Light My Fire
Page 89
“Perhaps,” he reminded her, “you forget that you are a Cadwaladr. First. Last. And always. The protection of our Clan is and always will be the most important thing. We protect our queen. We protect our people. But we always, and I mean always, protect our kin. Now, I don’t know what your worthless, royal father may have taught you. But I do know that your human and most likely insane mother did teach you that. And I know you didn’t forget it.”
Talwyn’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but before this could escalate, Talan stepped in front of her, blocking her and Celyn from each other’s sight.
“Now,” Talan said calmly, stepping back and forcing his sister to do the same, so that there was space between them and Celyn, “we did make an . . . unauthorized departure from our companions of the last few years.”
“And you brought company.”
“We did. I brought Magnus, and Talwyn brought Gisa and Fia, but we have our reasons for that. And it had to happen. We had never planned to stay with either the Brotherhood or the Kyvich forever. They knew that as well as we did.”
“But the leaving still wasn’t easy, was it?”
“No. But I doubt the Brotherhood would ever consider coming for me.”
“And the Kyvich?” Whom Celyn had always considered much more of a threat than a bunch of wizard-monks.
“I’ll tell you—” Talwyn began.
“Shut up,” her brother quickly cut in. “We don’t know yet.”
“That’s just great.”
“I understand your concern, Celyn, but this is what we had to do.”
“This is what you had to do? Not come back to your family but associate yourself with Brigida the Fucking Foul?”
Talwyn marched around her brother. “Maybe I need to make it clear to you, cousin, that—”
Talan caught his sister by her hair—right at the crown, too—and yanked her back, twisting her around while he kept his focus locked on Celyn.
“What my sister means to say—”
“Get off me, you bastard son of a bitch!”
“—is that we will unfortunately have to wait to see the outcome of our dealings with the Kyvich. But have no doubt, cousin, that the three of us will handle it. We will not let our decisions hurt the family.”
“It may be too late for that.”
“Ow! Talan, get off me!”
“All I can ask is that you trust us.”
“And Brigida the Foul?”
“I will tear the skin from your bones if you don’t unhand me!”
“Brigida is kin, Celyn. And like you said,” Talan went on, ignoring his sister, “she, too, is a Cadwaladr. First. Last. And always. The protection of our Clan is and always will be the most important thing to her.”
So this one was sneaky-smart like Gwenvael, throwing Celyn’s own words right back in his face. Impressive little bastard.
“Fine,” Celyn said, seeing no point in continuing the argument. “But I’ll tell you just as your grandfather Bercelak tells me when the queen threatens to twist an Elder into a scale-covered knot . . . handle it. Understand?”
“We do.”
“Like hells we—owwww! Stop it, you bastard!”
Talan gave that smile that promised nothing but trouble. “We’ll take care of everything.”
“Good.”
Talan watched his cousin walk out of the alcove. Damn. Of all the Cadwaladr kin who could have ended up here, why did it have to be Celyn? Even his sister Brannie would have been better. She was amazing in battle, but when it came to politics, she was wonderfully uncaring.
But Celyn was more like his father than he realized. He could see long-term implications that others among their Clan could not. And that made Celyn . . . an annoyance.
A punch to the upper arm had Talan finally releasing his sister. She rubbed her head where he’d held her and snarled, “What did you do that for?”
“Because when you get angry, not only do you threaten, you bloody talk too much.”
“I do not!”
“Talwyn . . .”
“Oh, all right.”
“Just . . . calm down. He’s got other things to focus on.”
“Like what?”
Gods, his sister could be oblivious . . . to everything. Or at least anything that didn’t have to do with battle and what they ultimately had to do.
“Like the little Steppes girl with the missing eye. Remember her?”
Talwyn waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, she’ll be fine!”
“She lost her eye! At her mother’s hand!”
“Oh, poor her! She lost her eye. Boo-hoo!” Talwyn blinked. “What’s so funny?”
Talan went to his sister, wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her tight while he continued to laugh. “This is what I missed so much. Those monks were no challenge to me. But you, sister, you are a challenge.”
Using a clean cloth, Dagmar wrapped bread and cheese and placed them into the travel bag. As she organized the bag to her satisfaction, she glanced over at Annwyl the Bloody, who was busy reading a thick book while sitting on her throne, a leg thrown casually over one of the arms, the other tucked up awkwardly next to her thigh.
Dagmar could tell that Annwyl had no other plans for the day but to read and occasionally take breaks to train with her men. Annwyl was an unusual monarch, but Dagmar had been getting better at handling the queen the longer they worked together.
Talwyn’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but before this could escalate, Talan stepped in front of her, blocking her and Celyn from each other’s sight.
“Now,” Talan said calmly, stepping back and forcing his sister to do the same, so that there was space between them and Celyn, “we did make an . . . unauthorized departure from our companions of the last few years.”
“And you brought company.”
“We did. I brought Magnus, and Talwyn brought Gisa and Fia, but we have our reasons for that. And it had to happen. We had never planned to stay with either the Brotherhood or the Kyvich forever. They knew that as well as we did.”
“But the leaving still wasn’t easy, was it?”
“No. But I doubt the Brotherhood would ever consider coming for me.”
“And the Kyvich?” Whom Celyn had always considered much more of a threat than a bunch of wizard-monks.
“I’ll tell you—” Talwyn began.
“Shut up,” her brother quickly cut in. “We don’t know yet.”
“That’s just great.”
“I understand your concern, Celyn, but this is what we had to do.”
“This is what you had to do? Not come back to your family but associate yourself with Brigida the Fucking Foul?”
Talwyn marched around her brother. “Maybe I need to make it clear to you, cousin, that—”
Talan caught his sister by her hair—right at the crown, too—and yanked her back, twisting her around while he kept his focus locked on Celyn.
“What my sister means to say—”
“Get off me, you bastard son of a bitch!”
“—is that we will unfortunately have to wait to see the outcome of our dealings with the Kyvich. But have no doubt, cousin, that the three of us will handle it. We will not let our decisions hurt the family.”
“It may be too late for that.”
“Ow! Talan, get off me!”
“All I can ask is that you trust us.”
“And Brigida the Foul?”
“I will tear the skin from your bones if you don’t unhand me!”
“Brigida is kin, Celyn. And like you said,” Talan went on, ignoring his sister, “she, too, is a Cadwaladr. First. Last. And always. The protection of our Clan is and always will be the most important thing to her.”
So this one was sneaky-smart like Gwenvael, throwing Celyn’s own words right back in his face. Impressive little bastard.
“Fine,” Celyn said, seeing no point in continuing the argument. “But I’ll tell you just as your grandfather Bercelak tells me when the queen threatens to twist an Elder into a scale-covered knot . . . handle it. Understand?”
“We do.”
“Like hells we—owwww! Stop it, you bastard!”
Talan gave that smile that promised nothing but trouble. “We’ll take care of everything.”
“Good.”
Talan watched his cousin walk out of the alcove. Damn. Of all the Cadwaladr kin who could have ended up here, why did it have to be Celyn? Even his sister Brannie would have been better. She was amazing in battle, but when it came to politics, she was wonderfully uncaring.
But Celyn was more like his father than he realized. He could see long-term implications that others among their Clan could not. And that made Celyn . . . an annoyance.
A punch to the upper arm had Talan finally releasing his sister. She rubbed her head where he’d held her and snarled, “What did you do that for?”
“Because when you get angry, not only do you threaten, you bloody talk too much.”
“I do not!”
“Talwyn . . .”
“Oh, all right.”
“Just . . . calm down. He’s got other things to focus on.”
“Like what?”
Gods, his sister could be oblivious . . . to everything. Or at least anything that didn’t have to do with battle and what they ultimately had to do.
“Like the little Steppes girl with the missing eye. Remember her?”
Talwyn waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, she’ll be fine!”
“She lost her eye! At her mother’s hand!”
“Oh, poor her! She lost her eye. Boo-hoo!” Talwyn blinked. “What’s so funny?”
Talan went to his sister, wrapped his arms around her, and hugged her tight while he continued to laugh. “This is what I missed so much. Those monks were no challenge to me. But you, sister, you are a challenge.”
Using a clean cloth, Dagmar wrapped bread and cheese and placed them into the travel bag. As she organized the bag to her satisfaction, she glanced over at Annwyl the Bloody, who was busy reading a thick book while sitting on her throne, a leg thrown casually over one of the arms, the other tucked up awkwardly next to her thigh.
Dagmar could tell that Annwyl had no other plans for the day but to read and occasionally take breaks to train with her men. Annwyl was an unusual monarch, but Dagmar had been getting better at handling the queen the longer they worked together.
