Light My Fire

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m not quite sure. But I really feel like I should say I’m sorry.”

Elina shook her head. “For this, you should not apologize. This had nothing to do with you and everything to do with these cult people.”

“This is bad,” Celyn said, forcing himself to stand. “Worse than we thought. I mean, the building alone . . .”

“It’s like they want all priests and disciples of the other gods to know they are bigger and better.”

“We can’t stay here. I’m sure they’ll be coming for us.”

With a shrug, “If they have not caught up to us by now . . .”

“It’s not like we’ve traveled that far, woman. We can’t wait here for them to show up.”

Elina studied Celyn for a long moment without saying a word.

“What?” he pushed when the silence went on for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“We have been on road for five hours.”

As Celyn stumbled back, Elina caught his arm, the only reason he didn’t slip in his own vomit.

“What?”

“We backtracked a bit, went through river to destroy our scent, then headed long way round until we reached road again. I doubt they will find us.”

“I don’t remember any of that. I don’t remember anything.”

Celyn paced around Elina, his hands on his head. “This is bad. Much worse than I thought.”

“So what do you want to do? We cannot sit here all day.”

“Costentyn.”

“I do not know that word.”

“It’s not a word. It’s a dragon. An old dragon. Might no longer be living, but he knows a lot.”

“Why would he know anything of what we need?”

“He likes knowledge. From books. From other dragons. Even from people. He loves to wander through towns and villages as human, talking to everyone. When I was younger, my father and I used to go to his cave to chat. My father would ask advice and I would just listen. He always had such interesting information. And, unlike some cranky Riders I know, he was never stingy with the answers when I asked questions.”

“It is not that you ask questions, Dolt. It is that you ask so many. Why must you ask so many?”

“Because I’m curious. Imagine if we hadn’t gone into that giant penis temple.”

“We would not be wanted for murder?”

Celyn winced. “Good point.”

“But you are right. Most people find their own way to the gods. This is like . . . they are being trapped. Their mind stopped and wiped clean so someone else’s truth and lies can replace everything else the person knows. I do not like that. I do not think it is fair.” She walked to her horse. “Come, Dolt. Let us go see your friend who is old. Perhaps he can tell us of the dark times that are coming.”

Celyn glanced up at the sky. It was nearing the end of a bright, beautiful early winter’s day, but the Rider was right.

Dark times were coming.

Chapter Sixteen

Dagmar Reinholdt studied the parchment handed to her by her assistant Mabsant before signing it with a flourish and affixing her seal.

Many years ago, Annwyl had given Dagmar the power to sign for her just as Dagmar’s father had. Except Annwyl had appeared much more relieved to be handing over the tedious day-to-day business to her sister-by-mating. Dagmar’s father had handed over the power, but he had done so very grudgingly.

Yet even though Dagmar now had immense power, she never allowed herself to entertain the possibility of abusing it. For two very good reasons. The first, which was new to her, was the intense feeling that to abuse such power would be wrong. Usually, Dagmar didn’t bother herself with right and wrong. She left that to men who received their power simply by being born with a penis. Everyone else had to fight for what was theirs.

The second reason was a simple one: Annwyl might hate the day-to-day, but she protected her power as queen the way she protected her children. With a blinding, passionate force of will.

Besides, Dagmar had worked hard all these years to rein in the queen’s quirkier tendencies. Not that Dagmar didn’t enjoy that side of Annwyl, but she wasn’t just some soldier or even some respected general. She was queen. And she needed to represent herself as such. Especially if she hoped to keep control of her lands and her alliances.

But that’s what Dagmar was here for. To help Annwyl any way she could.

Mabsant, who’d worked with Dagmar for nearly eight years now, placed another parchment in front of her.

“This is from Baron Neish. He’d like some of Queen Annwyl’s troops to help him keep order.”

Dagmar squinted up at her assistant. She didn’t need her precious spectacles to do close-in work, but she couldn’t hope to see anything more than a few feet away without them. “Why can’t he maintain his own order?”

“There seems to be some discord among the religious sects in his city.”

Dagmar leaned back in the big wood chair. “That’s the . . . third?”

“Aye, m’lady.”

“Yes. The third time we’ve heard such complaints from one of the outer cities.” The Chramnesind cults were growing bolder—and meaner. Which was interesting since they preached unity and love. But Dagmar was not fooled. The truth was Chramnesind’s worshippers believed in hate. Hatred of the ones they called the Abominations. The mixing of human and dragon blood that had created . . .