Light My Fire Read online

  A change Annwyl was finding hard to make, not because she didn’t want to, but because so many didn’t seem to believe in her. Even her own general commander.

  Yet, instead of snapping at Brastias that he should “fuck off ” before she slapped him off his horse, she took a breath, waited ten seconds, and calmly replied, “I can handle it.”

  Brastias shrugged. “All right.”

  No. She didn’t hear a lot of faith in that reply. Not a lot of faith at all. But she wouldn’t slap him off his horse, no matter how much she truly wanted to.

  And gods . . . did she want to.

  “You lot wait here,” she ordered him and her personal guard.

  “Are you sure you shouldn’t wait for Briec and Gwenvael to arrive?” one of her guards asked. “They shouldn’t be too long.”

  Why should she do that? She could handle this. Why was everyone questioning her?

  “I said—” Annwyl stopped. Calm and easy, she told herself. Calm and bloody easy.

  “It’ll be fine.” Annwyl dismounted the large horse that had been specifically chosen by her mate for the beast’s calm manner in battle and ease around dragons.

  Annwyl climbed the steps two at a time and walked into the large hall. The four men standing by one of the tables immediately stopped speaking and turned to face her.

  She forced a closed-mouth smile. “My lords.”

  “My lie—” Baron Thomas stopped, tried again. “My Quee . . . uh . . .” He glanced at the other royals. “My . . . lady?”

  Annwyl shook her head. “They’re all fine,” she lied. She hated all the bowing and scraping that came with being a ruler, and they all knew it, but part of being queen, according to Dagmar, was “sucking up” the royal titles that were thrown one’s way.

  Annwyl was trying hard to suck it up.

  “We appreciate your taking the time, my lady. We all know there is much occupying you in the kingdom.”

  “True, but I can’t neglect the lords who help protect my lands.”

  Annwyl winced a bit. Did those words sound as false to their ears as they did to her own?

  She reached to scratch her head but knew that would mean her hair would fall in her eyes and, as she’d been told many times by Dagmar and her dragon sister-by-mating Keita, that just made her “look like a mad cow.”

  But having her hand just linger by her head like that looked strange, she was sure, so she carefully smoothed down her hair to either side of her head so that the part stayed clear and her hair appeared shiny and straight. Not messy and insane.

  “Now . . . what can I help you with, Baron Pyrs?”

  “Queen Annwyl,” a female voice said from behind her.

  Annwyl’s hand instantly reached for her sword as she turned just her torso to get a look at who stood behind her.

  “My lady, please!” Baron Pyrs begged as he ran around to stand between Annwyl and the woman behind her. “You are not in danger. I swear on my name. This is just a casual meeting.”

  Annwyl’s hand shook as it rested against the hilt of 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 u
nder 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.

  And that moment of doing nothing allowed her to notice that Abertha’s guards had not moved. They did not rush to their royal’s side, ready to defend her with their lives. And yet they were clearly waiting for Annwyl to do something.

  Then it hit her. Like a slap to the face. This woman wanted Annwyl to cleave her head from her shoulders. She wanted Annwyl to unleash the wrath that Annwyl had become so famous for. They all knew what would take place if that happened. If Annwyl suddenly snapped and destroyed the bitch standing in front of her. And her guards. And the barons. Maybe even the poor servants who rushed in to help Baron Pyrs. They’d all fall to Annwyl’s swords, like so many before them. And after that . . . the word would travel like lightning throughout the lands: “Mad Queen Annwyl killed a defenseless priestess and her own royals!” all the traveling bards would sing.

  This wasn’t about a truce or an alliance or even a chance to avenge her brother’s death.

  No. Abertha was here for one reason and one reason only: to become a martyr to her god’s cause, most likely advancing it a thousandfold.

  And if that happened, it would be no one’s fault but Annwyl’s.

  Knowing the bitch was trying to use Annwyl’s well-honed rage for her own ends did nothing but piss Annwyl off more. But it also brought out what Annwyl’s father used to call her “petty, hateful side.” Then he would add, “You’re the only cow I know willing to cut off her own nose, just to spite her own gods-damn face.”

  And he was right. Annwyl didn’t like being pushed. If she was pushed one way, she was likely to go another . . . just out of spite.

  So she held on to that spite like a lifeline and calmly said, “We’re done here, Priestess Abertha.”

  “My lady, please,” Baron Pyrs begged.

  Annwyl, unsure how long she would be able to hold her temper in check, waved the baron off as she walked toward the front doors, but she stopped short when four of Abertha’s guards, in bright white surcoats with the rune of their god emblazoned in the color of blood, stepped in front of her—keeping her from the exit.

  “Move,” Annwyl ordered softly. She didn’t dare scream that order. If she started screaming, she wouldn’t stop until everyone in the room was dead.

  “We insist you stay, Queen Annwyl,” the priestess said from behind Annwyl, that warm note still in her voice. “We’re not done talking, you and I.”

  Finally, Annwyl’s smile was real. Because now she had something to focus on. Something . . . disposable.

  “Yes,” Annwyl replied, already feeling the relief in her muscles and brain. “I guess you are insisting.”

  The winds rose up around them and Brastias looked to the skies to see two of his brothers-by-mating drop to the ground.

  He walked away from his men and closer to Briec the Mighty and Gwenvael the Handsome.

  “Brothers,” he greeted.

  “I thought we told you not to call us that,” Gwenvael reminded him, tossing his overly long, golden locks off his face. The gold dragon had been forced to cut that hair to his shoulders in the last war, and since then, he’d let it become quite the unruly mane.

  “What is wrong with that female?” snapped Briec, the perpetually complaining silver dragon. “Fearghus leaves for one bloody day, and she does something stupid. Is her whole purpose in life simply to irritate me?”

  “Yes,” both Gwenvael and Brastias said together.

  “Quiet,” he spit between his fangs. “Both of you.”

  “Where is she, Brastias?” Gwenvael asked.

  “She’s inside with Baron Pyrs.”

  “Alone?”

  “She’s still my queen, Briec. If she orders me and the guards to stay outside—”

  “You ignore her! Why is that so hard for you weak humans to understand?”

  Brastias looked to Gwenvael, and the Gold smirked. “That wasn’t rhetorical. He actually expects you to answer that question.”

  “Well.” Briec sighed dramatically, the entire world apparently on his silver shoulders . . . or at least he seemed to think so. “I guess we have to go in there and get her.”

  Without shifting to human, Briec stomped across the courtyard toward the front castle doors. But as he reached the steps, two swords rammed through the hard wood, blood streaking down both blades so that some of it hit Briec in the face.

  Brastias winced, but Gwenvael just laughed.

  “That can’t be good,” Gwenvael joked.

  Briec looked over his shoulder at Brastias. “Do you see?” he bellowed, his claw wiping the blood from his eyes. “Do you understand now why I say the things I say?”

  “Because you’re a mean bastard?” Brastias asked, which made Gwenvael laugh more. Something Briec didn’t appreciate in the least. But before he could swipe at Brastias with his tail—as he’d done more than once since Brastias had committed his life and love to Briec’s sister, Morfyd—the front doors opened and Annwyl walked out.

  Drenched in blood—she’d always been a messy fighter—and carrying four heads by the hair, Annwyl came down the steps toward her horse. She walked under Briec like he wasn’t even there, easily maneuvering around his tail.

  “What have you done now, ridiculous female?” the silver dragon snapped at her.

  “Not what you think.” She gave a short whistle and her big horse lowered himself so that Annwyl could get onto his back without releasing her new heads.

  Once in her saddle, her horse stood and Annwyl took hold of the reins in her free hand. Without another word, she turned her horse around and headed out.

  Brastias motioned to her guards and they immediately followed after their queen. Not that she needed them to keep her safe. Her barely contained rage should do that until she got back to Garbhán Isle.

  “Well, well,” Gwenvael said, his gaze on the castle steps. “The lovely Priestess Abertha.”

  Brastias swung around to see that Gwenvael was correct. The lovely—and infinitely cruel—Abertha stood on the steps of Baron Pyrs’s castle, her white robes pristine, the suns shining down on her hea
d, casting her in a glow that brilliantly hid her true evil nature.

  But, at least she was alive. Alive! Shocking, to be honest. Brastias had always thought if Annwyl had the chance, Abertha would be the first person she would kill. Ten years ago, it wouldn’t have even been a question. But it seemed that Dagmar Reinholdt’s work with the queen had been effective.

  As he looked past the priestess, the only bodies Brastias saw were of her guards. A “misunderstanding” that could easily be explained away, unlike the death of an important and “innocent” priestess.

  “My dear lady,” Gwenvael noted, smirking, “you seem . . . disappointed. Did Queen Annwyl not give you what you crave?”

  Abertha tried to smile, but all she could manage was a small grunt as her lips sort of turned up in the corners. It was not attractive.

  Briec, seeing Abertha alive, turned away from her without speaking, but he swung his tail out and, instinctively, the priestess dropped to the ground before the sharpened tip could slash her face or toss her slim human body into the unforgiving stone walls.

  “I’m going home,” Briec said, shaking out his wings. “I suggest you do the same, Brastias.”

  Brastias agreed. It was never a good idea to linger after Annwyl had one of her “moments” as Morfyd liked to call them.

  He mounted his steed and briefly watched Priestess Abertha get to her feet. As she did, Baron Pyrs ran down the steps toward Brastias. Now that Annwyl and the dragon brothers were gone, the baron wasn’t afraid to venture from the safety of his castle walls.

  “My Lord Brastias—” he began.

  “I am no lord, Baron Pyrs. Merely a humble general of Queen Annwyl’s armies.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And if you see me again, it’ll most likely be to tear down the walls of your fine home, stone by bloody stone.”

  Brastias turned his horse to ride away, but the baron quickly moved to stand beside him.

  “Brastias, wait—”

  “It’s not me you need to be talking to, my lord. I’m a soldier. I bring war, I don’t stop it. If you want to beg for the safety of your family after this foolishness, then you’d best get in touch with Lady Dagmar. She is the one you need to plead your case to. She’s the one who will keep you alive. Do we understand each other?”