Chapter Three
Beyond the sprawling trees, Loch Lorna stretched out toward the horizon. Caisteal Lasair rose intimidatingly from the hilltop, giving a perfect view of the city. Torches illuminated the bridge and candles flickered in windows as Aemyra looked across to the opposite bank.
Sighing, she wondered if it would ever feel like home again, now that her family was gone.
“Do your wounds pain you?” a voice asked from behind her.
Her usually keen ears hadn’t picked up on any footsteps and she whirled around. Heart rate increasing, the fresh stitches on her chest pulled uncomfortably, the torn skin throbbing.
Fiorean stepped out of the shadows and into plain sight. His hair was mussed from sleep and she suspected he had been uncomfortable on the settee he had stalwartly remained sleeping upon.
His emerald eyes dipped to her bare chest, the wound only just visible beneath the thin cotton of her nightgown.
“I can call for the healer to bring something if you are hurting,” he said.
The crushing grief she felt over the loss of Orlagh was harder to bear than any physical discomfort, and Fiorean’s recent honesty had cut her deeper than Sir Nairn’s knife.
Unable to put all that she was feeling into words, Aemyra looked back out of the window to the loch far below.
“The city looks better in the moonlight,” she said lamely.
Fiorean let out what might have been a soft laugh. “Because the shadows hide the rot of the court, you mean?”
Taken aback by his blunt response, Aemyra didn’t know what to say. His eyes were such an arresting shade of green, his scent delicate, intoxicating.
She leaned forward, seeking absolution.
A fluttering at the edges of her vision set her blinking in confusion.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” Fiorean breathed, lips inches from her own.
His hands tightened vise-like around her muscular biceps, but she did not pull away.
“Figured what out?” she whispered back, distracted by how real the pressure from his fingers felt.
His upper lip curled as if he was disappointed, before he gave her a shove. The open window hit the small of her back and her stomach swooped sickeningly as she tumbled out into the air.
“Fucking Hela!” Aemyra cursed, lurching to grab one of the onyx neck spikes before she fell off Terrea’s back.
The wide river spread far below, and the heat of the sun spoke of summer, even if she could not feel it in her veins. She must have dozed off, rocked to sleep by her dragon’s steady wing beats.
Terrea rumbled in chastisement and Aemyra stroked the obsidian scales.
“How about you wake me up next time?”
With a shake of her long neck, Terrea began to descend and Aemyra blinked in the sunlight, trying to make sense of the dream. In truth it had been a memory—at least until her subconscious had twisted it into a nightmare.
At the time, Aemyra had thought Fiorean’s concern proof of his changing affections, a glimpse into the man who lay underneath the cool exterior. But he had only been using her vulnerability after Orlagh’s death to get under her skin.
Even all these months later, she couldn’t be rid of him—not even in dreams.
A tug behind her navel had Aemyra tracing the branded cross on her palm with her finger.
“Soon,” she said to the Goddess.
Another grumble came from her dragon as they descended toward the wide river, this time decidedly less pleased. Terrea might not have been able to communicate with words, but her feelings were clear enough—Aemyra should bring the men in her life to heel, quickly.
“I’m working on it,” Aemyra replied.
The verdant land was lush on either side of the glittering river, miles of gnarled forest cleared to make way for both the town and livestock. But an expanse of trees lurked just over the rolling hills, fog clinging to the twisted branches. No wonder the people here believed all the old stories.
Despite its sinister look, the forest had provided essential protection for the town and Aemyra’s army.
Any battalion of Covenanters attempting to attack would get lost underneath the boughs, and those who made it through were forced into the open hills where they could easily be picked off by phoenix scouts.
Terrea’s enormous wings eclipsed the dappled sunlight dancing across the surface of the river. She landed like a swan with a streamlined splash and used her barbed tail like a rudder to guide them to shore.
With Terrea’s claws sinking into the silt, Aemyra dismounted hastily before her dragon could damage Edouard’s pristine lawns. Unfortunately she landed on the soggy bank, frigid water instantly soaking through her boots.
“Oh, fucking Hela,” Aemyra cursed, squelching away from her dragon.
A throaty chuckle came from up ahead and Aemyra found Laird Riya Iolairean striding across the immaculately kept grounds.
“Allow me to assist,” Riya said, raising her hands, dark hair spilling down to her waist.
With a rush of magic, Aemyra’s boots were dry.
“Is that better, Your Grace?” Riya asked with a self-satisfied smile.
Terrea made a harrumphing sound and disappeared in a spray of water, the surface of the river rippling.
“Much, thank you,” Aemyra replied, seeking drier ground. “Where is Sujaron?” She scanned the clear skies for Riya’s amber-and-crimson feathered beathach.
“Resting in the fireplace of the council room,” Riya said with a shiver. “This town is altogether too drafty for our liking.”
Aemyra eyed Riya’s southern garb and curbed her tongue. She wouldn’t dare suggest the laird cover up with a woolen shawl or borrow a cloak. The bejeweled shirts and loose-fitting breeches the phoenix warriors wore had initially filled Aemyra with envy, until she had noticed their goosebumps.
“There is quite a damp chill lifting off the river,” Aemyra supplied diplomatically. “I am certain the council chamber will be more agreeable.”
Riya sighed. “Must we enter into tedious discussions today? I would prefer to picnic by the water once the sun has warmed the grass.”
Aemyra cleared her throat. “Discussions are only tedious because you make them so.”
Having learned over these last weeks that Riya enjoyed, encouraged even, a little healthy challenge, Aemyra was determining exactly how far she could push her.
Riya Iolairean was a force to be reckoned with. With a penchant for putting relatives who disagreed with her on the roof of her palace in Truvo to roast in the blistering desert sun, the laird was a formidable woman—and a stubborn one.
However, just because the largest clan in Tìr Teine worshipped Brigid devoutly, didn’t mean they were blindly supporting Aemyra as queen. It was hardly a secret that the phoenix clan had toyed with the idea of independence.
Riya Iolairean could become a threat, one Aemyra planned to keep close by.
“You wound me. I could be forgiven for thinking you are growing tired of my company,” Riya said, a playful edge to her voice.
“Never, my laird. I remain fervently glad that you decided to fight with us. I am honored by your continued presence in Balnain.”
Riya’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Oh, I have offered you far more than compliments, and yet you are still loath to let me train with your phoenix warriors.”
The way they coordinated aerial combat was a marvel, and Aemyra wanted to adapt the same techniques to fight with Terrea.
Ignoring her, Riya strode ahead despite her shorter legs. “There is news from àird Lasair. It is convenient you landed when you did.”
Her orange shirt and breeches complimented her dark skin perfectly, and Aemyra couldn’t help but admire the beadwork as she followed Riya into the caisteal.
The oak doors were opened by two well-dressed guards, and they were met with the smell of woodsmoke and fresh bread. A welcome change from the pungent breeze wafting from the soldiers’ camp on the hill just outside of town.
Chair legs scraped jarringly against the polished floor as she entered.
“My daughter deigns to join us,” Draevan drawled from his seat at the far end of the table.
It took everything inside Aemyra not to berate her father for refusing to stand.
Varying degrees of bows came from the others, and Aemyra ignored the fact that Maeve’s looked more like she had developed a twitch.
Wearing her raven hair in a chin-length style, the general looked even more severe than usual, and Aemyra wondered if Sorcha had cut it for her. The two women had grown close.
Riya Iolairean let out a soft call and her phoenix raised his head, clicking his beak with self-importance through the flickering flames.
As large as Riya was tall, which wasn’t saying much, but with the ability to carry ten times his body weight in his claws, Sujaron had attracted a lot of attention upon his arrival.
Laird Edouard craned his neck to track Riya’s progress across his pristine rugs toward the enormous fireplace. He was seated beside his sister Laoise, their dark braids skimming the surface of the polished table. Adarian was on her left, the rest of the queen’s guard seated opposite.
“Adarian tells me you are making progress with finding an antidote?” Draevan asked.
Aemyra slid into her chair at the head of the table. “We may have found something, but half of the passage is in the Caillte.”
Several groans sounded around the table; not one of them spoke the lost language.
Draevan smirked and crossed his legs. “Well, it was an interesting idea, but we must focus on what will actually win us this war. To that end, I have—”
Aemyra held up a hand. “Thankfully, I passed by the temple before scouting with Terrea and spoke to Eilidh.”
Draevan looked as though her interruption physically pained him, but he remained silent.
The flight with Terrea had given Aemyra enough time to think on Adarian’s words. Draevan might understand war, but he wasn’t exactly winning this one.