January 2024 Newsletter
LIGHT MY FIRE
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The dragon rudely pulled Elina out of her home for the last eight months and into the bright sunlight of the town square.
The sunlight didn’t actually bother her. She’d been allowed to come and go as she’d pleased since being tossed into the jail. She’d soon become friendly with the townspeople, earning a little money at the local stables.
“Where are you taking me? To the gallows?” she asked.
“You need to stop talking that way. I’ve never met anyone so ready to die,” the dragon complained.
“I am always ready to die. At any time.”
He stopped. “Why?”
“Why what?”
A female who had dark hair and eyes like the fool before her stepped in. “I’ll let them know you’re bringing her.” Then she ran off laughing.
The dragon gave a short snarl before facing Elina. “Why do you want to die?”
“I have no desire to die.”
“Then why do you seem so ready for it?”
“To die with honor. If you cannot avoid death, then you must die with honor. Do you not plan to die with honor, dragon?”
“No,” he said plainly, dark eyes staring at her. “I plan to fight death all the way, dragging those trying to kill me along for the ride.”
“I would agree with you, dragon . . . except I am guilty of trying to kill your queen.”
“But you didn’t do a very good job. Perhaps if you were better at it, I’d feel more inclined to take your head myself. But at this point, it would feel like stepping on a squirrel. Annoying. Sad. And a little messy.”
Elina assumed that to a dragon she must seem like a small animal, but still . . . she didn’t appreciate being called one.
Pulling her arm away, Elina glanced around the town and nodded east. “Isn’t there a gallows that way?” she asked, walking off in that direction.
The dragon cut in front of her and, after a very long sigh, he leaned down and lifted Elina up, placing her on his shoulder.
As he stalked away from the gallows, he muttered something under his breath, but Elina couldn’t quite make it out.
***
Strong, cool fingers pressed against his temples, making soft circles before slipping into his hair.
Éibhear the Contemptible relaxed into his mate, enjoying how Izzy’s chain mail pressed against his back while she stood there rubbing his head.
They were all waiting. Still in the war room, everyone quietly chatting chatted amongst themselves.
“You know,” Izzy said softly, her words for him alone, “you no longer have to be so bitchy to your cousin.”
“I didn’t say a word to him.”
“You don’t realize, but your silence speaks volumes. You don’t think Celyn notices that? And when you do deign to say something to him, you’re definitely bitchy.”
Éibhear smirked. “I wouldn’t call it bitchy. I just call it terse and unpleasant.”
“It’s been years, Éibhear. Years. It’s time to let it go.”
“We buried our issues years ago.”
“But you still do not speak to one another.”
“Not true. When he sees me, he says, ‘Hello.’ And I always reply, ‘Cousin.’”
Izzy returned to his lap, her arms slipping around his neck. “I want you two to be friends again.”
“Izzy . . . we were never that close. He, like everyone else in the family, always thought I was an idiot.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because they said . . . ‘Éibhear . . . you’re an idiot.’”
“I don’t see how you can be so close to Brannie but so cold to her brother.”
“Brannie and I are close because of you. And she stopped calling me idiot after I threw her into that jungle pit with the hungry crocodile.”
Izzy laughed, but stopped abruptly when the war room door opened and Brannie walked in. “Celyn will be here in a minute,” she announced to the room before rushing over to Izzy’s side and pulling up a chair next to her.
She sat and stared at Izzy, her lips a thin line because she clearly had something to tell her.
“What?” Izzy whispered.
“You have to experience it for yourself, cousin.”
“Tell me,” she ordered, leaning forward and wiggling her bum around on Éibhear’s lap . . . something that he greatly enjoyed. “I must know, you cow!”
Éibhear often had to remind himself that in battle these two were an unbelievable team, bringing blood, death, and pain to all who challenged them. But when not in battle . . . they were absolutely ridiculous.
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.
The Rider took a moment to answer. “Perhaps.”
“So,” Celyn barked, “the woman who sent you here to die is the woman you need to go through to get to the tribes’ leader?”
“Why are you talking to me?” she suddenly bellowed.
“Because I’m fascinated by your willingness to die!”
“Enough!” Rhiannon ordered. She stopped, took a breath. “Will you do this for me, Elina?”
“I will. Of course.”
“Excellent!” the queen cheered, wrapping her arms around the woman’s shoulders and hugging her tight. “Such a . . . dear . . . sweet . . . girl!” she added between sniffs of the top of the human’s head. “And tasty smelling.”
“Mum!” Morfyd instantly chastised.
“What?” Rhiannon pushed the woman away. “She . . . just smells nice, is all. I wasn’t planning to eat her or anything. As I’ve been told many times . . . that’s still wrong.”
