Light My Fire. G.A. Aiken

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      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—”

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