Chapter Eight
“I am more sorry than you know,” Fiorean whispered into the darkness from the depths of the bed.
Aemyra couldn’t find the words to reply, but she reached for his hand under the blankets.
They had made love twice more, his surprising thoroughness leaving a satisfied ache within her, but she knew what he was apologizing for.
Tears fell slowly from the corners of her eyes and ran into her ears. She did not brush them away.
Fiorean gripped her hand tighter, his only touch the strength of his long fingers, the smoothness of his skin comforting. As if he knew she needed this small space to try to process her conflicting emotions.
Turning, she looked into his eyes and saw those same feelings reflected in the emerald depths. They should not be lying here together, should never have given in to their lust.
Even as she thought the word, Fiorean stroked her cheek with more tenderness than she had ever thought him capable of. She suddenly felt as though she needed to shield her heart.
“I will never stop fighting for this territory or the ways of the Goddess. I will not allow my family’s sacrifice to have been in vain,” she whispered into the night-draped room.
Those green eyes seemed to swallow her whole, and it was as if she was viewing herself through a mirror.
A glimpse of curls strewn across the pillow, a red flush on her pale skin, and suddenly he was gripped by an overwhelming realization he had been trying to ignore for weeks.
The intensity of his feelings had Aemyra fighting against him. She didn’t want to feel this. Didn’t want to know. Not after what he had done.
Just as the vision darkened, she heard Fiorean whisper into the dark,
“Forgive me.”
Aemyra threw the boot she had been in the process of pulling on across the room. It hit the stone wall with a pitiful thud and she considered picking up the pillow just to scream into it.
She had been changing out of her dress and into simpler clothes to visit the Cuith when the panic had surged out of nowhere. She must have lost consciousness, then her mind had latched on to a memory just as it had been doing in her nightmares.
“Not the time,” she muttered, retrieving her boot and jamming her foot into it.
Taking a breath, she wondered if her guilt from betrothing herself to Thear had something to do with the vision. Adarian had been right, the trauma during her captivity had left its own kind of scar.
Even this far underground, the tether that linked her to Fiorean through the death promise was there.
With concentrated effort, Aemyra ignored it. Thear was what she should be focusing on; leashing the chimeras to her cause was far more important than chasing after Fiorean unprepared.
Pushing all thoughts of him from her mind, she ignored the trickle of worry gnawing in her gut and belted on her dagger.
The bare walls did nothing to distract her from the thoughts threatening to consume her.
Following the scent of damp toward the loch and the way out, Aemyra hoped she would find the Cuith soon.
It was a welcome change, to move freely about a caisteal. She had been kept hidden during her childhood in Penryth, and in Balnain there was always someone needing the queen’s ear. In àird Lasair she had been tailed by priests, and her permanent shadow, Maggie.
An ache developed in Aemyra’s chest as she thought of the young woman. Pregnant and confined to a city Aemyra was about to lay siege to, surrounded by Chosen priests and Covenanters.
The sooner they discovered an antidote to the chemical agents, the sooner she could get the princesses out.
The light coming from the glittering loch stained her skin silver, and Aemyra halted her steps when she was halfway across the bridge. Deafening shouts met her ears and shadows flickered against the walls like living paintings inside a smaller cave system.
Aemyra had found the Cuith.
Perhaps she could find a chimera to fight and clear her head.
Thear Leòmhann was about to find out exactly how unbreakable she was.
The crowd was densely packed, the smell of stale ale wafting into her nostrils, and Aemyra slipped through unnoticed.
Her attention snagged on an illuminated pit to her right where two chimeras were fighting. She clambered up a small rise, holding on to a handrail carved out of stone, and felt her jaw slacken as she saw the beathaichean.
Their fur was golden, with thick, shaggy ruffs around their faces. The growling snarls from the chimeras were deeper than the screeches of a dragon, but they were just as effective a warning.
The long canines did nothing to put Aemyra at ease, not to mention the barbed and venomous tail that arched behind their backs, angled as if to strike.
Curving horns grew out of their heads, solid enough to batter through the stone walls of the pit.
The front paws ended in sharp claws that could eviscerate a dragon, and the back legs were sturdily hooved.
Aemyra shivered. This was a beathach built for war.
Curiosity shot down the Bond from Terrea and Aemyra merged their consciousness, allowing her dragon to see through her eyes.
The pits grew fuzzy for a split second before coming into sharper focus, in cooler shades than Aemyra was accustomed to.
Watching the chimeras fight, she felt Terrea’s snort of derision.
These creatures were nowhere near as fearsome as she was.
Allowing her dragon to fly in peace with a mental caress, Aemyra returned to her own mind and braided her hair back from her face. It was busier here, the crush of bodies and smell of sweat overpowering.
It didn’t seem like the sort of place for royalty, but Aemyra had lived as a commoner for far longer than a queen.
There were carts selling sugar-coated nuts, and something generously spiced.
Ale flowed readily and many patrons were enjoying the fights from stained tables as they caught up with friends and family.
It was like none of them knew a war was going on.
A soft glow was beaming down into the largest pit from braziers built into the ceiling. The sandy floor was already stained with blood, and two men were enthusiastically pummeling each other to jeers and shouts from the crowd.
In spite of the violence, Aemyra felt her pulse quicken.
Before she could tear her eyes away, a voice cut through the commotion.
“What in Brigid’s name are you doing here?”
Raising more than a few eyebrows, Thear pushed his way to her side, his blue fèileadh swaying around his muscular thighs.
Curious whispers soon accompanied the raucous cheering as the laird’s son approached her.
“I was curious,” Aemyra replied with a shrug, rolling up her shirtsleeves. “Dragons are inherently matriarchal, whereas chimeras only respect strength, am I right?”
Thear eyed her arms with apprehension. Evidently he didn’t trust the compact muscle.
“Yes, chimeras respect strength, but in all forms. As the griffins of Tìr Adhair say, mental strength is often as important as the physical,” Thear explained. “I have far more female warriors in my trodach than my father, I assure you.”
Aemyra continued to glare at him.
“Your Grace, I must apologize if my words offended you earlier. You have nothing to prove to me,” he said.
Aemyra cocked one eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be ferocious. I was looking forward to a little fun.”
“Getting into fights is your idea of fun?”
“You clearly don’t know me at all.”
Thear leaned closer, his voice as low as the rumbling chimeras. “I’m looking forward to finding out exactly what you take pleasure in, my lady.”
Aemyra would have usually responded in kind, but the face of another flitted through her mind.
An arrogant smirk, hands twirling a dagger, pressure around her throat…
She stumbled back a step as the memories rushed in, followed by a vicious wave of anxiety.
“Your Grace?” Thear asked, brow creased with concern.
Aemyra gave herself a small shake, smothering her fear with a blanket of hatred.
Fiorean meant nothing to her anymore. She was here in àird Caolas in spite of him, attempting to claw her way to victory because of his betrayal.
She hoped he was walking among the ruins of àird Lasair and regretting his choices. Goddess knows the next time she saw him he wouldn’t live long enough to regret her.
Thear frowned when she approached the edge. “Are you really—”
Before he could finish, Aemyra jumped straight into the pit.
The crowd quieted as she landed on the sand, knees smarting with the impact. Pulse thundering in her ears, she swaggered into the center of the space, spreading her arms wide.
Riotous cheering was replaced with expectant silence.
“I challenge Thear Leòmhann,” Aemyra called out, her voice clear and blood singing with anticipation.
Shocked whispers spread through the spectators, many of them swiveling their heads to find Thear on the edge of the pit, a blazing look on his face.
“Or are you too cowardly to fight your queen?” she finished with a tilt of her head.
The whispers turned into shocked gasps as the crowd connected the dots. The auburn hair, green eyes, pale skin, and infamous Daercathian arrogance.
Aemyra met Thear’s amber eyes and refused to look away. She would leave this city with the respect of Clan Leòmhann one way or another.
Under normal circumstances, to deny any challenge would be seen as cowardice. Silence descended upon the Cuith as everyone held their breath, waiting for Thear’s response.
“I accept,” he said, teeth flashing.
Uproarious cheers met Aemyra’s ears as Thear jumped down into the pit, and she heard the telltale jangle of copars and sgillinn changing hands as people placed their bets.
“Time to prove yourself, lairdling,” she taunted, unsheathing her dagger and twirling it expertly in her hand.
Thear clicked his tongue confidently, his posture all bravado. “No weapons or magic allowed in the pits.”
Aemyra shrugged, throwing the dagger into the air and catching it by the runic hilt, enjoying the impressed sound the crowd made.