Page 37

“I need to escape tonight,” Aemyra said, her voice echoing in the empty corridor.

Fiorean stayed close to her side. “Ssh, we need to clean you first.”

Aemyra pushed him away. “Fiorean, I can’t stay in this caisteal any longer. Nairn is dead. Your mother and Alfred will come after me and they will make sure my magic remains bound as long as I am a prisoner here.” Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. “I need to get Sorcha and leave tonight.”

Instead of restraining her, Fiorean blocked the door that led down to the dungeons. Blood crusted his scar and Aemyra had never seen him look so fearsome.

“The Athair will not live to see the sunrise, and I will get Sorcha out.” His fingers reached gently for the sword she still clutched in her hands. “But right now you will only attract unwanted attention.”

Aemyra’s gorge rose at the smell of the blood crusting her dress and hair and she relinquished the sword. She tried not to think about the sharp ache between her legs as Fiorean led her gently up the stairs.

“There is more darkness in this court, in this territory, than I thought. I need to make it right,” Aemyra whispered. “Goddess knows what the princesses have gone through at the hands of Alfred, what they are still going through.”

Fiorean’s emerald eyes were far away. “T-they are safe within these walls.”

Aemyra laughed, an edge of hysteria within it. “You cannot tell me you still believe that? How can you have witnessed what just happened and think that any woman is safe in this court? The captain of the guard and the leader of the Chosen just sanctioned this assault within the caisteal walls.”

“I never thought—” His words choked off as he opened the door to their chambers, his expression one of utter agony.

The room was empty, but the door to the secret passageway was still open, blood covering the floor. Aemyra could suddenly feel it all again. The act of dueling Sir Nairn had taken away most of her panic, giving her a sense of control. Now she was just a victim standing in the evidence of her assault.

His expression taut, Fiorean led her into the adjacent bathing chamber and bolted the door closed.

As soon as his back was turned, Aemyra felt herself start to shake. She was escaping tonight. As soon as she was on Terrea’s back, she would be safe again.

Fighting not to let a whimper escape her lips, she wrestled with the laces of her corset, needing to get the dress off her body. Fiorean spread his palm flat on the surface of the bathwater until tendrils of steam curled lazily into the air.

She needed this filth off her skin.

The wound on her chest was pulling uncomfortably as she struggled. A band of panic tightening around her lungs the longer she fought with the dress. She could feel the congealing blood coating her skin, and a deep ache was resting in between her legs that made her want to scream.

Her breaths became erratic.

Fiorean looked up from the bath, and his eyes widened as Aemyra’s heaving breaths turned into choking sobs.

“ A ghràidh… ” He murmured the endearment in the Seann, dropping the soap into the bath and rushing to her side.

Aemyra was still manically pulling at her dress, teeth clenched against the uncontrollable tremors.

“Get it off me!”

Her husband’s fingers slipped on the laces and Aemyra felt like she could endure no more.

“Get it off!”

Fiorean’s emerald eyes were shining with tears as he pulled at the knots Aemyra had accidentally created. Her own nails were scratching his skin as he tried to help her, desperate to rid herself of the stain.

“Get it off NOW,” Aemyra roared, her already raw throat cracking on the last word.

Fiorean unsheathed his own dagger, swiping it through the laces with one swift movement, and ripped the ruined dress from her body.

Aemyra flailed, trying to get her arms out of the sleeves, but the blood made the fabric heavy. In her panic she sobbed hysterically, hardly wanting to touch the dress to strip herself of it.

Fiorean’s eyes were pained as he reached for her, but she backed away. A second tear followed the first, his cheeks glinting in the light of the fire he had ignited in the brazier, and he raised his palms.

The gentlest brush of magic enveloped her, twin tongues of flame that made contact with the dress, burning it to ashes until the only thing touching her was the garnet necklace.

There was still dried blood crusted on her skin and hair, but she quieted. Sinking to the floor, curling into herself, Aemyra cried.

She cried the tears she had been valiantly keeping in for Orlagh, Lachlann, and Pàdraig. She cried for the two small princes who she was sure had died because of her, if not by her own hand. And she cried for what she had endured within these caisteal walls in just a few short weeks.

How could she ever hope to change the world if this was what had become of her?

Cheeks wet, she felt the gentlest brush of Fiorean’s magic and she looked up. He was kneeling beside her, his white shirt stained red, tears tracking through the blood on his face.

He held her gaze as the sobs subsided.

“You survived,” he said firmly.

Aemyra hated that her bottom lip wobbled.

“I am here. You are safe. You survived.”

“I need to be stronger than this,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I need to be better than this.”

Fiorean was shaking his head as Aemyra began rubbing her bloodstained hands together in disgust. With a rush of heat, Fiorean sent a cleansing fire skittering across her body and the blood was seared from her skin. When he entwined their fingers together, not an outer trace of what had happened remained.

“You are the strongest woman I have ever met,” he said, pressing a fervent kiss to her knuckles.

Before she could so much as shake her head, he grasped the sides of her face with his now clean hands.

“You are my queen.”

Aemyra’s eyes widened. He had never called her that before. Not all the times she had corrected him, not even when she had held a dagger to his throat.

“I don’t feel much like a q-queen,” she managed to say.

“Did any of our ancestors? What is a ruler supposed to feel like?” he asked.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, Aemyra fought not to look at the door as she knew what lay beyond.

“I don’t know,” she muttered.

The way everyone still spoke of the ancient queens with such reverence had always made Aemyra believe they had been born knowing how to rule. The warrior Lissandrea, her daughter Aesandra, Faeona the Gentle, Isabael the Peaceful…Aemyra had modeled herself after those queens. Promised herself she would not let the people of Tìr Teine down.

Now look at what had become of her.

Stripped of her magic, violated in her own caisteal, denied the throne that was rightfully hers.

“Let me wash it away,” Fiorean said, pulling her gently to her feet.

She allowed him to guide her to the steaming bathtub.

When her legs submerged into the scalding water, she almost started crying again, this time in relief.

Aemyra closed her eyes as Fiorean rubbed delicious circles into her scalp, his lithe fingers gentle on her skin as he erased the stain of the assault from her curls.

“I don’t know how to be a queen after this,” she whispered as he poured a jug of water over her head.

“You don’t have to, Aemyra.” Fiorean sighed. “You just have to be yourself. The rest will follow.”

Biting down on her kneecaps, tasting the coppery tang of the water she sat in, she allowed the tears to spill over as Fiorean rinsed her hair.

“Even without your magic, you burn like wildfire. Before I knew who you were, I could see that. It is not your magic, or your blood, that makes you the right ruler for Tìr Teine. It is your heart.”

Aemyra couldn’t see his face, but the sincerity in his words was unmistakable.

“You are the light, Aemyra,” Fiorean said, risking the tenderest kiss to her bare shoulder. “Shine for us.”

Her trust in Fiorean was new, and still fragile. She desperately needed to surround herself with those she knew would never betray her. Feeling the separation from her twin ache profoundly, she suddenly needed Adarian beside her.

Rising from the bath, Aemyra stood still as Fiorean’s magic dried her off before she could ask. Her skin was still tender but now pleasantly warm, as were the curls spiraling down her bare back.

She pulled on the breeches and clean shirt Fiorean had fetched from the other room.

“I will shine,” she said, her voice miraculously steady. “I will shine brighter than the fucking sun for my people. With me as queen, with our dragons fighting together, we can make this right. Brigid will guide us.”

The water in the bath sloshed as Fiorean quickly scrubbed himself clean, rivulets cascading down the hard muscles of his torso. He stared into the water, contemplating what she was asking.

“I am risking everything for you. My own life, my dragon’s life. You expect me to betray my mother, and be prepared to kill my brother if he will not relinquish the throne?”

There was no malice in his tone, the words were hollow, his decision already made.

Aemyra crossed her arms over her chest as Fiorean rose from the bath, squeezing water from his long hair.

“You’ve seen Evander’s behavior grow more impulsive. How long until he becomes a danger to his wife, his children? Himself?,” she asked.

Fiorean closed his eyes, bracing himself on the edge of the bathtub.

“This madness, if it truly comes from Kolreath, cannot be reversed. A Bond can only be severed in death. You and I both know this,” Aemyra whispered.

She knew she was asking the impossible. The Chosen had used the mental instability of former kings to their advantage. Kolreath had been Bonded to five different Dùileach. Had the madness begun with the dragon? Or with the king who had killed four of his brothers to ensure he sat the throne? Perhaps with the death of each Bonded Dùileach, Kolreath had lost a little more of himself.

“We are all villains in somebody’s story, Fiorean,” Aemyra finally said. “I am the villain in your mother’s. As no doubt you are in my father’s. But it is how we view each other that matters.”

Fiorean trembled, like he was warring against his instinct to hold and protect her.

“Do you think my mother knows of Alfred’s true inclinations?” he asked.

Aemyra didn’t want to believe that Katherine was capable of orchestrating such an assault, but Alfred had been her closest companion for years.

“How else would she have known to bring you to our chambers?” she replied.

Fiorean’s eyes were unfocused. “No. She was at prayers. She told me she heard it from another priest.”

Recognizing when Fiorean was reaching his own mental limit, she placed a hand on his chest. Feeling the beat of his heart under her palm steadied her.

“Nothing stays secret in this city for long,” Aemyra replied diplomatically. If Katherine had been involved, they would hear of it soon enough.

“You did,” Fiorean said.

His voice was laced with emotion that he couldn’t put into words, but he lifted his eyes to her bruised face. “But now it is time to show the world who you are.”

—

Aemyra pulled her cloak tighter around her neck, leathers squeaking as she shifted from foot to foot. Her emotions were still raw, but it felt good to be in motion.

Terrea grumbled at her back.

“Hush,” Aemyra whispered. “They’ll be here soon.”

Her words betrayed the twitching in her fingers, her restless legs. It was taking everything inside her not to climb onto Terrea’s back and leave this court far behind. Her dragon was on edge, having sensed what had happened to Aemyra through the Bond. It was only the fact that innocent people slept within the caisteal that kept her dragon from burning it to the ground.

The caisteal was surprisingly quiet, eerily so.

Fiorean had set off for the dungeons what felt like hours ago and dawn was fast approaching. They needed to be far from àird Lasair when the sun finally crested the horizon.

Fiorean’s first task would be to find Athair Alfred and kill him. Her husband had granted her request to kill Sir Nairn, she would allow him this part of the revenge.

Then they would weather what came next on different sides of the war, in the hopes that they could unite what had been broken decades before.

Another low growl came from her dragon, and Aemyra squinted through the darkness until she saw Fiorean and Sorcha sprinting through the meadow and she sighed with relief.

Fiorean’s stride was long, and Sorcha was stumbling slightly with the effort of keeping up with him. She was thin, and her raven hair was matted to her scalp, but she looked mercifully uninjured. Aemyra’s heart squeezed painfully as she felt the guilt of leaving her former lover to languish in the dungeons instead of rescuing her immediately.

Her feet stumbling, Aemyra closed the distance between them. Part of her knew that a daring rescue would have only ended in her own capture and Sorcha’s death, but the sight of the filth covering Sorcha’s olive skin had Aemyra praying to Cailleach for forgiveness.

No bells were tolling from the caisteal, no shouts rent the air. Fiorean had done as he had promised and gotten Sorcha out safely.

“It’s all right, you’re safe,” Aemyra promised, reaching for her.

Evidently exhausted from the headlong sprint, Sorcha collapsed into Aemyra’s arms. The familiar scent enveloped her, still there underneath the grime, and Aemyra struggled to control the emotions that rose to the surface.

She was no longer the same woman who had worked in a forge and enjoyed trysts with the tavern owner.

Sorcha stiffened as if she realized it too, and she pulled back. Having expected some degree of resentment from her, Aemyra was still stung by the look of pure venom in her eyes.

“You lied to me,” Sorcha seethed, the conflicting emotions in her voice evident even to Fiorean.

The barkeep looked as though it was only the presence of the dragon stopping her from striking Aemyra. Knowing what Sorcha was capable of, Aemyra kept a healthy distance from her former lover. It was too soon after the assault to be touched in violence once more and she didn’t miss the concern in Fiorean’s eyes.

But she could not go to pieces, not again.

“I had no choice,” Aemyra said, keeping her tone flat. Not willing to let Sorcha see how close to breaking she really was.

“You should have told me who you really were,” Sorcha said, a pleading note entering her voice.

Aemyra crossed her arms as if they would protect her heart. “We don’t have time for this. Let’s go.”

“What the fuck are you doing with him?” Sorcha’s dark eyes, welling with furious tears, spared a quick, hate-filled glance at Fiorean. “They killed Orlagh!”

Aemyra flinched and Terrea peeled her lips back from her teeth. Her dragon wouldn’t tolerate much more.

“Given that I just rescued you, wouldn’t that put us on the same side?” Fiorean asked, taking one step forward as if to protect Aemyra.

Sorcha glared at him. “You are the one who kidnapped me in the first place, Prince.”

Aemyra’s eyebrows rose and she turned to her husband. Fiorean simply shrugged.

“Villain in someone’s story, remember?”

Sorcha scoffed when Aemyra did nothing. “Unbelievable.”

Temper flaring, Aemyra reached for Sorcha’s wrist and held fast. “Believe it or not, you are lucky that Fiorean is the one who captured you. Had it been Evander, or that bastard N-Nairn, you would not be standing here right now.”

Aemyra shuddered as she spoke the captain’s name into existence, reminding herself that his corpse was rotting up at the caisteal.

Sorcha stopped struggling.

“I am sorry,” Aemyra said, relenting. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t tell you who I was, but doing so would have only put you in more danger. We were involved for years, Sorcha. I had no idea when my time would come to make a play for the throne, and I wasn’t about to put you in such a dangerous position.”

Sorcha’s face crumpled. “Why make a play for the throne at all? You had a good life, Aemyra.” Her voice broke. “Orlagh and Pàdraig had good lives too.”

Fiorean’s hand went to the sword at his side when Aemyra’s lip wobbled. The words hurt more than if Sorcha had slapped her.

After a moment, Aemyra found her voice. “Orlagh and Pàdraig understood my reasons. This fight is about more than just us. Tìr Teine needs a queen.”

Sorcha’s face shuttered.

Aemyra sighed, exhausted. “We have to go.”

Sorcha eyed Terrea warily. “Go where?”

“South. My army is camped in the foothills of the Deàrr Mountains and it is time I rejoin them,” Aemyra said, turning back to face her husband.

Fiorean drew close to her, cupping the back of her neck with one hand, letting his thumb graze her lower jaw.

“Thirty thousand Leuthanach clansmen are on that plain,” he warned. “If you cannot convince your father…”

Aemyra lifted her chin. “I’m the queen, remember? I don’t have to convince my father of anything. My army fights for me.”

With the moonlight staining his skin bone white, Aemyra crushed her lips to his in a kiss that tasted of farewell.

Aemyra pulled away from him to chivy Sorcha toward an irate Terrea.

“I’ve seen you face down sailors more threatening than my dragon, get up her leg,” Aemyra said to Sorcha when she balked.

Terrea growled low in her throat as Sorcha climbed the scaly limb with trembling hands. Aemyra made to follow.

“Wait,” Fiorean said.

Her husband pulled his cloak aside to reveal the weapon she thought she would never see again.

“Where did you get that?” Aemyra gasped.

He was holding the sword she had forged with her own magic, the carved runes thrown into sharp relief by the moonlight. As her hand gripped the leather of the scabbard, she felt a piece of her soul return to her.

“You were in rather a rush to get away from me after our first fight,” Fiorean said with a gentle smile.

Aemyra drew the blade with a shriek of steel. To give him credit, Fiorean didn’t back away.

“You’re lucky I didn’t run you through with it,” she said, eyes on the spectacularly crafted weapon.

Fiorean snorted. “You tried and failed, Princess.”

With the ghost of a smile on her lips, Aemyra slid the sword back into its scabbard.

“So, we’re back to ‘princess’ now, are we?” she asked.

Fiorean shrugged. “Old habits.”

Feeling like she had shed an old skin and was being born anew, Aemyra stroked the hilt.

This was the sword she would free her people with.

“Does it have a name?” Fiorean asked, his eyes on the weapon.

Aemyra had spent years trying to think up something appropriate. A name that would be worthy of great stories. She had never seemed to find one that fit.

It surprised her that now, when she had so recently felt what it was to break completely, she knew what her sword’s name was.

Remembering Orlagh’s last words, Aemyra smiled.

“Fearsolais,” she said in the Seann, the blade heating in her hands as she spoke its name into existence. “Lightbringer.”