Chapter Eleven
“He is rather enthusiastic, isn’t he?” Draevan commented, his words whipped away by the wind that had followed them through the underground tunnels and up to the scraggy cliffs.
Thear was astride Dòiche and whirling his spear with two of his men as they traveled to the nearby hamlet where the dragons could land safely.
“He will be a strong asset when we find ourselves in battle,” Aemyra replied, smothering a yawn.
Having spent the better part of a full day on horseback, she was exhausted.
Not least because the dreams of Fiorean had returned with memories of tender moments twisting into sinister warnings she did not understand.
Rubbing the promise mark against the reins, Aemyra wondered if this was yet another way Brigid was pulling her toward her oath.
Giving herself a small shake, she focused on Thear’s warriors leading them away from the treacherous cliffs. This was where she needed to be; Fiorean would have to wait.
“Two hundred chimera warriors and a thousand Leòmhann soldiers,” Aemyra said. “More than we could have hoped for.”
Draevan reined in his stout, shaggy mount. “Enough to take the southern coast, that’s for certain.”
“I just hope focusing on Edinbane is the right choice,” she replied.
Several regiments were already traveling south toward Dildain, and Aemyra prayed to Cailleach for forgiveness for not prioritizing àird Lasair.
The princesses would have to survive a little longer on their own.
As queen, she had to stem the flow of Covenanters arriving on her shores before the territory was overrun.
Her father rode closer. “War is rarely an organized thing, and the journey to your throne will be no exception. We need only focus on one battle at a time.”
Aemyra worried the reins between her fingers. “Dildain will be our first true test.”
“Your army is ready and all of these warriors took the oath. Those who were wounded in àird Lasair are recovered, we have the phoenixes and the chimeras fighting beside us, and we have two dragons,” Draevan said, craning his neck skyward even though Gealach and Terrea were still unable to land thanks to the fierce winds.
Several warriors had ridden into the hamlet to alert the residents of their approach, instructing them to tie up any livestock that might be spooked by the dragons.
“I hope Adarian is making progress with the antidote. I know you don’t set much stock in the idea, but I really believe it will give us the advantage we need,” Aemyra said.
The thought that hundreds, potentially thousands, of these warriors might die before she sat her throne was almost enough to make her lose her lunch over her horse’s withers.
Taking a steadying breath through her nose, Aemyra’s eyes found Thear near the gate to the hamlet. He spun Dòiche around the shaft of his spear and pulled it from the ground with a joyful whoop, his bare arms rippling with muscle.
Despite being female, Dòiche was easily large enough for Thear to comfortably sit on her back, the venomous tail lurking just behind his head. Aemyra had yet to see the chimeras engage an enemy army, but she didn’t doubt they would be formidable fighters.
Both chimera and man were limned by the sun in varying shades of gold and bronze, Thear’s infectious smile warming her even from this distance.
“Perhaps Kolreath will accidentally burn àird Lasair in his madness and incinerate Alfred and Fiorean for us,” Draevan said, patting his pocket that held his swyft correspondence. “It appears the dragon no longer discriminates between livestock and civilian towns while hunting.”
Sighing, Aemyra prayed to Brigid for strength. An unpredictable dragon was the last thing she needed.
“Kolreath is in pain,” Aemyra said, shifting in the saddle. “All I wish for him is a swift and peaceful death in his sleep. Better a dead dragon than a mad one loose in the middle of a war.”
Aemyra had spent half her life imagining herself astride the ancient beathach and had never expected to Bond to Terrea instead. Before finding her nest on the Sunset Isle, people had believed the black dragon a myth, most still believed her to be male.
“After we liberate Edinbane, my best chance of killing Fiorean is on dragonback, which means putting Terrea in danger…” Aemyra admitted to her father.
Draevan grew pensive. “Never underestimate a she-dragon, even one of her advanced age.”
The mismatched thud of giant paws and nimble hooves preceded Thear’s appearance.
“My shining star, how fare you on this lengthy ride?” he asked with a roguish wink from Dòiche’s back.
“Increasingly agitated by your ridiculous pet names for me,” Aemyra replied, nudging her horse farther down the compacted-dirt path toward the hamlet. “The sooner I’m in the air, the better.”
Her gentle tone belied her words; Thear’s good-natured presence was quickly growing on her.
They trotted into the small hamlet, nothing more than a few ramshackle houses and a tavern bordered by farms, and Aemyra raised her hand to greet her people.
She wore no crown, but, with Fearsolais sheathed between her shoulder blades and Terrea high above, there was no mistaking the queen.
A few residents waved back, shawls wrapped tightly around shoulders, skirts flapping in the wind. They seemed happy to see the queen, a few Dùileach sending up welcoming bursts of fire, and she wondered if they knew how sorry she was for the war.
“There is a well up ahead,” Thear said, his broad shoulders flexing as Dòiche clawed at the ground. “We will refill our waterskins there and proceed to the hill just beyond so the dragons can land.”
Draevan followed Thear’s finger and nodded curtly. “It looks sheltered enough.”
Gealach’s wings were able to withstand the harsh coastal winds while flying high above, but landing would be precarious.
Draining the last of her own water, the sound of wooden sticks met Aemyra’s ears and she turned to find two little girls pretending to spar with stripped branches.
A smile spread across her face and she had half a mind to dismount and give them some pointers. The larger girl was sloppy, favoring hard hits over footwork. The smaller girl was lighter on her feet. Before Aemyra could get a leg over the saddle, a memory seized her.
“You’re stronger than that. Come on, hit harder.” Aemyra laughed, dancing around her little brother.
Lachlann was grinning as he raised the wooden sword Pàdraig had crafted him for his sixth breithday. His skinny arms could barely lift the thing, but it would make him stronger.
“That’s it, watch your feet, stop dragging them,” Aemyra said, pointing out his mistake.
With a determined grin, Lachlann adjusted his posture and swung the sword again. Letting him make contact, Aemyra took him through the first three positions.
“Good,” she said, stepping back. “Now, widen your grip a little or the sword will pitch forward.”
The small hands found the correct placement and Lachlann turned his dark eyes up to her, eager, waiting for her instruction.
The temptation was too much for Aemyra. Faster than her little brother could blink, she swiped with her own wooden sword and his legs went from underneath him. Before he could hit the ground, Aemyra caught Lachlann and spun him around the courtyard until he was giggling madly.
They collapsed in a heap, dirtying their breeches on the damp ground, and Aemyra found the soft flesh of his tummy with an assault of tickles.
“Gah! Stop…Aems!” Lachlann gasped through fits of giggles.
Grin splitting her face, Aemyra relented, mussing his tight curls. “I can’t believe you are six already,” she said, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek, which he promptly wiped off, already reaching for his new sword.
“You won’t get away that easily!” Aemyra joked, reaching for the sword herself.
The memory changed.
As his hands closed around the hilt of the wooden practice sword, something struck him hard across the back.
“You’re stronger than that. Come on, hit harder,” the gruff voice said from high above.
Scrambling to his feet, Fiorean faced his father again. It was his breithday and his instruction in swordplay had begun. He had been looking forward to it—until he had learned his father wished to be his tutor.
“Again,” Haedren barked, pointing a thick wooden sword into his face.
Fighting against the trembling in his skinny arms, Fiorean knew he could not show weakness. His father would only hit harder if he did.
“Stop dragging your feet, boy,” Haedren said, rapping the wood against his shins.
Fiorean bit his lip as tears sprung to his eyes. He could not cry.
Watching how his father held the sword, he widened his grip a little. No matter how much this hurt, he would listen and learn properly.
He knew he was going to need it.
Coming back into her own mind with a gasp, Aemyra felt her stomach roil.
The little girls had scampered back to their mother and she was staring at a patch of scrubby grass. There had been no panic preceding this vision, no way to blame it on sleep.
The sight of the little girls had triggered the memory of Lachlann and it made her heart ache, but there was no explanation for the vision of Fiorean as a child.
Through the Bond, she felt Terrea probe curiously at what Aemyra had seen, her dragon seemingly just as perplexed as she was.
“Something’s wrong.”
Draevan had caught up to her, and Aemyra hurriedly fixed her face, wondering what she had looked like during the vision. But when she followed her father’s gaze, she instead found two dozen men riding hard into the hamlet.
“What are they playing at?” she muttered, hand twitching to the dagger at her side.
“Raiders?” Draevan asked, eyeing the cloths tied around the bottom half of their faces.
Then one of them raised the pennant of the True Religion.
“Fuck,” Aemyra cursed.
Thear whirled Dòiche around. “Keep the queen surrounded!” he ordered his warriors.