Page 38

The two armies came into sight just as dawn broke over the horizon. Terrea had flown swiftly and they had left Clan Daercathian lands behind within hours.

Her father had picked a strategic location, allowing ten thousand soldiers to keep the advantage of the high ground. With the mountain peaks at their back, Gealach and Terrea would be able to launch aerial attacks while staying out of range.

Aemyra hadn’t been able to fathom how large the opposing forces of Clan Leuthanach might be, but as Terrea descended from the sky, the breath left her lungs.

“Great Mother have mercy,” Sorcha muttered behind her.

The hilltop fortress of Fyndhorn was surrounded by black tents spreading across the plain.

A cry went up from the scouts as the black dragon descended from the clouds. Terrea landed atop a high hill just behind where the largest tents were erected, the flattened trees and scorched earth telling Aemyra that Gealach had been here recently.

Groaning as her abused muscles protested the movement, Aemyra slid off Terrea’s back, her feet hitting the ground with a soft thud. Helping Sorcha down, Aemyra tried not to notice how the barkeep skirted out of her hold as soon as she was back on solid ground.

Aemyra shouldered the insult and started walking toward the camp. They hadn’t made it far before Adarian appeared, sprinting as though Beira’s wind bore him hence.

A small cry escaped her lips at the sight of her twin and she started running.

“Aemyra!” Adarian cried, managing to make her name sound like both an admonishment and a relief.

Her field of vision was suddenly blocked by Adarian’s chest as her twin enveloped her in a crushing hug. She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, reassuring herself that he was still in one piece. Aemyra had lost too many people, seen too much violence and death since they had parted, to take this moment for granted.

“Thank the Goddess you’re safe,” Adarian muttered into her hair.

Pulling back, Aemyra noticed his dirt-streaked fighting leathers. He had grown his hair out, but those sapphire eyes shone brightly within his now tanned face.

Aemyra searched for the words to explain all that had happened since they had been separated. Grief clouded his eyes and she felt dangerously close to tears.

“I’m so sorry, Adarian,” she whispered.

His jaw clenched as he pulled her in for another crushing hug that spoke of loneliness. It was her fault he had been forced to grieve their family without her.

“You are an idiot for flying off and trying to avenge Lachlann without me. What were you thinking ?” he ground out.

Fighting her exhaustion, Aemyra clutched her brother’s arms. She had already endured too much over the last couple of days, she needed her twin to be on her side.

“I will explain everything. Where is Father?”

“Scouting with Gealach,” he replied. “The Balnain fleet needs reinforcements. They came under attack two days ago, falling prey to some kind of magic-stripping mist. Thanks to the phoenixes, the battle was won, but barely.”

Sorcha shifted her feet and Aemyra fought against her weariness. “Take me to Father’s tent. Sorcha needs sustenance while you check her for injuries.”

“I don’t nee—” Sorcha began to protest.

“You were in those dungeons for weeks. I was unable to help you then, but I will do what I can to ensure you have no lasting effects from your imprisonment,” Aemyra interrupted, her tone firm.

To her surprise, Adarian bowed to her like a soldier following orders from his commander, and Sorcha followed as meekly as she was capable of into camp.

Aemyra noticed the confident set of Adarian’s shoulders. His was the stance of a man grown accustomed to leading soldiers. She wondered which company their father had placed him in charge of. From the smell lifting off his clothes, she would guess cavalry.

Sorcha never said a word as they walked toward the largest tent. Murmuring and whispers met Aemyra’s ears, soldiers on all sides praising their queen’s return. Some even going so far as to marvel at her escape.

She ignored them all.

Sorcha sniffed derisively.

Reaching the tent bearing the Daercathian royal crest, Aemyra squashed down her nerves and pulled open the canvas flap.

“Your Majesty?” Maeve said, rising from her chair, shock plain on her face.

Aemyra held up one hand as if to protest a bow the general hadn’t been inclined to give. At least she had stood upon the queen’s entry.

“Adarian tells me my father is scouting. While we wait for him, please update me on the progress of my army,” Aemyra said, remembering Fiorean’s words.

She would trust her intuition and learn how to lead these people.

Looking like she was biting back some choice words, Maeve gestured to the maps spread across the table in the middle of the tent. “We are outnumbered by the Leuthanach army three to one. It is likely that more Covenanters have traversed the Blackridge Mountains and are hiding in the tree line. We had been planning to launch an attack from both sides, but this unnatural mist they wield has given us cause for concern.”

Nodding her head, Aemyra weathered the distrust on the general’s face.

“I have experienced firsthand the effects of the binding agent. The Chosen used it on me when I was prisoner in Caisteal Lasair.”

A muscle twitched in Adarian’s jaw, but Maeve remained stoic.

“We had heard rumors…” Adarian said, his words trailing off as Aemyra’s eyes closed wearily.

Her brother looked about as exhausted as Aemyra felt and she wondered how hard Draevan had pushed her army to reach the Deàrr Mountains in only a few short weeks. Maeve was still in her armor, some of it dented, and had a new scar across one cheek.

Aemyra dragged herself over to the nearest chair and sat down heavily as Sorcha gave another contemptuous sniff.

Adarian turned to her. “Would you like me to examine you?” he asked gently.

Sorcha shook her head, clutching the cloak Fiorean had given her around her shoulders. “No. A good, stiff drink wouldn’t go amiss though.”

Maeve reached into a wooden crate, armor clanking. Pulling out a half-empty bottle of Truvo red, she winked at the barkeep.

Despite Maeve’s intimidating persona, Sorcha crossed the tent and took the bottle from the general’s hands, upending it and taking several large swallows. When Sorcha handed it back, Maeve was slack-jawed.

Adarian turned again to his sister. “Well?”

Resolving not to look at Sorcha, Aemyra reminded herself that she was their queen. “You are no doubt aware that I left the Sunset Isle to seek vengeance for Lachlann, Pàdraig, and Orlagh.”

Adarian immediately jumped down her throat. “It was reckless, and stupid, and you put yourself directly into the path of our enemies.”

Running her hand wearily across her face, Aemyra looked up at her brother. “Please, do me the courtesy of letting me speak without interruption. I haven’t slept well in days.”

Sorcha snorted. “No, I bet you haven’t.”

Aemyra bristled at the insinuation as she tried to hold the broken pieces of herself together.

Lifting her chin, Aemyra pulled off her thick cloak and moved the necklace to the side, exposing the jagged wound across her chest. Adarian’s eyes bugged and even Maeve let out a low whistle between her teeth.

“Sir Nairn gave me this when I saved you from his knife,” Aemyra said pointedly, her gaze fixed on her former lover. “I may be the reason that you were imprisoned, but I am also the reason you escaped with your life. Others weren’t so lucky.”

Adarian’s face was pained.

“We saw you being brought into the dungeons,” Sorcha said, her lips making a sucking sound as she lowered the bottle again. “Nairn threw you in a cell and left you there for a full day. You were turning blue without a cloak or a blanket before the dowager queen ordered you removed upstairs.”

Sorcha’s voice was dripping with resentment.

Aemyra rubbed her temple against the headache forming there.

“I’m sorry that Fiorean could not get you out sooner. I promise that you were never far from our thoughts.”

“You sound awfully familiar with your kidnapper,” Adarian said, leaning back in his chair.

Sorcha snorted again. “Well, she was fucking him.”

Adarian’s always carefully contained fire flared outward. “You were what ?”

“Sorcha, please remove yourself from this tent. Find a healer if you need one and tell one of the camp aides that you need clean clothes and something to wash with,” Aemyra said, ignoring the way her brother’s face was turning puce.

Sorcha didn’t move.

“That is an order from your queen,” Aemyra said firmly, staring her down.

The barkeep gave Aemyra one last, loathing look before striding from the tent. Maeve looked inclined to follow her.

“I wasn’t just fucking a prince, I married him. Congratulations, Prince Fiorean is now your brother-in-law. Deal with it.”

Adarian stood from his chair. “Father’s spy said you were forced into it and tried to escape shortly after. Unless you’re telling me you willingly married the man who killed Lachlann?”

“Fiorean didn’t kill him.”

“Lies!” Adarian yelled, fist slamming down on the tabletop, the muscles in his forearm straining.

Aemyra was grateful she wasn’t in possession of her fire, she didn’t have the energy to control it. “I swear it on my own life.”

Holding his gaze, Aemyra recounted how their family had really died. As she had predicted, Adarian seemed altogether less inclined to forgive Fiorean.

“The fact that it was an accident will not bring our brother back, but I will not condemn an innocent man because of one mistake,” she said.

Adarian’s face was furious, his eyes betraying the conflict happening within.

Maeve crossed her arms. “For all we know, you are now here spying on us. You have no way to prove otherwise.”

Even Adarian’s eyes widened, and Aemyra gritted her teeth. “You seem to forget to whom you are speaking.”

Maeve had the sense to look contrite.

“As your queen, ” Aemyra stressed the word heavily as she glared at Maeve, “I have been working for our cause from within the walls of Caisteal Lasair. I did what I could to destabilize Evander’s rule and gain the trust of potential allies. Fiorean helped me escape. He remained behind so that when we launch our attack on the city, the gates will be open to us. I just won us the war. A thank-you would be nice.”

Aemyra grabbed the wine bottle and took a generous gulp.

“We did once talk of marriage alliances strengthening my position. I believe mine worked quite well in our favor,” she said, the Truvo red sliding pleasantly down her throat.

The silence within the tent was broken by the sound of a dragon coming in to land outside the thin canvas walls.

The wine was helping to steady her nerves regarding leading her people, but first Aemyra had to make sure her father would allow her to.

Maeve stood from her chair, spine straight as she awaited her commander. Aemyra tried not to bristle with irritation that she had not shown her queen such courtesy.

Turning expectantly toward the tent flap, she lifted her chin as Draevan shouldered his way inside. His hair was unkempt and his face streaked with dirt, but he didn’t look surprised to see her. No doubt Terrea had been relaying everything she had seen to Draevan via Gealach.

He walked with the confident swagger of a man who thrived in wartime.

“As much as I would have preferred you to come back to us with your traitorous husband’s head, I find myself grateful to have you returned in one piece,” he said.

Coming from Draevan, that was practically a hug.

Aemyra swallowed nervously as her father accepted a goblet of wine from Maeve.

His eyes were bright underneath the grime, and his face weather-beaten. War seemed to suit him.

“Tell me, did you enjoy the luxuries of court life while your army marched north through winter?” he asked after taking a large gulp.

Trying not to think about the treatment she had endured, Aemyra steeled herself. “I escaped at the first opportunity, when it most benefited both my throne and my people.”

“Sorcha didn’t seem to agree with that,” Maeve interrupted unhelpfully.

Aemyra glared at her.

“I have laid àird Lasair open for our attack.”

Draevan narrowed his eyes. “You mean you laid your legs open for the enemy.”

Adarian bristled beside her and Aemyra summoned whatever courage she still possessed. “I did what I thought was best given the circumstances I found myself in. One of your own spies assisted me.” She seethed. “I must now ask if any of your allies at court carried out orders to kill the young princes.”

Maeve raised her eyebrows, but Draevan stared down his long nose at Aemyra.

“I do not mourn the loss of the traitor Evander’s child,” he drawled.

Aemyra clenched her fists. “ Children. Fergys and Hamysh are both dead, they were members of our clan, how can you not mourn them?”

“Did you?”

The words were a test, Aemyra heard it in his voice. Drawing herself up to her full height, she replied, “Yes. I mourned the loss of both boys just as I mourn still for Lachlann. I might have inherited my violent inclinations from you, Father, but Orlagh taught me that fire can heal as well as destroy. I will not lose more of my people so you can play at war.”

Draevan did not waver. “You acted foolishly. Without considering the consequences. Your actions were those of a child, not a queen.” He dragged his eyes up and down her disheveled frame like he didn’t recognize her. “I expected better of you.”

Her father’s words cutting her to the core, Aemyra’s tone turned venomous. “You clipped my wings for twenty-six years and yet you expect me to know how to fly.”

Everyone knew that she wasn’t talking about dragons.

“I will be the first to admit that taking off with Terrea to seek revenge was foolish. But I never planned to abandon my army. Ever since I woke as a prisoner in àird Lasair, I have tried to put the needs of my people first. You should be thanking me. If it wasn’t for my marriage, we would be facing a long-drawn-out battle on the plains.”

She watched Draevan’s eyes linger on her chest wound as if considering her words.

“What’s the problem, Father? Unable to believe that your daughter might have won this war with words before you were able to do it with your sword?”

Draevan drew Dorchadas, the dark steel glinting in the gray light of dawn. “I will allow no daughter of mine to sit the throne with a usurper by her side. I do not care if you married him in the sight of the Goddess or the false God. Death severs all vows. I shall see him gone from this world, or I shall renounce you as my heir.”

Shocked into utter silence, Aemyra watched as he grabbed another goblet of wine and strode from the tent.

Aemyra tried to weather the fear that speared through her. Her father was proud, and stubborn. If he was determined to kill Fiorean, then he would stop at nothing until he had achieved that goal.

She would not let it come to that.

Swallowing her pride, she refused to be ashamed of anything she had done in the last few weeks. Her father would change his mind about Fiorean when he heard their plan. He had to.

“I want half of the army ready to march by tomorrow morning,” she said to Maeve. “I need detailed lists of camp provisions, numbers, and strategy. Bring them to my tent at dusk.”

Her twin squeezed her shoulder.

“I can’t pretend to understand why you let Fiorean escape with his life, but I will be here when you are ready to talk about it,” Adarian said softly.

Maeve stood by the open tent flap, the clattering and shouts of the soldiers reaching Aemyra’s ears.

“You inherited both the best and the worst of him. Your father loves you, no matter how he behaves. But Draevan was not born to rule Tìr Teine, and as such, he cannot take away your inheritance,” Maeve said.

Aemyra inclined her head as graciously as she could manage. Having fought beside Draevan for decades, perhaps Maeve understood parts of her father better than Aemyra did.

“He will refuse to cooperate with you until you apologize,” the general said simply.

Wringing her hands together at the unfairness of it all, Aemyra looked toward the tent entrance. Her father had refused to save her, and she too had her pride.

A queen should never have to apologize to a prince, but sometimes a daughter did need to apologize to her father.

Winding through the maze of tents, Aemyra ignored the pain in her body and headed for the ridge overlooking the plains. Sighing as the wind whipped her hair around her head, Aemyra saw her father standing on the precipice. His arms were tightly crossed over his chest and his head was bowed.

She approached him slowly from the side, not wanting to startle him in case he went toppling over the edge. The rush of the wind was loud in her ears and she could just about hear their dragons calling to each other high above. When Aemyra drew level with her father, she expected anything but what she saw.

Draevan was crying.

All the fight went out of her at the sight.

He was aware of her presence but did not turn. He only raised his head slowly and allowed the last droplets to be ripped from his cheeks by the wind.

“I was the first person to hold you,” Draevan finally said, clearing his throat.

“What?” Aemyra asked, her hair streaming behind her.

“When you were born. You came into this world by my hand, not Orlagh’s.”

Draevan glanced toward her and she willed him to keep going.

“Orlagh did not approve of her friend Elsie’s relationship with the Prince of Penryth. I would never have been allowed to marry her while my father still lived, not that your mother ever asked me to.”

Draevan was searching Aemyra’s face, as if trying to match her adult features with the screaming, pink-faced infant he had held in his arms.

“You arrived first. Orlagh was concerned with how Elsie was coping with the second delivery and left me to guide you into the world. I clutched your tiny body to my chest as your mother weakened. My first child, and I had already failed you as a father. I could not give you my name, nor could I declare you my heir for fear of what the king might do. So I did the only thing I could. I placed you into the arms of the midwife and prayed to Brigid I was doing the right thing by only knowing you in secret.”

Draevan lifted his hand and tucked a strand of Aemyra’s hair behind her ear. Rather a fruitless endeavor, given the wind.

“When I saw how Adarian had grown to look so exactly like Elsie, how you somehow seemed to have more of my spirit, my heart broke for not knowing you. So I had you trained with the sword and taught the Seann. I tried to give you every advantage I could to make up for my failings as a father, even from a distance.”

The wind blew his hair back from his face as Aemyra stared up at him, her heart near breaking.

“But somehow, I forgot to give you the one thing that you might have needed. Not a sparring partner or a teacher. A father.”

Aemyra felt the tears fall unbidden down her cheeks as Draevan turned to her.

“So now you are a woman grown. One who reminds me so much of myself that it hurts to set my eyes upon you sometimes. Knowing that it is too late for me to shape you into something better than I ever was.”

Aemyra knew now that he did not blame her for seeking revenge. He would have done the same thing had their places been reversed. But the lines around his mouth were tight, and for the first time Aemyra realized that her father had been afraid for her.

Draevan lightly touched the wound on her chest, knuckles brushing the garnet aside.

“Sir Nairn,” she said.

His hand contracted into a fist.

“He is dead,” she clarified.

Her father still did not relax and Aemyra buttoned the shirt. She would not allow herself to be defined by the violence of men.

The howling wind brought the scent of camp up the mountain.

“Half of my army will remain here to hold off the Leuthanach forces, should they attempt to follow us to àird Lasair. The other half will march northwest through the foothills. We will follow with Gealach and Terrea in two days’ time. Fiorean will ensure the city surrenders to us and then he will journey here with Aervor to order Evander’s army to stand down,” Aemyra said, eyes on the thousands of black tents below them. Even though they were fighting for Evander, she did not want them to die.

Draevan cleared his throat. “You should not be so quick to trust any of the royals. Not even one who helped you escape.”

“Will you carry out my orders?” Aemyra asked, refusing to back down.

Glancing up at the green and black dragons who circled high above, Draevan nodded his head. “The Balnain fleet has recouped their losses and sails north with the Iolairean phoenix warriors as we speak. The Leuthanach army will not dare attack once they are surrounded.”

Aemyra nodded stiffly.

“Has Evander gone as mad as the late king?” Draevan asked quietly.

After a moment, Aemyra nodded again, and she saw true pain on Draevan’s face.

“I should have read the signs,” he admitted. “I never would have encouraged you to Bond to Kolreath had I known for sure.”

Aemyra tried not to think about the fact that he had still suspected it. That it had been yet another risk he had been willing to take.

“How do you live with the guilt of your decisions?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the wind.

The lines on her father’s face were more pronounced, his lack of response answer enough.

“I do mourn them,” Draevan said eventually. “The children. I am not so heartless that I would wish the pain of losing a child on anyone.”

The relief she felt was palpable.

With a swift prayer to Cailleach, Aemyra hoped Fiorean would find the culprit soon.

When she remained silent, Draevan made to leave, his tunic flapping in the wind.

Turning, Aemyra called out to her father. “You are a better man than people think.”

Draevan’s back stiffened, but he couldn’t bring himself to face her. “Get some rest. Our forces march for you come daybreak.”

With that, Aemyra’s father left his firstborn on the edge of a cliff with nothing but the howling wind to fill her heart.