Page 39

Aemyra woke from dreams of dragonfire and roaring screams for the third morning in a row with a jolt.

Tossing and turning on top of the mess of sheets, she wished for a distraction from the impending conflict. Her skin was burning and she wished her husband was not so far away. The ache between her legs built at the thought until she pressed her fingers to her clitoris and began working herself in furious circles.

Still certain she was half dreaming, visions of dragonfire poured through her mind as her toes curled and she fisted her other hand in the sheets to stop herself from crying out. The ache between her legs began spreading to her lower abdomen, down the tops of her legs, and even to her lower back, and she plunged her fingers inside of herself, imagining it was Fiorean. Her vision flickered until she swore her body was covered in scales and embers were crackling their way up her throat.

Practically writhing on top of the cot, such was the intense agony of her pleasure, she turned and buried her face into the pillow as finally, finally, she felt the ache inside of herself build to a crescendo.

Her ears echoing with the roars of a dragon, she finally found her release, spiraling through one of the most intense orgasms she had ever had without Fiorean’s help.

Afterward, she lay drenched on top of the mattress, her hands splayed out on either side of her, and was almost glad they were launching their attack on àird Lasair later that day if it brought her closer to being with her husband.

Her army was progressing maddeningly slowly toward the capital. Thanks to the heavy rains that had swept through the north of Tìr Teine, the ground underfoot had turned boggy. The only positive was that it also trapped the Leuthanach forces on the plain.

Sitting up, Aemyra rubbed her gritty eyes. Her skin was feverish, and she was drenched in sweat despite the cool temperature inside the tent. Reaching for the stale water in the jug, Aemyra gulped it down, wondering if she was suffering an infection or aftereffects of the binding agent.

She had been prone to sudden surges of magic that had already resulted in three tent fires, one burned buttock, and a singed pair of eyebrows. Thankfully, none of them Aemyra’s.

When her legs felt solid enough to support her weight, she heaved herself out of bed. Her inner thighs were cramping from Draevan’s aerial training the day before. Connecting to the Bond, she knew Terrea was feeling equally achy.

Washing her hands in the basin, she cooled her clammy skin after stripping off her sodden nightclothes.

Hands busy braiding her tangle of curls, she didn’t bother to cover herself when the tent flap opened and Adarian stepped in with a muttered curse. “Fucking Hela, cover your tits.”

Aemyra smirked, lazily securing the end of her braid as Adarian averted his eyes and flushed to the roots of his shaggy crop of hair.

“Maybe announce yourself before storming into my tent first thing in the morning, then,” Aemyra said smugly, pulling on a clean shirt.

Adarian cleared his throat. “It’s almost midday.”

This was a surprise to her. She had begun drifting off the night before in their father’s tent as the two of them talked strategy and barely remembered Adarian putting her to bed.

“The clouds are heavy with so much rain it might as well be dusk, for all I know,” Aemyra retorted.

Her twin was scrutinizing her. “Goddess knows you went through enough at the caisteal to sleep for a week.”

Pulling on the shirt, Aemyra frowned. “Don’t breathe a word of it to Father. He will be unpredictable enough as it is. I shouldn’t even have told you.”

Holding up his hands, Adarian looked sincere. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Buttoning her breeches, Aemyra went over their plan again in her head. Draevan had been scouting back and forth through the Deàrr Mountains with Gealach for four days and her army was almost within sight of àird Lasair.

Aemyra would have scouted herself, had Terrea not disappeared hunting in the mountains, no doubt gorging herself on goats.

Hauling her armor off the stand, Aemyra held it up to her brother. “A little help?”

Pàdraig had taught them both the finer aspects of equipping soldiers for battle, and the twins had crafted each piece of their armor themselves.

“It would be my honor,” Adarian said, crossing the small space to take her breastplate.

Under normal circumstances, Aemyra might have ridiculed him for his lofty tone.

The armor was a burnished gold, lightweight, and the pauldrons spiked at the shoulders to depict two roaring dragons. They were the only embellishment Aemyra had allowed, given that if all else failed she could impale someone with them.

Adarian’s expert fingers had her outfitted in less than ten minutes. Despite the breathable undergarments and fairly sparing armor, Aemyra was overheating.

“Something wrong?” Adarian asked.

Aemyra shook her head as she dusted off her boots. “No. Well, I don’t think so. I might be having some withdrawal effects from the binding agent.”

Adarian looked concerned. “Has it affected your magic?”

Testing it out, Aemyra lifted her palm and crafted a rose out of flickering flame in her hand. The stem burned white hot while the flower was a deep amber color. Each delicate petal drifted on a phantom wind before fading away in a puff of smoke.

“Sometimes it flares unexpectedly.” Clapping her hands together, she extinguished the rose. “I’ll be fine after breakfast. Maybe I just need to get my strength back.”

Adarian didn’t look convinced. “Or maybe the Chosen did more damage than you thought?”

Aemyra’s blood ran cold, but she shook her head. “No. I bled afterward, but I’m certain there is no infection. Nothing to be concerned about,” she replied, holding the tent flap open and striding into the damp afternoon with her brother.

As they hurried toward Draevan’s tent, Adarian rushed to keep up with his sister.

“But you mi—”

Aemyra held up a hand wreathed in flame to silence him. “Not one more word, Adarian.”

Her tone begged no questions and her twin dropped it.

After four days of sleep, decent enough food, and the connection to both her dragon and her powers restored, Aemyra felt more like herself again. The steady weight of Fearsolais on her back helped, as did the dagger on her hip.

The knowledge that her husband would have Athair Alfred under lock and key, awaiting their siege of the city, buoyed her. Today she would win back her territory.

The few air Dùileach who remained in the emptying camp were using their magic to blow smoke from the breakfast fires out of Aemyra’s path. She nodded at them in thanks as she passed.

They met Draevan outside his tent as he pulled on his gloves.

“What’s the report?” Aemyra asked, swiping two bannocks from a basket.

Draevan pointed his chin in the direction of the plains. “Maeve has gone to hold the slopes with five hundred men. Dianne has her scouts well in hand. If the Leuthanach army thinks to advance when they realize the dragons have gone, they know what to do.”

Aemyra frowned. “Fiorean will have sent a swyft to Fyndhorn. Clan Leuthanach will not engage.”

Draevan and Adarian shared a look.

“You don’t have to trust Fiorean. You just have to trust me,” Aemyra said firmly.

Smiling ruefully as he straightened, Draevan replied, “It is best to be prepared for any eventuality.”

Aemyra acquiesced. Draevan knew far more about war than she did. Together, they would ensure the safety of her people.

“Your cavalry?” Aemyra turned to ask her brother.

He fiddled with the hatchet on his belt. “Guarding the flanks as you instructed. Three thousand foot soldiers make up the vanguard, five hundred mounted soldiers on either side, a further three hundred at the rear.”

Aemyra nodded, everything was in order, then. “And the others?”

Draevan rested his hands on Dorchadas’s hilt. “Five hundred Dùileach at the center, two hundred more scattered throughout our other troops. The city will be ours by nightfall.”

Deciding that her father’s tone was a touch too bloodthirsty, Aemyra protested. “The city is already ours. Fiorean will have seen to it that Evander is contained and the streets empty of civilians. The àird Lasair guard is currently without a commander.”

Draevan looked almost disappointed that it was going to be so easy.

It certainly hadn’t been easy for the five thousand soldiers who had marched through torrential rain and thick mud. The weather was getting marginally warmer but wetter.

“When will we reach the city?” Aemyra asked her father.

Draevan looked north. “The dragons could reach it within the hour, but the army most likely not until mid-afternoon. Once Adarian is mounted, we will remain out of sight until the army is within range.”

“Still no news from Clan Leòmhann?” Aemyra asked.

Draevan cleared his throat. “No. You can make that bastard Lonan regret his hesitation when you are queen.”

“I’m already queen,” Aemyra countered.

Draevan bent his head to survey her face, eyes skimming over her golden armor.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” her father said formally as they left camp.

It wasn’t a surprise that Laird Lonan was hedging his bets. No doubt he was waiting to see the outcome of the battle on the plains before pledging the might of his chimeras.

Little did he know that Aemyra was going to win this battle and end the war before it began.

Gealach landed first, Draevan striding eagerly toward his dragon, while Aemyra was left on the ground with her twin.

Clicking her tongue in frustration, Aemyra began pacing, her skin prickling with heat again.

“I thought you said this was going to be easy?” Adarian asked, adjusting his own armor as Gealach took flight.

“It will be,” she bit back.

“Then why are you nervous?”

Aemyra let out a few tongues of flame just to take the edge off the magic that was coursing through her.

“I’m not nervous,” she replied, wiping the sweat from her brow. The hastily eaten bannocks churning in her stomach, Aemyra continued pacing.

The garnet necklace was a familiar weight under her breastplate, acting as a reminder of what she was fighting for. Nerves kicking in, she sent up a prayer to Brigid that everything would go according to plan.

“No heroics, do you hear me?” she said to Adarian.

Her brother smirked from where he leaned against the mountainside. “I do believe that you’re the one who inherited the arrogant tendencies from our father. Worry about yourself.”

Hating that he was right, she looked up at the dark clouds above them, feeling Terrea approaching.

Fat droplets of rain had already begun to fall, but with her magic returned, she wasn’t chilled.

Shadowy wings tucked in tight, her dragon dropped to the ground, claws crunching against the jagged rocks of the mountainside as she clambered down the last few feet.

“Took you long enough, Beastie,” Adarian said fondly.

Contrary to the dragon’s fearsome reputation, Adarian seemed to be the only person able to make Terrea act like a house cat. Rolling her eyes as Terrea began emitting contented puffs of smoke from her nostrils, Aemyra snapped her fingers at both of them.

“You can romp in the meadow behind the caisteal with Adarian and Aervor tomorrow, for all I care. Today we have a throne to win,” Aemyra said.

Adarian flashed her a grin as Terrea bent her leg carefully for him, ensuring he had the easiest path up toward the hollow in her back, and Aemyra scowled as she followed him.

“Sure you Bonded to the right twin?” she asked her beathach.

Terrea shifted, and Aemyra suddenly had to lunge for one of the black spikes or fall to the ground.

A feeling of surety shot down the Bond before Aemyra could get her feelings hurt, and she hauled herself into place in front of Adarian, patting Terrea’s violet neck.

“And don’t you forget it.”

The dragon rose to her feet beneath them and spread her wings, testing the air currents as the rain intensified.

“Fly,” Aemyra said in the Seann.

Before the word was out of her mouth, Terrea was in the clouds, bearing the twins through the sky toward their destiny at last.