Light My Fire (Dragon Kin #7)(128)

“Honestly,” Éibhear insisted, “I can go by myself and bring her back if she’s really on the road to—”

“Are you insane?” Izzy barked. “When she gets like this, she won’t stop. Ever.”

“Ever,” Brannie echoed.

“Just do what we say, Éibhear. Get Daddy and Gwenvael, but keep this from Fearghus. It’ll just upset him.”

“With good reason,” Brannie agreed.

“And meet us outside the gates.”

“All right,” Éibhear stated as he got out of his chair.

“And remember . . . quiet. Very quiet. We don’t need panic.”

“Okay, but—”

“No panic!”

Éibhear reared back. “I’ll go find Gwenvael and Briec.”

“You do that.”

Izzy watched Éibhear walk out of the hall, then focused on Brannie. “We should have seen this coming, Bran.”

“Don’t worry, Iz. We’ll find her.”

“You better hope so. We all better hope so. . . .”

“Come now. Don’t sound so worried. Annwyl’s on horseback and she just left. How far do you really think she could get?”

Andreeva Fyodorov practiced with the new bow one of her daddies had given her. Her mother said that since she wasn’t sure which of them was Andreeva Fyodorov’s father, Andreeva would call all of her mother’s husbands, “Daddy.”

It didn’t matter to Andreeva. They made her bows. They healed her wounds. They trained her to ride and hunt, but it would be Andreeva’s mother and aunts who taught her how to fight. How to be a warrior. What else mattered for the Daughters of the Steppes?

Andreeva raised her bow and pointed it at the back of her little brother’s head. But her older sister slapped the bow from her hand.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You only aim your bow when you plan to shoot. And we don’t shoot those born of the Steppes. Ever. Remember, we are the . . . the . . .”

Andreeva’s sister looked around, as did the others nearby. The cold, bracing winds of the Steppes had suddenly begun to rise. But not from the north or south, east or west. But from the ground . . . up.

The land beneath their feet pitched and rolled. Andreeva’s sister picked her up in her arms and held her close to her chest as the winds whipped their hair and clothes around, their tents shaking as if they might blow away.

Then, just as quickly as all that wind whipping and ground shaking began . . . it stopped.

And they were there.

An old hag with a tall walking stick and a younger woman wearing a sleeveless chain-mail shirt, chain-mail leggings, and leather boots, and with brands on her scarred arms. She had many weapons.

The woman looked around, her gaze briefly falling on Andreeva. Instinctively, Andreeva leaned back, but her sister wasn’t having it. She placed Andreeva on the ground and pushed her forward.

“Never show fear to a Southlander,” her sister hissed angrily at her. “An imperialistic, corrupt society that is not worthy of our fear or our attention. Never forget that, Andreeva.”

Andreeva nodded at her sister’s command and, boldly, she walked up to the woman.

“No, no! Andreeva, wait. That’s not what I meant!”

But Andreeva ignored her sister this time. She was too close to the woman not to be curious about her. Her weapons were fine, of very high quality. Her chain mail fit her perfectly. As did her boots. But she was very scarred and unkempt otherwise. As for the old hag . . . she was just horrifying to look at, so Andreeva didn’t bother.

The woman suddenly looked down at her, her golden-brown hair falling into her face, nearly covering those eyes.

“Glebovicha,” the woman said.

Andreeva knew her. She was one of the tribal leaders who reported to the Anne Atli.

So she took the woman’s hand and led her to the tent where an all-tribes meeting was taking place.

The tent of her mother.

The tent of the Anne Atli.

So focused were they on Annwyl, none of the Riders noticed Brigida before she blended in with the surroundings so that she could no longer be seen by anyone but Annwyl, and then only because she was allowing Annwyl to see her.

Brigida stood at the tent entrance and watched the human queen walk into the center of all the tribal leaders sitting cross-legged on the ground.

Brigida knew all of them. Over time she’d met them or their mothers . . . or their mothers’ mothers. Long ago, Brigida had made it her business to know anyone whom she might one day need. Whether it was for trading or food or souls.

The Daughters of the Steppes had a mighty power among them, one that Brigida wasn’t afraid to use when necessary. But her question was, would this human queen be able to use their power? Or had she been so tamped down by logic and reason and royal duty that she no longer knew who she was or what she could do?

That’s what Brigida needed to know.

She needed the truth.

Anne Atli, the leader of the Daughters of the Steppes, watched the human queen from her raised spot on the tent floor, but she said nothing. Instead it was her sister, Magdalina Fyodorov, who spoke, as Anne Atli’s second in command.

“Who are you, Southlander?”

“I am Annwyl the Bloody.”

“The Southlander queen? You?” Magdalina frowned. “Really?”