Light My Fire. G.A. Aiken

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СКАЧАТЬ one of the blades strapped to her back. It did not shake from fear, but the overwhelming desire to remove the sword from its scabbard and kill everyone in the room.

      But Annwyl heard Dagmar’s voice in her head. She’d been hearing it for years now, telling her the same thing. I’m sure that, with some practice, you can stop killing people who simply annoy you. Come now, let’s give it that royal tutor try, shall we?

      Then Annwyl thought about Brastias and her personal guard standing outside. She knew they were waiting for her to start a massacre they’d have to clean up or explain to the two dragons headed her way at this very moment.

      She could already see Gwenvael’s smirk and hear Briec’s put-upon sigh. She could hear it all.

      They all expected her to fail.

      Again, Annwyl let out a breath, carefully lowered her hand, and turned to squarely face the woman behind her.

      “Priestess Abertha.”

      Or, as Annwyl liked to call her, “Priestess Fucking Abertha.”

      She hailed from the Annaig Valley, a small but powerful valley territory tucked behind the Conchobar Mountains of the Outerplains, which reached as far inland as the Quintilian Provinces. The city of Levenez was its seat of power and its ruler was Duke Roland Salebiri.

      To be honest, Annwyl had never paid much attention to the Salebiri family. For almost three decades, she’d been focused on troubles from the horse riders of the Western Mountains, who ran a still-thriving slave trade, and the senate of the Quintilian Provinces. So some little territory caught between the raiding Steppes Riders of the Outerplains and the outskirts of the Provinces had been the least of her worries.

      Until Salebiri had found what would bring him true power. The worship of a god. Not several gods, but just one. Salebiri ruled from that religious power, demanding loyalty not to his land or his people but to one demanding god.

      Chramnesind. The Sightless One, he was called, because he lacked eyes or something.

      Annwyl didn’t know or care. She hated the gods, pretty much all of them. But more than gods, she hated humans who did horrible things while proclaiming themselves holy and righteous because of their gods.

      Yet of all the holy sycophants she’d had to deal with the last few years, Annwyl loathed most of all Priestess Abertha, the sister of Duke Salebiri and the biggest hypocrite Annwyl had ever had the displeasure of meeting.

      The priestess smiled that falsely warm smile. “You remember me, don’t you, Queen Annwyl?”

      “Of course I remember you,” Annwyl said, forcing her own smile. “You’re beautiful.” And Priestess Abertha truly was with her lean figure, waist-length golden-blond hair, and startling green eyes.

      She was also the diseased cunt who’d preached from her ever-more-powerful pulpit that Annwyl’s twins “should have been drowned at birth to appease our good and wondrous lord.”

      “So what brings you to my territories?” Annwyl asked.

      “Baron Pyrs thought it would be good for us to meet under better circumstances than last time.”

      Now Annwyl worked very hard not to smile—as much as she might want to. It had been years. Her son had gone off to train with the Brotherhood of the Far Mountains on the other side of the Quintilian Provinces. Her daughter had gone to the Ice Lands to train with the Kyvich warrior witches. And her niece, Rhianwen, had gone off with her own blood kin to the Desert Lands to train with the Nolwenn witches.

      A meeting of local rulers from the west, north, and south had been arranged, and all had been going relatively well until, during a grand feast, Abertha’s younger brother, Thomas, pointed a damning finger at Dagmar and called her a seething whore of corruption. Why? Because he’d seen her kiss her mate, Gwenvael the Handsome, a known dragon. Gwenvael had been in his human form at the time, but Thomas Salebiri had not cared.

      Dagmar had been unimpressed with all the theatrics, and Gwenvael had been amused. Annwyl, however, had taken the loudmouth fuck’s head. Right there in the Great Hall of her home.

      It had not gone over well with the other royals. Her current alliances still held, but barely.

      And that’s when Dagmar had begun explaining to Annwyl, “You just can’t do that, you mad bitch. No matter how much I love you, you can’t do that!”

      It had been the last head Annwyl had taken outside of battle or a trial. So it was a fond memory . . . for Annwyl.

      “That sounds . . . promising,” Annwyl lied. “What is it you wish to speak to me about?”

      “The peace of our two nations.”

      Nations? Really?

      Annwyl could already see the first problem. That the Salebiris believed they ruled a nation rather than a good-sized valley stuck between practically impassable mountains and a land of vicious raiders. But Annwyl would play this out like a proper queen, no matter how much it physically hurt not to start punching people.

      “Ahh, I see. That does sound like an excellent discussion. But one that should be pursued under more . . . amiable conditions. Don’t you think?”

      “Amiable conditions? What’s wrong with right here and right now?”

      “To be quite blunt, treaties and alliances and truces are not what I do. I ensure they are maintained, but I don’t really draft the contracts and put them into play. I leave that to my steward, Dagmar Reinholdt, and Queen Rhiannon’s Royal Peacemaker, Bram the Merciful. If you want to be ensured of peace for your lands, Priestess, they would both need to be involved in any discussions between us.”

      “Really? The Beast of Reinholdt and some dragon’s lackey? They tell you what to think?”

      “No. But they do let me know whose head to put outside my castle walls for all the world to see . . . and enjoy until the flesh rots away.” Annwyl smiled. “You remember what that looks like . . . don’t you, Priestess?”

      “My ladies,” Baron Thomas quickly intervened, stepping between them as Abertha’s Annaig Valley guards grew tense, their gazes hardening on Annwyl. “Please.”

      “It’s all right, Baron.” The priestess patted the man’s arm. “We’re just two ladies talking.”

      “Are we?” Annwyl asked.

      “Oh, yes. There’s just so much for us to discuss,” she said pleasantly, as if they were having tea and scones. “For instance, your vile offspring, the Abominations, who will bring the True Darkness to this world. The Defiled Ones, such as yourself, who have lain with dragons like unholy whores and then birthed the spawn of such matings. All of that will have to be dealt with. Between us. Between friends.”

      As Baron Pyrs, his face now a grey-white, slowly backed away from the pair, the other barons edged closer and closer to a side door. They hoped to make a mad escape.

      Annwyl could see them all through the red haze that now surrounded her.

      For a long moment, Annwyl didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. But she forced herself—literally forced herself—not to move. Not to react. Not right away.

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