Page 32

The presence of a stone-faced priest in the corridor, no doubt stationed there at Alfred’s behest, was the only thing that kept Aemyra confined to her chambers. As the hours dragged on, she considered letting him march her to tower prayers simply for a bit of entertainment.

As the sun reached its peak behind heavy clouds, Aemyra sat up from her nest of cushions on the settee when the door finally opened.

“Thank Brigid, escort me out of these chambers before I go mad.” She sighed.

Fiorean went still and Aemyra had the good sense to regret her choice of words.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you are the one who fled my presence earlier. Forgive me if my day was taken up with rather more important matters.”

For the first time, Aemyra wondered if she had hurt his feelings by rejecting him.

“Is your ego so bruised that I am to be spared your infallible arrogance this afternoon?” she asked, plucking the dagger he had given her from the table.

His eyes followed the path of the blade as he unbelted his sporran and threw it onto the bed.

“If you’re planning on using that on me, make it quick. I’d hate to suffer some drawn-out death because of your shoddy knife-wielding skills,” Fiorean said.

“Not into knife play. Noted,” Aemyra quipped.

Fiorean froze where he stood and Aemyra immediately regretted the flirtatious remark. Perhaps it wasn’t advisable to make her changing feelings so plain. Not unless she could use it to her advantage.

Slipping the dagger into the pocket of her dress alongside the Goddess-token, Aemyra thumbed the corner of Brigid’s cross. It was time to bring down this family from within the walls. When her father and brother led her army to the city, she would open the gates for them.

“Edwyn is getting worse,” Fiorean said. “I’m taking you to examine him.”

With that, he gave her no time to prepare before ushering her out of their chambers and up three floors.

The corridor was narrow, with painted doors lining the walls. The one at the far end had been left ajar and it creaked softly as Fiorean slipped in.

The smell hit her first.

“Great Mother have mercy,” Aemyra said, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.

Edwyn was lying on a small cot, the only furniture in what seemed to be a quarantine room. At least the healers had enough sense to keep him away from the other children. Berating them internally, Aemyra threw the window wide, letting in the fresh air.

“Light a fire,” Aemyra spat through gritted teeth, irritated that she could have done it with a flick of her wrist had the binding agent not still been in her system.

The hearth flared to life and Aemyra relaxed at having Brigid’s presence among them as she pulled clean blankets from the top of the wardrobe.

Fiorean was staring at his hand, his posture stiff before the flames. “Athair Alfred abhors Goddess magic to be used in the nursery,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“Fuck Athair Alfred,” Aemrya said, watching the way Fiorean eyed the room. As though remembering something he would rather forget.

Drawing herself up to her full height, Aemyra addressed a graying nursemaid wearing a pinched expression. “Bring fresh linens, clean water, and soap.”

The fire was already burning the chill from the room with the strength of Fiorean’s magic, and Aemyra knelt beside the cot.

The boy was breathing, but it was shallow. His small chest fluttered under her hands and his pallor was gray. When she peeled back an eyelid, his pupils were blown wide.

“Poisoning. Undoubtedly,” Aemyra said.

Fiorean cursed behind her as she gently pried Edwyn’s lips open. The boy barely stirred. Her heart near stopped when she saw the stains around his gums.

“Bitterberries,” she whispered.

“What?” Fiorean asked.

Aemyra rested on her heels, automatically wiping her fingers on the sheets. Rising to her feet, she met Fiorean’s emerald eyes.

“It explains why the royal physicians were unable to identify it. Bitterberries are the cause of many poisonings among the children of farmers, especially in the spring. The brambles are easily mistaken for blackberries, but their poison is so potent it can kill within hours.”

“But Edwyn has been sick for a week. Even Fergys…” Fiorean trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

But Aemyra wasn’t listening. “Look at his gums.”

Frowning, Fiorean carefully pulled Edwyn’s bottom lip down. The little boy stirred but soon fell still again. Before Fiorean had even finished looking at the dark red stain left on his fingers, Aemyra was wiping them with the sheet.

“Someone has been poisoning them regularly,” she whispered, the knowledge settling heavily on her heart. “Keeping them hovering on the edge of the Otherworld until they wished to send a message.”

Fiorean’s hand automatically went to his sword, and Aemyra could not ignore how much he cared for his nephews.

“Who has access to the nursery?” Aemyra asked.

Looking over his shoulder to the open door, Fiorean ran a tired hand across his face. “The nannies and nursemaids obviously, a wet nurse for Nael’s boy, five governesses, the kitchen maids bring up trays…”

Aemyra froze.

Did it all come back to the kitchens? It would have been only too easy for Marilde to slip a few drops of bitterberry juice into pies or puddings. Enough for the children to sicken but not die until she strengthened the dose. Wringing her hands together, Aemyra eyed the newly roaring fire.

She had dismissed Katherine as a suspect, but Alfred’s priests and Covenanters were everywhere. She already knew they were slipping the binding agent into her food and drink.

But why would Alfred poison the children of the family that were his key to converting Tìr Teine to the True Religion? Poison didn’t exactly seem like Marilde’s choice of weapon either. The cook was as subtle as a brick. Unless Draevan had sent the order…

Aemyra turned away from Fiorean, unable to look him in the eye. Not wasting any more time, she began stripping the bed herself. Edwyn’s small frame was so thin it took barely any effort to lift him. Determined that this little boy would live, Aemyra barely registered the nanny bringing what she had asked for, or Fiorean’s stern voice drifting up the corridor. Hours passed as she focused on washing the sores that had formed on the child’s body.

By the time she was content with his conditions, the room was dark.

“You must turn him at intervals,” Aemyra instructed the three nannies Fiorean had deemed trustworthy. “Wet his lips with sugared water four times an hour but do not let him eat.”

Fiorean slipped back into the room, his expression indecipherable.

“He’s always awful hungry when he wakes,” the gray-haired nanny replied.

Aemyra crossed her arms. “The poison is likely in whatever food he has been ingesting. If he wakes, send for me. Charcoal mixed with honeyed porridge is all he is allowed.”

The nannies curtsied obediently, and Aemyra turned her gaze to the sleeping boy as Fiorean approached her.

“You care about him,” he said softly.

Aemyra bristled. “I care for all of my people. Too many children have lost their lives and I desire Edwyn not to be one of them.”

Suddenly it wasn’t a little red-haired boy lying on the cot, it was a dark-skinned child with unruly curls and Aemyra let out a shuddering breath. “I miss Lachlann,” she said.

Surprising her, Fiorean’s hand rested gently on her shoulder. Realizing how much her determination to save his nephew had moved him, she didn’t brush him off.

“I could save them all, you know,” she whispered into the quiet room, and Fiorean’s grip tensed. “I could save you.”

His hand dropped from her shoulder, and after a moment’s hesitation he twined his fingers with hers.

“Follow me,” he said.

—

Aemyra had known she was successfully breaking down Fiorean’s defenses, but she hadn’t expected him to lead her straight out of the caisteal via a back passageway.

Determined not to let her guard down, Aemyra pulled her hand away when they reached the forest. She might be lusting after him, but he was still her enemy in this clan war over her succession. A war that was poised to rip her territory in half.

Unless she could convince him to support her claim to the throne instead of Evander’s.

Even now that she knew the truth about her family’s death, Aemyra still didn’t trust him. Not fully.

Draevan would never accept an alliance with Fiorean unless he proved himself beyond all doubt. Aemyra couldn’t admit how badly she wanted him to change his allegiance and she shivered.

Fiorean misinterpreted her thoughts.

“Disposing of you in the forest would rather counteract my having married you to use you as leverage, now, wouldn’t it?” Fiorean drawled, his face ghostly pale in the moonlight.

Fiorean’s strides grew lengthier as they walked. Night had fallen, and the woods were silent save for the rustlings of the nocturnal animals in search of a meal.

Aemyra had to squint in the darkness to look out for fallen branches and keep her ankles from rolling on the damp ground. Several times, Fiorean turned as if to help her over a large root or stump.

She took care not to look at him when he did, but she felt the tension even without his touch.

Finally they made it into a wide clearing, the mountain peaks towering above them.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked.

Fiorean was staring at her in quiet contemplation, and she tried not to scratch the wound on her chest, which had become itchy underneath the necklace.

Shivering in the chill air now that they had stopped walking, Aemyra hoped it wouldn’t rain.

“Since I have met your dragon, I figured that you should meet mine,” Fiorean said quietly.

Then she heard the wings.

Craning her neck, she watched a blue dragon descend through the clouds that blanketed the stars.

Terrea was a creature of the night, but there was no question that Fiorean’s dragon belonged in a sun-streaked sky. Aervor’s cobalt scales rippled as he landed heavily, claws digging deep grooves into the grassy meadow.

Aervor tucked his wings in tightly to his sides and shook his thick neck. Aemyra took one step backward, drawing level with Fiorean as the blue dragon settled himself. He was smaller than Terrea, but the six huge barbs on his tail and enormous claws looked dangerous enough.

Aemyra stared up at Aervor. “How on earth did you claim him when you were only thirteen years old?”

Fiorean gave her a shrewd smile. “My infamous arrogance, I suppose.”

Aemyra rolled her eyes.

Where Terrea’s facial crests were fluted elegantly, Aervor’s appearance was…stockier. His head was broad, his neck less shapely than Terrea’s. The cerulean scales on his neck stuck up slightly; it gave him the appearance of a ruff.

The dragon was staring at both of them quietly, his mouth slightly open to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth.

The realization that those teeth were the last things Lachlann had seen before his death hit Aemyra like a kick to the chest.

“You decided to bring me face-to-face with the dragon that killed my baby brother?” she asked, reeling backward.

Fiorean tried to reach for her, but she held up a hand in warning. It was only the knowledge that she would never be able to completely control Terrea either that stayed Aemyra’s hand.

As it was, Fiorean was standing between Aemyra and Aervor like he was a mediator at a joust.

“Do you really think I’m egotistical enough to pick a fight with a dragon?” Aemyra asked when she had recovered her senses.

“You’re certainly stupid enough to keep picking them with me,” he replied.

Annoyed that her defenses were crumbling, she spat back, “You’re barely a challenge.”

His eyebrows rose. “Says the woman who lost the last two.”

“Third time’s the charm?” she asked, feeling the dagger in her pocket.

Fiorean crossed his arms over his chest.

Aemyra relented. “Did you bring me here to threaten me? If I don’t heal Edwyn you’ll take Sorcha from the dungeons and burn her too?”

Fiorean had the audacity to look offended.

“The way you spoke about your Bond with The Terror…I, uh…mm.” He seemed to be at a loss for words and he scratched his nose. “There will be battles to come. Evander has already begun talking about using our dragons in the fight against your father.”

Aemyra’s chest contracted painfully.

“You mean the fight against me,” she said, mouth dry.

The image of Gealach locked in battle with Kolreath and Aervor while Aemyra remained a prisoner was abhorrent.

She needed Fiorean on her side and Sorcha out of this caisteal. Three dragons on her side would turn the tide of this war.

His expression was sincere when he said, “I hope that if you can teach me how to connect to Aervor in the same way that you are in tune with your dragon, then I will be able to control him better.”

Aemyra let Fiorean’s words sink in. He was asking for her help.

For the first time, Aemyra understood that they both wanted the same thing. Neither of them wanted the people of Tìr Teine to suffer. She just had to make him understand that the best way to ensure their safety was to place the crown on her head.

“That must have been one interesting council meeting today,” Aemyra mused, observing Aervor from a distance.

Fiorean was already using her as leverage, it was time she began negotiating for her throne.

“All right, tell me about him,” Aemyra said.

The dragon had curled up on the ground, dew clinging to his face from the wet grass.

“What?” Fiorean asked.

Trying to put her resentment toward the blue beast out of her mind, she focused on getting under Fiorean’s skin.

Aemyra inclined her head. “Tell me about him. How does he fly? What does he most like to eat? Which wing does he favor?”

Fiorean stared at her blankly.

Aemyra tried not to sigh. This was going to be harder than she thought.

“You really don’t know? How in Hela’s realm has he been letting you on his back this whole time?”

Fiorean glared at her. “We have managed well enough.”

“The fact that Lachlann died on your watch is proof that you haven’t,” Aemyra shot back. “Your pride is getting in the way. Perhaps you were less of a conceited swine when you initially Bonded at thirteen, but if you can’t humble yourself, then the Bond will never establish properly.”

“I was not a conceited swine—”

“Our beathaichean are not magical amplifiers for us to use at will!” Aemyra shouted.

They stood there breathing heavily, scowling at each other.

“I have been Bonded to Aervor for half my life. How can you claim to know better after only being Bonded a few weeks?” Fiorean asked bitterly.

Aemyra sighed. “Do you want me to share what I know or not?”

Eventually, Fiorean spoke through gritted teeth. “I am not blessed with the ability to expose my inner thoughts or feelings easily.”

Aemyra bit back her snappy retort when she realized how much pride it had cost Fiorean to admit even that much.

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” she replied mulishly. “What wing is he strongest on? Just like you or I favor one hand, so too will your dragon.”

Fiorean shifted uncomfortably, and Aemyra bit back an impatient sigh.

“Does he always land on one side first? Or perhaps he pulls more strongly with one wing?” Aemyra prompted.

Fiorean’s eyes roved over his dragon as if sorting through the memories of every flight they had ever shared.

“The left,” he said firmly.

“Good. How can you use that knowledge to help him when he flies or lands?”

Fiorean shrugged. “I could turn him from the right so that he can have more space on the left? I usually just aim for anywhere that’s open, since he’s difficult to maneuver. Stubborn beast.”

“What about old injuries? Aches, pains, that sort of thing?”

Fiorean looked blank.

“You are his Dùileach. You have a duty to take care of him. By all accounts, my beathach is centuries old. Perhaps older even than Kolreath. Aervor has a lifetime of memories and experiences before you that will have left their mark on his body and mind.”

Fiorean tilted his head before pointing to a scar just below Aervor’s right shoulder.

“He survived the Battle of the Five Brothers with King Realor in 1833; he limps when it rains. I think his front leg pains him sometimes,” Fiorean said quietly, clearly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought about it before.

“Good. Now you have to open yourself up,” Aemyra said briskly.

Fiorean turned to her like she had asked him to strip naked and walk through the lower town.

She smiled. “It isn’t so terrifying, you know.”

Fiorean looked like he begged to differ.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered, taking his hands. “Now think about Aervor. Not about controlling him or commanding him. I want you to think about his heart, his identity, even as it is separate from yours. Then remember all the moments you have shared together. Moments when you ceased to feel like a separate entity and were one with your dragon. Moments where you were so angry that if you opened your mouth, you felt like Aervor’s fire would spill forth. Feel for that place behind your heart where he rests within you.”

Aemyra knew it had worked when Aervor turned his head toward them both and mewed, his cerulean eyes alert.

Fiorean’s mouth plopped open, and she saw tears slide down his cheeks from beneath his closed lids.

He gripped Aemyra’s hands like they were his lifeline.

Aervor made a low, contented rumbling sound deep in his chest as Fiorean turned to his dragon.

“Now you know,” she said, even as envy laced her heart, her own Bond still muted by the binding agent.

Here she was, helping her captor with his dragon, and still a prisoner in her own caisteal. If her father could see her now, he would disown her.

“Thank you,” Fiorean breathed, not bothering to wipe away his tears.

This moment couldn’t be for nothing, and Aemyra knew she had to ask. Fiorean would never be more vulnerable than now, would never owe her more than he currently did.

“Accept the truth,” she said, gripping his hands when he tensed. “Tìr Teine will never know peace while a mad king sits the throne with a priest whispering in his ear. We have a chance to make this territory better—together.”

There was a brief flash of hope in his emerald eyes before he ripped his hands away. Wiping his cheeks angrily, he looked between Aervor and Aemyra, torn.

“Listen to me,” Aemyra said, the first droplet of rain catching her cheek. “This is my territory, my clan, and I have no desire to see my people burn. Evander might not be well versed in the histories, but you are. You know my claim is true even if you won’t admit it.”

Fiorean’s jaw clenched. “You would ask me to go against my family? Would you have me kill my own brother to make you queen? Evander has already been crowned!”

Aemyra gritted her teeth and pushed back against him, their noses almost touching. “I would have you honor the Goddesses and do what is right!”

Aervor loosed a bone-shaking roar, stretching his thick neck toward Aemyra, displaying his long teeth and the gullet full of fire that lurked beyond. With the newly deepened Bond, Aervor leaped to the defense of his Dùileach.

Shit.

Fiorean threw himself toward her, tackling her to the ground. Before Aervor could take a step closer, an enormous black dragon landed in the meadow with an almighty crash to defend her Dùileach.