Light My Fire. G.A. Aiken

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      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.

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