, both of them clearly remembering the beating Celyn had received all those years ago when Éibhear had found out that Celyn had been sleeping with Izzy.

Unable to face his own feelings about Izzy, Éibhear had lashed out. And it was, honestly, the worst beating Celyn had ever taken. But he knew if he’d survived that—which he obviously had—he could survive bloody anything because his cousin had wanted him dead that day. And, as a Cadwaladr, Éibhear would have been allowed to kill Celyn because it had been a “proper challenge.” Among their clan, “proper challenges” were allowed and expected. And if one of their kin died because of it . . . oh, well. That was just the way of things.

Éibhear studied Celyn for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, his entire, big body tense and ready to attack. But then, one side of his mouth lifted. It was almost a smile.

“Forget it,” Éibhear said, and Celyn pushed himself off the bed.

“Come on,” Celyn implored. “Be a lad!”

“Not on your life! You’re stuck with that morbid little bitch. She’s your problem now.”

“Izzy’s still in love with me. She’s never loved you. She’s just using you to get me jealous.”

Éibhear threw back his big head and laughed. “That pale bitch is better revenge, cousin, than beating the shit out of you was that first time. And watching her make you miserable will bring me such joy.” He scratched Celyn’s head as if he were a small child. “Absolute joy.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“Good luck on your trip to the Outerplains. Best bring something warm. I hear those Steppes are surprisingly chilly.” Laughing, Éibhear walked out.

“You bastard! Ow!” Celyn covered the spot on the back of his head where Brannie slapped him and faced his sister. “What was that for?”

“Have you gone mad?” Brannie demanded. “He’s a bloody Mì-runach!” she reminded him. And Brannie had a point. The Mì-runach were feared for a good reason.

But none of that mattered when Celyn was desperate.

“He could have torn you apart in seconds,” Brannie went on.

“But he didn’t even try, did he?” Celyn sadly complained.

“Are you really so desperate over one human girl that you’d actually goad Éibhear the Contemptible into a fight you couldn’t possibly win just so you could be too wounded to leave?” Izzy asked, shaking her head in disgust.

“I suffered a beating before,” Celyn reminded her. “For our love.”

Izzy rolled her eyes and walked away while Brannie sneered, “You are pathetic.”

A nice woman who’d been cutting up a pig in the kitchen had been kind enough to get Elina a bowl of stew and a few loaves of freshly baked bread, then lead her to the enormous dining room. The woman had called it the Great Hall and sat Elina down at one of two long tables in it.

Once alone, Elina dived into her meal. The food was hot and good and fresh. Her people often lived on dried supplies, especially during the winter storm months.

Even better, as Elina reached the bottom of her bowl, it was whisked away and another full bowl of hot stew quickly replaced it. Elina looked up into a smiling woman’s face.

“If you need anything else, m’lady, you just let me know. Name’s Jenna.”

Elina nodded her thanks and went back to her food.

So . . . this was the “decadent” Southland lifestyle she’d always heard about from the Elders in her tribe. Stories of the materialistic ways of the Southland royals, who let their people starve while they lived in luxury, were repeated among her people, who shared everything. Life on the Steppes was hard but rewarding. There were no luxuries. There were no servants to bring hot food without one asking for it.

Elina had to admit . . . she could easily get used to this life. But the tribes’ Elders always reminded everyone about how seductive the Southlander’s awful lives were.

Of course, with stew like this . . . how awful could it really be?

“Mind if I join you?”

Elina finally lifted her head from her second bowl of stew and looked into the face of the handsome man who’d stepped between the queen and the dark-haired female nearly an hour ago. Now he stood before her alone, his silver hair reaching past his broad shoulders while warm blue eyes patiently waited for her answer.

“Are you dragon?” she asked.

He blinked. “Does it matter?”

“No.”

He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else, but when Elina didn’t—what else was there to say?—he pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.

A servant suddenly appeared and placed a plate of fruit, cheese, and bread in front of him. Another servant brought a chalice and a crystal pitcher of water. The man poured himself a glass of water, smiling as he glanced at Elina.

“Decadent, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Does it offend you?”

“No. But I enjoy looking down on others and judging them for things that are none of my concern.”

The man laughed. “Good to know.” He placed the pitcher aside and took a sip. “Your name—”

“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains.”

“Yes. Well, Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of Despair in the Far Reaches of the Steppes of the Outerplains,” he repeated back to her perfectly, “mind if I call you Elina as Queen Rhiannon suggested?”

“No. Days are long on the Steppes, so there is time for saying names. But things in the Southlands . . . they move faster, it seems.”

“Not really. We just have much less patience. My name, by the way, is Bram the Merciful.”

Elina sighed in envy. “Such a deliciously simple name.” She studied him. “Why Merciful?”

“It’s a nice way of saying I’m not much of a fighter.”

“Nor am I. But my comrades just call me weak and pathetic. As children, they would spit on me. But last boy who did that I pushed into pit fire . . . so no one does that to me anymore.”

“I’m sure they don’t.”

“What did your people do to you, Bram the Merciful?”

He shrugged. “Send me out to negotiate treaties and alliances.”

“So cruel.”

He leaned in a bit and whispered, “I actually like it, but I make sure to complain a lot.”

“That is good. You make them think you hate it and then they make you do it more. Very smart.”

“Thank you. So you came to the decadent Southlands to kill our queen?” he asked between bites of bread and cheese.

“I did. I failed. I am pathetic.”

“Except, Elina, it didn’t sound like you tried very hard. And clearly you’re not lazy. You made the trip here, by yourself. So perhaps you just felt killing the queen was . . . wrong?”

“I am not warrior. I kill to eat. I kill in defense. But the Dragon Queen . . . she had done nothing to me. To my people. Why kill her? Other than her head would look nice outside Glebovicha’s hut.”

“There is no shame in not wanting to kill for no reason.”

“There is shame in failure.”

“You can’t fail at what you didn’t even try.”

“Perhaps.”

“But this new task you do plan to do?”

Elina nodded. “I made commitment to Dragon Queen.”

“Excuse me, Elina, but didn’t you make the commitment to slay the Dragon Queen as well?”

“I was not given option. I was told to do. No one asked me anything.” Elina winced. She didn’t mean to sound so bitter. “Do not worry, I plan to do whatever is necessary to assist the Dragon Queen and Annwyl the Bloody. They did not kill me when they had every right. For that alone I must give my all.”

Bram the Merciful nodded, his lips curved in a soft smile. “And my son will be by your side to help you as much as possible.”

“Your son?” Elina eyed the man. “The dolt?”

Bram chuckled. “Aye. The dolt.”

“That is impossible. You are . . . smart. Wise. And you would never forget woman you left in prison.”

“Don’t think too poorly of my son. He is smarter than he realizes, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that.”

“Would he prefer stupid?”

“Not at all. It’s just a little complicated to explain to those who do not understand the ways of the Cadwaladr Clan.”

Elina jerked back a bit, a piece of bread still gripped in her hand, but nearly forgotten. “The Cadwaladr Clan?”

“You’ve heard of them?”

“Who has not? They are vile, brutal monsters reared to kill from birth.” Elina nodded. “The tribes respect them greatly.”

The male smiled. “Of course they do.”

“They are dragons?” Elina shook her head. “That we did not know.”

“Does it lessen your respect?”

“No. Just explains things.”

Elina went back to her food, the sudden screaming behind her startling Bram the Merciful but not Elina. She was used to such screaming on the Steppes.

“Gods,” Bram muttered under his breath. “I keep forgetting about their presence.” Then he jumped again when “Daaaaddddy! ” was screeched, the sound tearing through the stone walls.

With a sigh, the dragon looked over his shoulder at the little girl standing in the doorway at the back of the hall. “Hello, little Arlais.”

“Great-Uncle Bram. Where is my father?”

“I don’t—”

“What’s happened?” the astoundingly beautiful golden-haired man called Gwenvael demanded, his long legs bringing him quickly into the Great Hall. Elina had noticed him earlier. So pretty. He would be in much demand among the tribes’ best warriors.

The little girl leaped onto the table with ease and crossed her arms over her chest.

“I want that woman executed,” the child announced.

Gwenvael stopped walking, rolled his eyes. “She’s your mother, Arlais.”

“Not by choice. She is a Low Born human who orders me around.”

“Arlais, my darling—”

“She is the daughter of a warlord, but I am the daughter of a prince. I outrank her . . . in many ways. In beauty, talent, and a rare grace that comes with being royal born.”

“Awwww. I’ve taught you so well.” He placed his hands over his chest. “It warms my hard dragon heart to see so much annoying and painful arrogance at such a young age.” He shrugged. “But you cannot have your mother executed.”

She stamped her little foot. “That is unfair!”

“But you already knew that life was unfair and cruel, so none of this should surprise you.”

The little girl gave an angry roar that shook the weapons tacked to the walls. “When I rule this kingdom—and I will rule this kingdom, Daddy—”

“You’ll have to get past your cousin Talwyn first and she’ll skin you alive before she gives you anything,” he said in singsong to his daughter.

“—you will all bow down before me in fear and—oooh,” she suddenly said. “Shiny.” She reached down to pick up something off the table but was quickly tackled from behind by smaller versions of herself. She hit the table hard while those five versions pummeled her. Even the smallest and youngest, barely a toddler, got in several good punches to the child’s head before they all jumped up and yelled, “Destruction-ho!” Then they scrambled off the table, charged past Gwenvael—who, Elina guessed, was also a dragon—and out the door. The toddler was the slowest, so she stopped to hug the large dragon’s human leg.

“Love you, Daddy!”

He stroked the toddler’s golden head. “Of course you do. Because you are wise.”

Laughing, she fled out the door and by now a boy and a tall, well-built, attractive young man, with round pieces of wire-held glass perched low on his nose, was helping the battered child off the table.

“Go upstairs and clean yourself, Arlais,” the boy ordered.

“I already told you I don’t take orders from you, mummy’s boy,” she snapped.

The boy didn’t respond. He simply stared at her with cold grey eyes until the girl threw up her hands. “Fine!”

She stormed off, and Gwenvael, now standing near Elina, murmured with pride, “The boy has eyes just like his mum.”

“And her intelligence, thankfully,” Bram muttered.

“Not everyone can be as smart as me, dear Uncle Bram.” Gwenvael’s smile never seemed to fade. It, like the male’s handsomeness, seemed to go on and on. Endlessly. Elina didn’t know if she found that annoying or enrapturing. “Although I don’t know how my daughter can think she’ll take over any kingdom when she can’t seem to focus on one thing at a—oooh.” He reached down and picked something up off the ground. “Look! A gold coin.” He blinked. Glanced off. “What was I talking about?”

“Focus,” Bram said.

“Ahhh, yes. Focus.” He was silent for another moment. “What about focus?”

The boy who’d helped the girl up now moved toward them, but when he was close, Gwenvael suddenly opened his arms wide.

“Son—”

The boy immediately stopped and held both hands up as if to ward the dragon off, his head slightly turned away. “No,” he said flatly.

“But—”

“No. We discussed this. You promised my mother.”

“But I’m your father—”

“Not by my choice.”

“—and I love you.”

“Not as much as you love yourself.”

“Can you blame me?” Gwenvael demanded. “I am perfection.”

The boy focused on Elina’s table mate. “Uncle Bram . . . ?”

“I’ll talk to your mother, Var. But you know I can’t promise anything.”

“Talk to your mother about what?” Gwenvael asked, finally lowering his arms. He began to slip the coin into a pouch tied to his sword belt, but stopped and focused on Elina. “I’m sorry. Do you need this because of your impoverished state?”

“Gwenvael,” Bram chastised

“Father,” the boy chastised.

“What?” the golden-haired one asked Bram and the boy. “It was a fair question. She’s one of the poor barbarian hordes of the Steppes. This meal is probably the first she’s had in years.”

“Elina,” Bram said, “I am so sorry.”

Elina shrugged. “He is decadent, imperialist Southlander dog. He could not survive in our beautiful but harsh lands. But such pretty face as his would be made use of by many of our warriors.”

“Wait,” Gwenvael asked, still grinning at her. “What did she mean by that?”

“Guess,” the boy told him before training those shrewd slate-grey eyes on her. After a moment, he said in her native tongue, “May death find you well this day, beautiful lady.”

Shocked to hear a lazy Southlander speak in any language but his own, Elina grinned and replied, “And may death find you very well, young lord.”

“I had heard one of the mighty Daughters of the Steppes was in our lands, but I had no idea it would be one so beautiful.”

“As smooth as worn stone you are. Did you learn that from your father?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Where did you learn my tongue?”

“I study many languages. Yours is harder than most and I am still . . .” He struggled for a moment. “. . . learn cow.”

Elina smirked. “Learning. You are still learning. Cows have little to do with it.” She shook her head. “But you are very good. I am impressed.” Which was something Elina rarely was.

“Thank you.” He gave a small bow. “I am Unnvar, son of Dagmar Reinholdt, also known as the Beast of Reinholdt—”

Elina smiled and said, “I always knew the Beast was not a man. Only a woman can strike that kind of fear.”

“—Grandson to Northland warlord The Reinholdt, and Dragon-Human Prince of the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar.”

“In all that barbarian banter,” the golden one said, “I did not hear my name.”

“And you won’t,” the boy flatly replied before turning back to his uncle and returning to his Southland tongue. “Talk to my mother as you promised, Uncle Bram. My patience”—he glanced at Gwenvael—“wanes.”

With a smirk, Bram nodded. “Understood.”

“Thank you, Uncle Bram. Lady Rider.” Sidling around Gwenvael to avoid another hug attempt, Elina guessed, the boy walked out.

Gwenvael focused on Bram. “You going to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

“No.”

The golden one raised his arms as if he were about to argue the point, but they fell limply at his sides.

“I know I should care more but . . . eh.” Then he walked off, leaving the Great Hall.

The other male, who wore those pieces of glass, dropped several books onto the table before sitting across from Elina and Bram. He was a very handsome boy. A Northlander by the look of him. Broad of shoulder, thick of neck, pale of skin; but he appeared smarter than most Northlanders. Much smarter.

“What do you think, Frederik?” Bram asked him.

“About?”

“About whether your aunt will allow me to take over Var’s education?”

“I don’t know. Var is her saving grace. But he wasn’t blessed with her patience. Especially where Gwenvael is concerned.”

“And my nephew takes so much patience,” Bram sighed.

Elina pointed at the younger man. “Are you dragon, too?”

“No.”

“Your aunt? Is she dragon?”

“No.”

“But the golden one . . . ?”

“Very dragon.”

Elina took a breath. “So the rumors are true. Dragons and humans . . . they can create the baby.”

“As my aunt has shown in true Northlander style . . . they can create many of the baby.”

“The Abominations grow in number then?”

Panicked, the two males looked around desperately, eyes wide. When they saw no one, they focused back on Elina and leaned in.

“You shouldn’t use that word,” Bram quickly, but quietly, explained. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Both queens take it personally,” the younger male added.

“Do not see why. There is no shame to being scourge of gods.”

Bram waved his hands. “No, no, no. No scourge. No abominations. These are not good words to use when discussing the offspring of dragons and humans.”

“Words. You Southlanders worry so much about words.”

“You don’t worry about words?”

“I love words, but I know they are just . . . noise. To ignore truth that sits in our face. Like angry cat about to claw.”

Bram glanced at Frederik. “Well . . . I have nothing pressing to run to at this moment. So please, Elina Shestakova . . . tell us about this truth.”

Shrugging . . . that’s exactly what Elina did.