Light My Fire (Dragon Kin #7)(68)

“I do joke,” he laughed. “But it was worth it to see the look on your face.”

He and his travel-cow started off again and Elina followed, fighting her desire to shoot him in the back with an arrow as the laughter went on and on.

They continued across the Southlands until they reached the territorial lines between the Outerplains. That’s where they halted their horses and sat . . . staring.

“You look worried,” Celyn finally stated.

“I always look like this.”

“No. You usually just look concerned . . . or a little angry. This expression . . . definitely worried.”

“I am fine. And we should go. We should reach the Conchobar Mountains pass by nightfall so that we can head through first thing in the morning.”

Celyn blinked. “What are you talking about? The mountain pass is right there.”

“There are two passes through Conchobar Mountains.”

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“One here,” she went on, “that goes into Annaig Valley. The second is the one that will place us inside Steppes territory. That is one we will take.”

“Or,” Celyn suggested, “we can take this pass and go into Annaig Valley.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Mostly for the hells of it. I call it the sweep-through.”

“A sweep-through? What battle tactic is that?”

“It’s not a battle tactic. It’s what my sister Brannie and I used to do when Mum and Da had parties in Da’s house. He had a lot of intellectual friends back then. And let me tell you . . . intellectuals can drink. So we would come downstairs like we were just wandering by to say good night or chat a bit with my da’s human friends. And by the time we got back upstairs, we would have eight bottles of wine, two whole turkeys, several loaves of bread, and some sweets.”

“You want us to sweep through Annaig Valley so you can steal wine and food?”

“No. Just to get a look. If we do it casually enough, I doubt anyone will notice. We won’t even go near the city of Levenez; which, in my estimation, would be the most dangerous place to go.”

Elina glanced off, but when she looked back at him, she asked, “How did you steal whole turkey and no one notice?”

“Skills. Very impressive skills.”

Var tracked his mother down in the library. It was a dark but vast room, its winding length reaching deep into the castle. His mother often found the farthest spot and settled in to get real work done. The only ones who ever bothered her here were Var, Frederik, or his mother’s assistant.

As he’d known he would, Var found his mother sitting on the floor, her back against a wall. Books, scrolls, and unused parchment surrounded her. Her spectacles had been pushed up so that they now rested on her forehead rather than her nose.

He sat down beside her and picked up one of the scrolls. He read through the information quickly and, after a few minutes, his mother asked, “So what do you think?”

“I think that the Salebiri family grows in power. And we should be greatly concerned. But if we can get an alliance in place with the Riders of the Steppes . . . that will be nothing but good for us.”

“And?”

Var turned things over in his mind before adding, “But we should never trust the Riders. Not fully. Unlike the Northlanders, their loyalties can be bought with enough gold and jewels. They talk of loyalty and honor, but only to their own people. Outsiders are fair game.”

Grinning, his mother put her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tightly, kissing his forehead.

Although Var never said it, he adored his mother. She’d given him the tools necessary to think. To analyze. To treat one’s mind like a muscle no different from the ones in his arms or legs. How could he not love her more than any being he’d ever known?

This love of Dagmar Reinholdt was, perhaps, the only thing he and Var’s father had in common.

With her arms still around him, his mother asked, “So what brings you looking for me this day?”

“I’ve come to ask, again, about going to live with Uncle Bram. At least for a little while. Until he finds a new assistant.”

“You detest your father that much?”

“I don’t detest him. I just can’t stand him. And my uncles aren’t much better, except Uncle Fearghus, and that’s only because we barely speak to each other. They are distractions, Mother. How can I hope to learn more when they’re busy causing problems? The constant arguing. The constant fighting. The way their voices carry beyond what I would call acceptable levels of discourse. If only you and my aunts lived here, this wouldn’t be a problem. But you don’t. You live with them. And my sisters, who seem to make no other sound but high-pitched screeching. I don’t know how you tolerate it.”

“You forget where I come from. You’ve met your uncles in the north. They make your sisters seem like whispering willows in the breeze.”

“All I ask for is a chance to know what it’s like to enjoy civilized dinner discussions. To not have those discussions dissolve into yet another episode of who can slam my father’s head the hardest against the table or wall. Of not having to constantly think to myself, ‘Well . . . Father did deserve that.’ Uncle Bram is more than happy to take me on as his protégé, and I want the chance to work with him. Really work with him. Not just spend five or ten minutes with him when he comes by Garbhán Isle, only to lose him to something else Aunt Annwyl did to piss off another royal that Uncle Bram then has to fix.”