Chapter Twenty
A week later and the army had been marching without incident.
Aemyra had flown with Terrea daily, and soaring skyward with her dragon gave some relief from the anticipation of battle.
Terrea’s dark wings spread on either side of her, the thin skin stretched with the updraft, and Aemyra uttered a soft prayer of thanks to Beira for opening the skies to them.
The cool air was pleasant against her skin as her army prepared camp along the banks of a dark loch. They would leave the wagons and camp aides here while the infantry and cavalry pushed through the valley the last few miles to Dildain.
Blinking in the late afternoon sun, Aemyra could see Gealach tearing down several trees with blows from his barbed tail on the opposite hill to make way for his nest.
Terrea grumbled and flexed her forelegs in a way that told Aemyra she was eager to do the same.
“Were you off hunting all night again?” Aemyra asked, stroking her scales tenderly.
With a flick of her head and a large snort, Terrea communicated her distaste at being condescended to. The dragon could fly all day and all night if she so desired.
“But today you desire not to. All right,” Aemyra said with an indulgent smile.
Terrea wasn’t the only one feeling fatigued, and Aemyra wondered if she might have time for a quick nap before the cleansing ritual.
High Priestess Greer had insisted the new queen needed to humble herself before the people willing to die for her. Neither Draevan nor Aemyra had protested, and so the priestesses were busy preparing the lochside.
Terrea’s wing membranes stretched taut as she came in to land, her thick legs absorbing the impact. Concerned when she felt strain come through the Bond, Aemyra dug deeper into their connection. With a snort, Terrea pushed her firmly out of her mind.
Not wanting to risk undoing the progress she had made, Aemyra did not protest. Remembering the way Fiorean had looked at Evander, how quickly Kolreath’s madness had twisted his mind after Bonding, Aemyra was loath to probe too far into the mating bond.
“Point taken,” Aemyra muttered.
Leaving her dragon to build her nest, Aemyra sighted the Daercathian banners fluttering on the opposite hill and made her way to the privacy of her tent.
Ducking inside, grateful for a respite from the warm sun, Aemyra found Thear sprawled across the floor, while Riya was curled on the singular chair.
“Is this a communal area? My mistake, I thought the pennants outside marked this as the queen’s tent?” Aemyra asked.
They ignored her.
“You took your time,” Riya said. “I thought we could practice mind-stilling before the ritual.”
“Couldn’t you have brought lunch with you?” Thear asked.
“I watched you eat an entire roasted pheasant this morning,” Aemyra said, rolling her eyes.
Pulling off her boots, she wiggled her toes on the rug and settled herself comfortably on the cot. The mind-stilling was growing easier, and she hadn’t had a vision of Fiorean in a while.
She dared not admit to herself that she almost missed them. As if she was holding on to the last connection they shared.
“How do you feel about the cleansing ritual?” Riya asked.
Aemyra shrugged. “As long as Cliodna doesn’t drown me, I’ll be fine. I don’t need to use my magic.”
Thear shifted on the rug and began stroking her leg absentmindedly. She had admitted her magical block to him a few days ago, deciding that if a little trust could strengthen her relationship with Riya, it would work wonders with Thear.
Especially considering she was going to have to marry him eventually.
“I still think I could help you with that,” Thear said with a wink.
Riya tutted. “Trust a man to think he is the solution to everything.”
“I’m a Bonded Dùileach, just like both of you,” Thear said to Riya. “Is it so unbelievable that I could help?”
Riya scoffed. “Women are far more intuitive. It is why men have to work harder at their Bonds to properly communicate to their beathaichean. It comes more naturally to us.”
“Our magic is an extension of ourselves. We can either use the depth of our gift the Goddess gave us, or manipulate the elements,” Thear said, slamming the book closed. “Right now, Aemyra’s mind is using all her energy to protect itself. There is none left for magic.”
“Hence the mind-stilling,” Riya drawled, leaning back in her chair.
Blocking out their bickering, Aemyra focused her mind as Thear wove their fingers together.
Footsteps sounded outside of the tent and Riya shot to her feet.
Eilidh’s cheeks were flushed as she hurried into the tent, and even Adarian seemed to be bristling with energy as he held out a jar of murky liquid.
“We did it!” he exclaimed.
Aemyra frowned. “That looks like dirty bathwater.”
Her twin scowled. “The suspension isn’t splitting anymore. We used less of Dòiche’s blood this time and a little more charcoal, a pinch of salt and an entire clove of garlic.”
“Are you making an antidote or a soup?” Thear asked.
Aemyra smacked him.
Adarian and Eilidh didn’t seem to care. “If this liquid remains bound for a full day, we have enough for a hundred vials.”
“A day?” Aemyra asked, anxiety creeping in. “We will be in battle tomorrow. What if it doesn’t work?”
She regretted her blunt words when Eilidh’s face fell.
“This is the only plan we have,” the young priestess said.
Feeling guilty for ruining her enthusiasm, Aemyra replied, “My apologies. You have given us something to hope for, and I am grateful for it.”
Eilidh took a deep breath. “It is you who gives us hope, Your Grace. The same way you risked Sir Nairn’s wrath by rescuing me from a prison wagon as a child, you are risking everything to free this territory from the priests. Let us risk a little in return.”
Leaving them all a little speechless, Eilidh left to assist Greer with preparations for the cleansing ritual. Trying to breathe through the emotions that had flooded in, Aemyra locked eyes with her twin.
“I think these can come off now,” he said, squatting beside the cot and hooking a finger under her bandages.
A sudden spike of anxiety broke through her new mental defenses.
“I think these can come off now,” said a gruff voice.
The vision was half-formed, tentative. But, eager to see more from Aervor, Aemyra tried to let it wash over her.
Stained bandages were rolled up in crooked fingers. The room was dark, making it even more difficult to see anything.
Fiorean flexed his back with a grimace, feeling the whip scars stretch uncomfortably.
Just as quickly as the vision had come, Aemyra was shoved out.
Stifling her frustration, she connected to Terrea, trying to probe her consciousness, but her dragon was already curled up asleep. No doubt why the memory had bled through from Aervor at all.
Riya caught her expression. “Put it from your mind for now,” she instructed, mimicking deep breathing.
But there was only so much inhaling and exhaling a person could do.
Adarian had the bandages off in record time, and Aemyra shot to her feet, knowing action was the only way to quiet the creeping fear.
“I need to hit something,” she said, grabbing Fearsolais from where it was propped up against a chair, and strode from the tent. Thear followed her. “If you need to hit someone, hit me.”
Aemyra walked barefooted through the camp, avoiding discarded bridles and greaves.
“I need someone who will hit me back. You’ve never seemed inclined to do that,” she muttered.
Thear matched her pace. “Who would be willing to hit their queen?”
Aemyra scoffed. “Adarian would relish the task. My father would be in line right behind him. He broke my ribs when I was ten.”
Thear looked horrified.
“It was accidental,” Aemyra explained dismissively. “He was teaching me to spar.”
Thear’s expression did not change. “You were ten.”
“And now I am twenty-six and able to best men twice my age and size in battle. Do you want to thank my father for his lessons or shall I?”
Thear didn’t answer, but his thoughts were loud.
Draevan hadn’t been gentle with her while she was growing up in Penryth. But she bore no lasting damage from his sparring lessons, unlike…
Alabaster skin, a puckered scar, her index finger tracing the pink lines…
Aemyra let a controlled breath escape through pursed lips. Fiorean had suffered much at the hands of his father. The few glimpses she had been given were bad enough, but to have endured that kind of treatment for years?
She crested the small hill that granted a spectacular view of the loch that sat below them. Aemyra could hear her soldiers laughing in the shallows. Several men were gathered to one side, laundering shirts and hanging the wet washing on the low boughs of several oak trees.
“Your father shouldn’t have lifted his hands against his daughter,” Thear finally said, coming up behind her.
Aemyra turned her back on the loch. “Would you rather he had coddled me? That he had given Tìr Teine a weak queen?”
Thear stepped away from her as she advanced. “That isn’t what I meant.”
The warrior was bathed in the golden flush of the afternoon sun. Given that he knew about her magical block, Aemyra suddenly needed to remind him that she wasn’t weak.
Thankfully, the perfect person was already walking up the hill toward them.
“What’s all this?” Draevan asked, eyeing them both.
“I’m trying to demonstrate how steel becomes stronger after a little hammering,” Aemyra answered.
With a grin that matched hers, Draevan unsheathed Dorchadas.
“Then allow me to assist you,” he said.
Drawing Fearsolais from its scabbard, Aemyra felt her blade sing.
The sight of drawn swords had summoned a crowd, and soldiers began calling for others to come and witness the queen and the Prince of Penryth spar. Knowing Draevan had never thrown a fight in his life, Aemyra braced herself.
“Witness this and know the true royals of Tìr Teine fight our own battles,” Draevan announced, his voice clear as a bell. “We do not sit in gilded caisteals and sacrifice soldiers like sheep. We fight alongside you.”
The cheer that erupted from the crowd after Draevan’s words died the moment he brandished Dorchadas as though an air Dùileach had ripped the sound from their lips.
Draevan’s attack was so swift, no one else would have been able to see it coming. As it was, her father had trained her, and his moves were nearly identical to her own.
Aemyra knew instinctively when her father would parry and when he would strike. Father and daughter moved their blades in an entrancing dance of death.
A smile spread across Draevan’s face as Aemyra felt her muscles settle into the rhythm. Neither was fully striking with the intent to harm, yet.
Sweat plastering the shirt to her back, Aemyra focused on the bright shriek of steel and the smell of the warm grass to ground herself.
When Draevan used his longer stride to his advantage, forcing Aemyra to duck under his sword, the crowd muttered among themselves. Pride marginally wounded, Aemyra twirled Fearsolais in her grip.
Adarian and Laoise elbowed their way through the crowd to stand beside Thear. Aemyra still hadn’t told her twin about her magical block, and suddenly she needed to prove to herself that she would survive the impending battles without her gift.
Playtime was over.
With a feral grin, she launched herself at her father, moving faster than her soldiers had seen her spar before. Even Draevan was barely ready as she managed two swipes in quick succession. He blocked one and dodged the other.
Draevan might have trained her, but her fights with Fiorean had taught her a few new tricks. Most importantly, how to use her opponent’s arrogance against them.
With her feet bare, Aemyra pretended to step on a sharp stone.
Wincing, she only just managed to avoid Draevan’s next swing, Dorchadas coming close enough to her shoulder to almost break the skin.
Instead of recoiling in horror that he had almost sliced his daughter open in front of a dozen witnesses, Draevan relished the shocked gasps of the crowd and grew bolder.
Keeping the satisfaction off her face, Aemyra feinted left. When her father struck confidently in her direction, she turned. Whirling to the right, she brought Fearsolais down in a glorious arc and halted her blade a hairbreadth from her father’s lower back.
A strike that would have cut his torso in half.
Draevan froze as steel touched his tunic. Aemyra’s auburn curls fluttered in the gentle breeze coming off the loch.
“Yield,” Aemyra said quietly, their identical gazes locked.
Draevan was panting hard but his lips tilted upward. “My daughter finally bests me in a fight.”
A smattering of applause rippled through the crowd and the sound of wings filled the air.
Feeling as though she could breathe again, Aemyra looked up to find Terrea and Gealach descending.
“How about we show your people why they call you the dragon queen?” Draevan asked.
Aemyra smirked. “Don’t we have to prepare for the ritual?” she asked.
Draevan shrugged. “They can’t start without you.”
For the first time, Aemyra felt as though they were simply father and daughter instead of prince and heir. This playfulness? The quirk of his lips? It was almost like what she had shared with Pàdraig growing up.
Exchanging grins that made their resemblance uncanny, they sprinted toward their dragons to cheers and applause.
“Greer will be furious,” Aemyra laughed.
“We’ll give her the biggest sheep for the solstice sacrifice,” Draevan replied, his sheet of auburn hair flying behind him.
Terrea shook her neck and loosed a roar that displayed all of her dagger-sharp teeth as she landed. “Unless your dragon ate them all already, isn’t she looking a little fat?” Draevan teased, giving her a push.
“How many of Laird Edouard’s cream cakes did you eat in Balnain?” Aemyra shouted, eyeing his straining belt. “No wonder I finally beat you today.”
Draevan laughed aloud as he vaulted onto Gealach, the emerald dragon clawing deep furrows into the ground in his excitement to get airborne. His wings looked strong, the emerald scales of his neck healed from the wounds made by Kolreath’s golden claws.
Aemyra leaped astride Terrea as Gealach took off before them.
With a challenging roar, Terrea followed the male into the air, the late afternoon sun bathing them in its glow. With a smile born of pure hope, Aemyra lifted her hands from Terrea’s spikes and spread her arms wide.
She would learn to bear the weight of her grief, and her crown. Her magic would return, and with it, the true queen.
Tìr Teine was the land of fire, and Aemyra would make sure they remembered that before the end.