For some unfathomable reason, Dagmar Reinholdt raised her hand at that, which got her bewildered stares from everyone in the room.
“She said who here has not killed an enemy. . . . She didn’t say anything about having your enemies killed, now did she?” Dagmar announced, her tone smug.
“Our people,” the Rider went on, “share what we have with our other tribesmen. Those who have less, get some from others. Then we all have equal.”
“No.” Briec shook his head. “I don’t like that idea. What’s mine is mine.”
“Would you not share with your brothers?”
“No,” all the brothers replied.
“You are very pretty.” Elina stared. “But very sad.” She gestured with her bread. “All we have is each other. Without that, we are nothing.”
“I am a dragon. I don’t need anyone else.”
Talaith threw up her hands. “Thank you very much!”
“I’m not talking about you, so there’s no reason to get hysterical.”
“Hysterical?”
“She’s going to kill you in your sleep,” Fearghus noted when Talaith glared at Briec. “And I wouldn’t blame her.”
“So,” Celyn cut in, “your people share everything?”
The Rider did not turn to look at him so much as her bright blue eyes simply cut his way. Kind of like when a wolf sensed Celyn was near . . . and knew that Celyn was hungry.
“We share our food. Our clothing. Anything to keep everyone healthy . . . and strong. You cannot have defenses when some of your people starve and others are dying from diseases simple to fix.”
“What are,” Morfyd suddenly asked, “your people’s feelings on dragons . . . and the dragon-human offspring?”
“You mean Abominations?”
Eyes widened, bodies tensed, hurried words spouted, and Fearghus readied himself to tackle his mate and take her to the ground in seconds. The panic among Celyn’s kin was palpable. But then, Annwyl raised her hands to quiet down everyone who felt the need to say, in some form or another, “I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way, Annwyl!”
“Wait, wait,” Annwyl ordered calmly. “Don’t everyone panic.” Leaning forward a bit more than she already was, Annwyl asked the Rider, “What does that mean to you?”
“Abomination?” The Rider shrugged, bit off a hunk of bread, chewed, then finally answered, “It means the offspring of dragons and humans are unholy mixes of death and evil, born to destroy the world as we know it.”
Huh, Celyn thought to himself, maybe I won’t have to go to the Outerplains tomorrow, but I may have to bury a body. . . .
Annwyl raised one forefinger, holding Fearghus at bay, since, based on the black smoke pouring from his nostrils . . . he was not happy about anything the Rider had said and would now happily allow his mate to cut off the woman’s head.
Not that Elina Shestakova noticed any of that. She was still chewing . . . and staring at the wall behind Dagmar’s head.
“But,” the woman continued on, “change is good. Without change comes age and death. We, as a species, cannot have that. We need new blood. Even if it is dragon blood, which according to our Elders is the most evil of all blood. But I am not sure I believe that after meeting Bram the Merciful. Would have still believed that if I had only met the dolt.”
Annwyl leaned back, smiling. “See? You really have to wait for her to finish her thought.”
Elina lifted a puppy off the floor. She liked dogs. They were like small horses you could not ride.
“Your paws are huge,” she told the pup, their noses touching. “Like big shovels. Maybe you will be horse one day.”
“Dagmar breeds those dogs for battle.” The Dolt sat down beside her. The other members of the household had finished eating and were now off in different corners of the Great Hall, chatting or wandering outside to enjoy the night. “Do you like dogs?” he asked.
“You want to eat him,” Elina accused.
“No.” He patted his stomach. “I’m full.”
“What do you want, dragon?” she asked, already annoyed by him. She just wanted to play with the puppy. To spend one night enjoying the decadence of these Southlanders. Without guilt. Without worry. Without feeling like a failure to her people.
“We got off on the wrong claw.”
“Wrong claw?”
“I’m sorry I left you—”
“To die?”
He barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Rude bastard. “I didn’t leave you to die. If I wanted to do that, I could have left you staked out on top of Devenallt Mountain. Eventually someone would have gotten a little hungry.” He let out a breath. “We’ve got a rather long trip ahead of us, and I think we should start over.”
“There is no starting over. It is what it is.” She stood up, the puppy in her arms. “We tolerate each other because I owe your queen for her kindness to me. I’ll put up with you because of her. But that is all. We will not be friends. We will not get along. We may have sex, but it will be cold and impersonal. Just something to pass time during long nights. So do not come to me with your wrong claws. I have no use for your wrong claws.”
Feeling that they now understood each other, Elina cuddled the sleeping puppy closer and followed a servant up to a room. A room she would not have to share with anyone.
So decadent!
Celyn didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, staring at the wall.
“What happened?” Brannie asked as she sat down next to him. Izzy sat on the table, her long legs hanging over the edge. And Éibhear sat between him and Izzy.
“I’m not really sure,” Celyn admitted.
“What did she say?” Éibhear asked.
“She basically said . . . she does not like me. We would not be friends. And if we had sex, it would be only because she was bored. Long nights and all.”
“The suns are setting earlier,” Éibhear noted.
Celyn gazed at his cousin, but he had nothing to say to him. Because as book smart as the blue dragon was, as battle-ready . . . he could be kind of stupid.
“Are you going to be okay doing this?” Brannie asked.
“Sure.”
“Maybe Brannie and I should come with you?” Izzy offered.
“Why not me?” Éibhear asked.
“That’s a good idea,” Brannie snorted. “Bringing a berserker Mì-runach along for a goodwill trip. Maybe you could decimate a few of the tribes to show them how much we care.”
Éibhear glared at his cousin. “Or you could have just said it wasn’t necessary for me to come.”
“Could have.” Brannie shrugged. “Didn’t.”
“You know what we need?” Izzy cut in before a fight could break out. “Information.”
Izzy looked over her shoulder at the back hallway and made a soft whistling sound between her teeth. Frederik, walking along with his head in a book and one of Dagmar’s dogs at his side, stopped and glanced over. He pointed at himself, seemingly surprised by the sudden attention, and Izzy rolled her eyes. “Yes, you.”
“Oh.” He closed the book and walked over to the table. “What is it?”
“We need information.”
“About?”
“The people of the Steppes. We can’t just send our dear Celyn out there alone with no information.”
“Well, we can—” Éibhear began, but Izzy cut him off by placing her hand over his face.
“Have anything for us, dear Frederik?”
“Not really. I just started doing some research since the decision was made to make an alliance with the Daughters of the Steppes. But,” he quickly added, “I do know someone who can help us. I’ll be right back.”
As he quickly walked away, the dog dutifully following, Izzy and Brannie leaned over a bit to get a better look at the young man from behind.
“He’s filling out quite nice, yeah, Iz?”
“Very promising.”
“You are aware I’m sitting right here?” Éibhear snappe
d.
“I’m just looking,” Izzy shot back. “Not licking.”
“Besides,” both females said together, “he’s Frederik.”
Celyn shook his head. “Éibhear and I don’t know what that means.”
Izzy patted Celyn’s shoulder. “That’s because you’re not female.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good enough excuse.”
Before the discussion could continue, Frederik returned, but he was carrying a stone-faced Unnvar by the shoulders.
Izzy frowned in concern when Frederik stood the young boy on a chair.
“Shouldn’t he be in bed?”
“I don’t sleep,” the boy replied. “Not much. Too much to learn.”
“If you’re not tired, why did you need to be carried out here like a statue?”
“Because when I asked him to come talk to you,” Frederik replied, “he said he didn’t have time for ridiculous conversations with his ridiculous kin about ridiculous issues. Not when he had a kingdom to help his mother manage.” When they all just stared, Frederik added, “Aunt Dagmar assures me he’s only ten . . . but I still question.”
“What is it?” Var pushed. “I have things to do and all of you are wasting my time.”
“Oookay,” Izzy said before asking. “What can you tell us about the people of the Steppes?”
Celyn and the others patiently waited for an answer . . . and they kept waiting.
Finally, Brannie snapped, “Are you going to answer us?”
“You actually expect information for free?”
Celyn leaned toward Éibhear and muttered, “I see that his mother has taught him well.”
“Here.” Izzy reached across the table and pulled a plate of pastries left over from the dinner close to the group. “Tell us and you get a treat.”
“Because now I’m a pet?”
Celyn exchanged wide-eyed glances with his sister. When they were only ten winters, they used to bet their older siblings that they could be the first to tear down their father’s castle by ramming their heads into the stone walls. They would eventually have to stop, though, when their father finally complained about the “gods-damn noise.” Of course they were both ten winters at different times, with Celyn being older, but according to their mother, all her offspring went through the same “destroying your father’s home with your head” phase at ten winters.
It seemed, however, that little Var wasn’t much like his Cadwaladr kin.
“Then what do you want?” Izzy snapped.
Not waiting for a reply, Éibhear took a coin pouch from his sword belt and removed a gold piece from it, holding it up for the boy to see. “If you answer our questions, I’ll give you this nice, shiny—”
Sighing, Var crouched down and snatched the coin purse from his uncle. He hefted it in his hand and nodded. “This should do. Now what was it you wanted to know?”
Celyn laughed but stopped when Éibhear coldly eyed him.
“The Steppes, tiny boy,” Izzy snarled.
“Ahhh, yes. Fascinating people. They are called the Daughters of the Steppes and they rule most of the Outerplains from the Conchobar Mountains to the Quintilian Provinces.”
“Wait,” Éibhear interrupted. “I thought the Outerplains cut through the Northland and Annaig Valley territories.”
“They do. But the Daughters of the Steppes’ territories go far past both until they reach around to the end of the Annaig Valley territories and slam right into the Quintilian Provinces.”
Izzy and Brannie chuckled and said together, “Reach around.”
“What’s their culture like?” Celyn asked.
“They are matriarchal. Women rule the Steppes and the women rule the men who live on the Steppes. When the first Anne Atli tore power from the original marauders, most of the men were killed. So when they go on raids, they often steal the older boys and young men.”
“They take slaves?” Brannie asked. “Annwyl’s not going to like that one damn bit.”
“Except the Riders do not consider their spoils of war slaves because once the boys are old enough, they take them as husbands.”
“Husbands?”
“The stronger and more mighty the warrior, the more husbands she can have. And some of them have many husbands.”
“Wait, does this Rider have many husbands?” Celyn asked.
“Awww, jealous?” Éibhear joked.
“No. I just don’t like to be used. I do have my boundaries.”
Brannie patted his knee. “Of course you do, brother.”
“Elina Shestakova of the Black Bear Riders of the Midnight Mountains of—”
“Do not repeat that entire name, Unnvar,” Celyn snapped.
“Anyway,” the boy went on, “she told me at dinner tonight that she has no husbands. No offspring. Until she proves to her tribe leader her worthiness, she will not be able to have a husband. Although she’s chosen not to at this time, she can have as many offspring as she wants since the Daughters do not believe in controlling a woman’s right to breed—”
“You mean they just control the men by forcing them into marriage?”
“Basically,” the boy replied with a shrug. “I’ll admit, it’s not what I would call a perfect system. But it has worked for the Riders for at least five thousand years. I doubt they’ll be willing to change just to accommodate Auntie Annwyl’s sense of right and wrong. Especially when they have little respect for Southland ideals in general. They consider us vapid wastrels unworthy of attention.”
“Why haven’t they tried to raid Southland towns?” Celyn asked, completely fascinated by all this. When he returned, he’d have to spend more time with Dagmar’s oldest offspring. He was a veritable font of interesting knowledge! Celyn could ask him questions for days! Of course, he’d need to make sure he had enough coin to get the answers.
“Luck. Our luck, I mean. The Conchobar Mountains separate their territory from ours, making it risky to move all their tribes through the narrow passes that cut through the mountain terrain. Since the entire tribes go along on raids, it would be easy to rain arrows down upon them, wiping out most of them in the process. Plus, the Southland royals who live between Annaig Valley and the Conchobar Mountains are more than willing to pay hefty sums of gold to keep the Riders from their door. That being said, of course, Annwyl would do well to either create an alliance between our two nations or at least not poke the bear, as they say. Thankfully, there’s always been enough to keep the Riders on their side of the Conchobar Mountains and away from us. But I’d hate for that to change because Annwyl suddenly decides to consider their husbands as slaves she will need to save. Please keep that in mind, cousin Celyn, when you accompany Elina Shestakova back to her territories.”
There was silence in the Great Hall as they all gazed at the boy in wonder. After a few seconds, Frederik leaned forward and stated, “Once again, I’ve asked, and according to his mother, he really, truly is only ten years old.” Then he gave a small shrug. “But I still have my doubts.”
Chapter Eleven
Elina woke up before the suns rose and was dressed and heading down the stairs into the Great Hall just as the servants began their daily chores. She started toward the Great Hall doors but stopped and turned, walking through the back double doors.
As she walked down the hall, she saw Queen Annwyl. The Southlander royal wore only her leggings and boots and had her breasts bound. She’d found a low-hanging rafter and was using her arms to pull her body up again and again, her legs bent at the knees and crossed at the ankles.
Elina marveled at the power of those muscles.
“Oy!” a voice yelled down the hallway. “Your royal majesty! Your training partner is about to set himself on fire waitin’ for yer arse!”
“Shut it!” the royal yelled back.
Annwyl released her grip and dropped to the ground. She moved her shoulders until her back cracked, then turned to pick up her shirt and the two short swords next to it. That’s when she saw Elina. r />
“Everything all right?” she asked.
“You sure you are queen?”
“I’m sure I’m Annwyl.” She pulled her sleeveless chain-mail shirt over her head. “The rest I just take as it comes.”
“You seem like leader. But you do not seem like queen.”
Annwyl frowned at that, but she took a moment before she finally asked, “Do you mean with robes and a crown and a throne . . . ?”
“And your royal sycophants bowing and scraping and begging for attention while they let your people, the ones who work the land, starve.”
“Royal sycophants?” she laughed. “Royals don’t come to me unless they have to. They find me . . . off-putting. And a little terrifying. And I let them find me that way, so I don’t have to talk to them unless necessary.” Annwyl stepped closer. “I took the throne from my brother because he abused his people. I took his head because he abused me. I’m not here to let others lead, Elina. I’m here to protect my people. And that’s what I do as best I can.”
Although the queen, with all the scars that spoke of hard battles, had stepped close to her, Elina didn’t feel threatened. She didn’t know why. Annwyl the Bloody was kind of terrifying-looking. She had scars on her face and chest and brands on her arms.
Elina took her forearms and turned them so she could see the brands clearly. They were dragons burned into the flesh. A testament, she guessed, to Annwyl’s commitment to the dragon Fearghus.
This woman, queen or not, hid nothing. From her people. From Elina. From the gods. She was exactly what she was and no crown or throne would ever change that. Elina knew this. In her bones, she knew this.
Elina took a breath, released Annwyl’s wrists. “I will return to my people, Annwyl the Bloody. I will talk to the Anne Atli. I will tell her there are no lazy, greedy Southlanders here.”
Annwyl laughed and walked off down the hall, tossing over her shoulder, “I guess you won’t be telling her about the dragons then, huh?”
“No,” Elina muttered to herself after a little snort. “Probably not.”
She headed back to the Great Hall, stopping as she walked through the open double doors.