by G. A. Aiken
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.
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 snapp
ed.
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.
