Light My Fire

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?”

“Yes, really.”

“All right.” The Rider shrugged. “So I guess you are here to discuss that alliance between our people and—”

“No,” Annwyl cut in, her gaze still sweeping over the other tribal leaders.

“Pssst,” Brigida called out. “You kind of are.”

“I don’t care about fucking alliances,” Annwyl shot back. “I’m here for Glebovicha Shestakova. Where is she?”

“I am Glebovicha Shestakova,” the Shestakova tribal leader called out. “What do you want, imperialist dog?”

Annwyl placed her hands on her hips. “You owe your daughter an eye.”

Grinning, Glebovicha slowly got to her feet. And she kept getting to her feet as she surpassed Annwyl to eventually tower over the human queen.

“Then,” Glebovicha snarled down at a suddenly pale Annwyl the Bloody, “come and get it for her.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Celyn tracked down the off-duty Queen’s Guards and instructed them to spread out and look for anything unusual. If his uncle was worried about the day, then Celyn would take him seriously. Though to his face, he’d rather mock his uncle a little. There was just something about Bercelak that begged for a bit of mocking.

Once he’d sent the guards on their way, Celyn cut through town, stopping at a few of his favorite places to chat with the owners.

“Everything all right here, Stenam?”

“Quite well. Business is good. I’ll have to start getting my youngest son up to speed with his brothers and sisters so he can help with the new workload.”

“Where is young Robert?” Celyn asked as he drank water from the jug Stenam kept for that purpose.

“Off with his friends.”

Celyn grinned. “Playing spy again?”

“Of course. Although when I was their age, I liked to play soldier. But these little bastards are a sneaky bunch. So they play spy. And with these new people cutting through town the last few days, their interest has been caught, but good.”

Celyn, with a mouthful of water, stared at the blacksmith as he pounded a sword blade into submission.

Finally gulping that water down, Celyn asked, “New people? What new people?”

“Don’t know. They’ve been cutting in and out of town for the last few days. I just figured they were more workers that Harold the Stonemason hired. He says the queen has been pushing him a bit to get her tower done before the first snows. So I know he’s hired some outside people.”

“And they just started arriving?”

Stenam shrugged. “I guess. Maybe in the last week or so.”