Light My Fire. G.A. Aiken
But Annwyl would play this out like a proper queen, no matter how much it physically hurt not to start punching people.
“Ahh, I see. That does sound like an excellent discussion. But one that should be pursued under more . . . amiable conditions. Don’t you think?”
“Amiable conditions? What’s wrong with right here and right now?”
“To be quite blunt, treaties and alliances and truces are not what I do. I ensure they are maintained, but I don’t really draft the contracts and put them into play. I leave that to my steward, Dagmar Reinholdt, and Queen Rhiannon’s Royal Peacemaker, Bram the Merciful. If you want to be ensured of peace for your lands, Priestess, they would both need to be involved in any discussions between us.”
“Really? The Beast of Reinholdt and some dragon’s lackey? They tell you what to think?”
“No. But they do let me know whose head to put outside my castle walls for all the world to see . . . and enjoy until the flesh rots away.” Annwyl smiled. “You remember what that looks like . . . don’t you, Priestess?”
“My ladies,” Baron Thomas quickly intervened, stepping between them as Abertha’s Annaig Valley guards grew tense, their gazes hardening on Annwyl. “Please.”
“It’s all right, Baron.” The priestess patted the man’s arm. “We’re just two ladies talking.”
“Are we?” Annwyl asked.
“Oh, yes. There’s just so much for us to discuss,” she said pleasantly, as if they were having tea and scones. “For instance, your vile offspring, the Abominations, who will bring the True Darkness to this world. The Defiled Ones, such as yourself, who have lain with dragons like unholy whores and then birthed the spawn of such matings. All of that will have to be dealt with. Between us. Between friends.”
As Baron Pyrs, his face now a grey-white, slowly backed away from the pair, the other barons edged closer and closer to a side door. They hoped to make a mad escape.
Annwyl could see them all through the red haze that now surrounded her.
For a long moment, Annwyl didn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. But she forced herself—literally forced herself—not to move. Not to react. Not right away.
And that moment of doing nothing allowed her to notice that Abertha’s guards had not moved. They did not rush to their royal’s side, ready to defend her with their lives. And yet they were clearly waiting for Annwyl to do something.
Then it hit her. Like a slap to the face. This woman wanted Annwyl to cleave her head from her shoulders. She wanted Annwyl to unleash the wrath that Annwyl had become so famous for. They all knew what would take place if that happened. If Annwyl suddenly snapped and destroyed the bitch standing in front of her. And her guards. And the barons. Maybe even the poor servants who rushed in to help Baron Pyrs. They’d all fall to Annwyl’s swords, like so many before them. And after that . . . the word would travel like lightning throughout the lands: “Mad Queen Annwyl killed a defenseless priestess and her own royals!” all the traveling bards would sing.
This wasn’t about a truce or an alliance or even a chance to avenge her brother’s death.
No. Abertha was here for one reason and one reason only: to become a martyr to her god’s cause, most likely advancing it a thousandfold.
And if that happened, it would be no one’s fault but Annwyl’s.
Knowing the bitch was trying to use Annwyl’s well-honed rage for her own ends did nothing but piss Annwyl off more. But it also brought out what Annwyl’s father used to call her “petty, hateful side.” Then he would add, “You’re the only cow I know willing to cut off her own nose, just to spite her own gods-damn face.”
And he was right. Annwyl didn’t like being pushed. If she was pushed one way, she was likely to go another . . . just out of spite.
So she held on to that spite like a lifeline and calmly said, “We’re done here, Priestess Abertha.”
“My lady, please,” Baron Pyrs begged.
Annwyl, unsure how long she would be able to hold her temper in check, waved the baron off as she walked toward the front doors, but she stopped short when four of Abertha’s guards, in bright white surcoats with the rune of their god emblazoned in the color of blood, stepped in front of her—keeping her from the exit.
“Move,” Annwyl ordered softly. She didn’t dare scream that order. If she started screaming, she wouldn’t stop until everyone in the room was dead.
“We insist you stay, Queen Annwyl,” the priestess said from behind Annwyl, that warm note still in her voice. “We’re not done talking, you and I.”
Finally, Annwyl’s smile was real. Because now she had something to focus on. Something . . . disposable.
“Yes,” Annwyl replied, already feeling the relief in her muscles and brain. “I guess you are insisting.”
The winds rose up around them and Brastias looked to the skies to see two of his brothers-by-mating drop to the ground.
He walked away from his men and closer to Briec the Mighty and Gwenvael the Handsome.
“Brothers,” he greeted.
“I thought we told you not to call us that,” Gwenvael reminded him, tossing his overly long, golden locks off his face. The gold dragon had been forced to cut that hair to his shoulders in the last war, and since then, he’d let it become quite the unruly mane.
“What is wrong with that female?” snapped Briec, the perpetually complaining silver dragon. “Fearghus leaves for one bloody day, and she does something stupid. Is her whole purpose in life simply to irritate me?”
“Yes,” both Gwenvael and Brastias said together.
“Quiet,” he spit between his fangs. “Both of you.”
“Where is she, Brastias?” Gwenvael asked.
“She’s inside with Baron Pyrs.”
“Alone?”
“She’s still my queen, Briec. If she orders me and the guards to stay outside—”
“You ignore her! Why is that so hard for you weak humans to understand?”
Brastias looked to Gwenvael, and the Gold smirked. “That wasn’t rhetorical. He actually expects you to answer that question.”
“Well.” Briec sighed dramatically, the entire world apparently on his silver shoulders . . . or at least he seemed to think so. “I guess we have to go in there and get her.”
Without shifting to human, Briec stomped across the courtyard toward the front castle doors. But as he reached the steps, two swords rammed through the hard wood, blood streaking down both blades so that some of it hit Briec in the face.
Brastias winced, but Gwenvael just laughed.
“That can’t be good,” Gwenvael joked.
Briec looked over his shoulder at Brastias. “Do you see?” he bellowed, his claw wiping the blood from his eyes. “Do you understand now why I say the things I say?”
“Because you’re a mean bastard?” Brastias asked, which made Gwenvael laugh more. Something Briec didn’t appreciate in the least. But before he could swipe at Brastias with his tail—as he’d done more than once since Brastias had committed his life and love to Briec’s sister, Morfyd—the front doors opened and Annwyl walked out.
Drenched in blood—she’d always been a messy fighter—and carrying four heads by the hair, Annwyl came down the steps toward her horse. She walked under Briec like he wasn’t even there, easily maneuvering around his tail.
“What have you done now, ridiculous female?” the silver dragon snapped at her.
“Not what you think.”