Light My Fire

But Elina didn’t want to hear that at the moment. She wanted to be angry. It helped distract her from the pain in her head.

“I blame you,” she said, pointing at the silver-haired brown girl, Rhianwen.

Strange eyes wide, she looked up from the book she had in her lap and asked, “Me? What did I do?”

“If I did not have to listen to you whine about your fears over the unholy powers gifted to you by the gods, I would have seen my sister leave!”

For some reason, that made Talwyn laugh, something her cousin—although they looked nothing alike—did not appreciate.

In response to the laughter, Rhianwen grabbed hold of Talwyn’s upper arm. She didn’t seem to have the strongest grip, but when Talwyn pulled away, the bare skin that had been touched by Rhianwen’s hand began to turn grey and green with the decay of death.

Talwyn glared down at the area. It looked like the decay was spreading but soon, Talwyn’s body fought back and the area turned healthy once more.

Then Talwyn focused on her cousin and spit out some chant in a language Elina didn’t understand. Thick vines burst through the cave floor and grew until they reached Princess Rhianwen’s neck and wrapped around her throat. She grabbed at the vines, her breath choked off. The vines dragged her and her chair back until they crashed to the ground.

“That is enough!” Talan barked, abruptly waking from his slumber across the table.

Rhianwen finally managed to grip the vines around her throat and she quickly turned them into decaying dust.

Muttering, Celyn marched around the table and helped his kinswoman up.

“You three are much too old for this,” he admonished.

“Three?” Talan demanded. “I wasn’t doing anything! I was just bloody sleeping!”

“All you do is sleep! Every time I look at you, you’re sleeping!”

“I’m tired!”

“I have returned!” Kachka announced as she walked into the alcove. She dragged a large wild boar behind her by a rope and carried a wood box on her shoulder. A wood box Elina immediately recognized.

“Gods,” Talan noted to Elina around a large yawn. “Your women are strong.”

“Is that what I think it is, sister?” Elina asked Kachka, working hard not to show her sister how relieved she was to see her back.

“It is. I knew we had buried at least one case near these mountains. I just had to find it. And I did!”

She tossed the end of the rope to the monk Magnus. “Here, monk,” Kachka ordered him, “cook this. We will feast tonight!”

“What makes you think I know how to cook?” the monk asked.

“Then learn. Quickly. We do not have lifetime to wait.” Kachka placed the large wood box on the table and immediately pried off the top with her dagger.

“You risked leaving this cave for ale?” Celyn asked.

“Ale? Daughters of the Steppes do not drink ale. Ale is for the weak Southlander.” She lifted one of the precious bottles of clear liquid made each year with potatoes. “This is much better, comrades.”

Kachka removed the sealed cap and the small group moved closer to get a sniff.

“It has no scent,” Fia noted.

“It needs nothing like that,” Kachka said. “It is an amazing elixir that keeps you warm on cold Steppes nights.”

“I’ll try it,” Talwyn said.

“You will all try,” Kachka agreed, grinning. “We will celebrate that none of us is dead. At least not yet.”

Brigida made her slow, painful way down the passageway. Her bones ached, whether in her natural form or her human one, but after all these years, she’d gotten used to the pain. Used to always moving at a much slower pace. But her body had ever been the weakest part of her. It was her mind and mystical powers that had always meant the most to her, and those were still sharp as a well-honed sword.

So what was a little pain? Nothing. It was nothing.

As Brigida neared the caverns where she’d put Rhianwen and her cousins, all their friends, and now Ghleanna’s boy with his Outerplains females, she could hear . . . singing.

Smirking, she made her way into the cavern, stopping as soon as she saw the two sisters sitting on the dining table, their bodies resting against each other, as they sang a jaunty tune in the language of the Outerplains about death and pain and life on the Steppes.

Because only the Daughters and Sons of the Steppes could happily sing about that.

Each woman held a bottle half-filled with drink, and their voices harmonized beautifully together.

As for the rest, they were passed out amongst a number of empty bottles. Even the two males who’d been trained as monks.

Except for Celyn, who’d learned to drink among the Cadwaladr Clan. He was still awake, but so drunk he couldn’t even stand. He just kept nodding to the sound of the singing while his eyes stayed closed and his hand gripped a near-empty bottle.

No, this hadn’t been what Brigida had planned. She’d thought the offspring, the Abominations, as many liked to call them, were much more advanced. Much more pointed in their hatred and bloodlust. But, for once, Brigida had been wrong.

The boy seemed more than happy sleeping, drinking, chatting with his thickheaded friend, and sizing up the women who’d accompanied his sister and Celyn. He was, basically, a pleasant fellow.

Brigida didn’t need pleasant fellows.

Then there were the two girls.

The pretty brown one either smiled too much or cried too much. She seemed incapable of finding a happy center. And forget hatred. She seemed to have none. Everyone could be redeemed in her foolish eyes.