Fascinated, he continued down the stairs and over to the table and found himself a seat beside Gwenvael, who was also watching.

As soon as Celyn was seated, one of the servants placed a bowl of hot stew in front of him, followed by a large plate of ribs and a platter filled with bread. He didn’t eat at Annwyl’s castle often, but when he did . . . the servants clearly knew how to feed dragons in human form.

Something that Celyn appreciated.

“So what’s going on?” Celyn asked his cousin between spoonfuls of stew.

“Well, when we started to come in for dinner, we found your father, Frederik, the Outerplains female, and Annwyl chatting . . . but by the time we all sat down to dinner, the chatting had turned into a lively debate.”

Celyn studied the Rider. With her elbows on the table, she sat between Annwyl and Celyn’s father, tearing pieces from a crusty loaf of bread, and shoving those pieces into her mouth while she stared blankly across the room.

“She looks miserable,” Celyn observed to his cousin.

“Who?”

“The Rider.”

“You mean Elina Shestakova of . . . whatever, whatever, whatever?” Gwenvael snorted. “She’s not miserable. She’s in whatever an Outerplains barbarian considers heaven.”

Celyn had no idea what Gwenvael meant until Elina snorted at something Briec said and cut in drily with, “You hoard like angry squirrel, Briec the Mighty. Keeping all riches for yourself and sharing with none.”

“Why should I share with anyone?” Briec demanded, sounding more haughty than usual. “My hoard is my hoard.”

“But you stole that hoard,” Annwyl reminded Briec, her legs tucked under her on her chair, her torso stretched over the table, elbows against wood, hands clasped.

“I don’t understand your point.”

“How is it yours? You didn’t earn it.”

“I did earn it. I stalked those caravans, had to fight off their protection, tear apart the carriages to get at the treasure, and then transport that treasure back to my cave. That took a lot of work, and often the only thing I got out of it was a warm meal that screamed for mercy.”

Talaith, sitting next to Briec, slowly brought her hands to her head and began to rub the temples.

“Bah,” the Rider exclaimed, dismissing Briec’s words with a hand swiped through the air. It was so amusing to see someone other than Talaith taunt Briec so brazenly that Celyn and Gwenvael glanced at each other and grinned.

“You brag and brag, Briec the Mighty. But who among you has not killed an enemy while he begs for mercy, laughing as he dies in pain and torment?”

For some unfathomable reason, Dagmar Reinholdt raised her hand at that, which got her bewildered stares from everyone in the room.

“She said who here has not killed an enemy. . . . She didn’t say anything about having your enemies killed, now did she?” Dagmar announced, her tone smug.

“Our people,” the Rider went on, “share what we have with our other tribesmen. Those who have less, get some from others. Then we all have equal.”

“No.” Briec shook his head. “I don’t like that idea. What’s mine is mine.”

“Would you not share with your brothers?”

“No,” all the brothers replied.

“You are very pretty.” Elina stared. “But very sad.” She gestured with her bread. “All we have is each other. Without that, we are nothing.”

“I am a dragon. I don’t need anyone else.”

Talaith threw up her hands. “Thank you very much!”

“I’m not talking about you, so there’s no reason to get hysterical.”

“Hysterical?”

“She’s going to kill you in your sleep,” Fearghus noted when Talaith glared at Briec. “And I wouldn’t blame her.”

“So,” Celyn cut in, “your people share everything?”

The Rider did not turn to look at him so much as her bright blue eyes simply cut his way. Kind of like when a wolf sensed Celyn was near . . . and knew that Celyn was hungry.

“We share our food. Our clothing. Anything to keep everyone healthy . . . and strong. You cannot have defenses when some of your people starve and others are dying from diseases simple to fix.”

“What are,” Morfyd suddenly asked, “your people’s feelings on dragons . . . and the dragon-human offspring?”

“You mean Abominations?”

Eyes widened, bodies tensed, hurried words spouted, and Fearghus readied himself to tackle his mate and take her to the ground in seconds. The panic among Celyn’s kin was palpable. But then, Annwyl raised her hands to quiet down everyone who felt the need to say, in some form or another, “I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way, Annwyl!”

“Wait, wait,” Annwyl ordered calmly. “Don’t everyone panic.” Leaning forward a bit more than she already was, Annwyl asked the Rider, “What does that mean to you?”

“Abomination?” The Rider shrugged, bit off a hunk of bread, chewed, then finally answered, “It means the offspring of dragons and humans are unholy mixes of death and evil, born to destroy the world as we know it.”

Huh, Celyn thought to himself, maybe I won’t have to go to the Outerplains tomorrow, but I may have to bury a body. . . .

Annwyl raised one forefinger, holding Fearghus at bay, since, based on the black smoke pouring from his nostrils . . . he was not happy about anything the Rider had said and would now happily allow his mate to cut off the woman’s head.