Page 7

Orlagh had been casting surreptitious glances at Aemyra’s bandaged palm all day.

After what had happened before dawn, Aemyra was finding it more difficult than usual to play the part of a blacksmith’s daughter.

Pàdraig had scolded her for cracking his best pot, and Adarian had been singed twice when the fire had surged suddenly behind him. Both had left the forge at the earliest opportunity to avoid further injury.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to accompany me to the herb garden?” Orlagh asked, Solas curled in the crook of her neck.

Aemyra glanced out of the forge to where the rain was bouncing off the ground. “Will there even be any herbs left?”

Picking up her basket, Orlagh clicked her tongue. “You’re worse than Lachlann for complaining.”

“Then go fetch him to squat in the rain and pluck leaves off weeds,” Aemyra said. “I need to practice.”

Aemyra had been itching to hold her sword all day. Draevan’s comments had been niggling at her since the night before.

“You must never forget where you come from, Aemyra. Pride and unchecked power will only lead to unhappiness. Let yourself rest,” Orlagh said.

Aemyra unwrapped the bandage from her hand, revealing the sharp slice underneath. “The moment I make my bid for the throne, you will be in danger.”

With a knowing look, Orlagh pulled up her hood to cover her dark curls. “We have been in danger from the moment you were handed to us in singed swaddling clothes. Try not to cut yourself into ribbons. I’d rather the herbs I gather today be used on the needy people of this city and not on my headstrong daughter.”

Bending so her mother could give her a swift kiss on the forehead, Aemyra let out a tired breath as Orlagh set out from the forge with Solas glowing in the folds of her cloak.

Draevan had an army of Dùileach and a dragon to protect him, but Aemyra worried for her family. The True Religion would not take kindly to a woman on the throne. Closing the door, she hoped that a few hours of swordplay would help relieve some of her tension.

Slipping into the back room where the walls were lined with chisels, tongs, pliers, and strips of steel, she crossed to the wooden chest eagerly. Her sword was nestled inside, covered by tattered old cloaks.

Gripping the leather scabbard with one hand, Aemyra pulled the sword free as she got to her feet.

The steel sang as it met the air and she admired the shine of the metal, backlit as it was from the fire in the other room.

She had spent hours painstakingly carving ancient runes into the crossguard, not only to improve her grip, but to ensure that she would have a weapon truly worthy to serve the Goddesses. It was the sword’s only embellishment. No fancy jewels, nor gold nor silver, had been melted down and added to the hilt.

The sword was exactly the right length for her height, and the balance was impeccable.

Taking a deep breath to center herself, she swung it once in her wrist to loosen her joints and felt her knees bend automatically. With a smile, Aemyra let her bones melt to the point where the sword became an extension of herself.

With each movement, she reminded herself of who she was, of who she would become for her people.

As her muscles began to burn with exertion, she relished the pain and allowed it to stoke her anger for the Chosen priests. When she wore the crown, they would no longer be allowed to spread vicious lies about Dùileach, or incite violence against women.

Swinging the sword aggressively, Aemyra knew that Crown Prince Evander would never sit the throne after his father. Prince Fiorean could take his jewel-encrusted sword and shove it up his—

“Hello?”

Freezing with her blade midair, Aemyra peered through the gap in the door. The forge was obviously unoccupied, the late hour usually enough to have patrons waiting until the following day to make inquiries.

Wiping the sweat from her brow, Aemyra winced as the salt stung her wound. Knowing that Pàdraig hated to turn away business, she pushed the door open.

A tall man lurked in the shadows, facing away from her, and she instinctively raised her sword.

“What do you want?” she asked.

When he stepped out of the rain, Aemyra recognized the disdainful expression instantly.

“Prince Fiorean,” she said, more of an address than a question.

When his eyes rested on her sword, Aemyra lowered it. “Apologies. I don’t usually make a habit of pulling a weapon on someone unless I plan on following through with the threat.”

His emerald eyes tracked the point of the blade, narrowing when she refused to curtsy.

“I saw the fire and thought someone was working,” he said, his deep voice quietly confident. “My horse threw a shoe on the journey home and is now quite lame.”

“Then you should seek out a groom, not a blacksmith,” Aemyra retorted, placing her sword on the table.

Instead of responding, Fiorean held her gaze and she hated the way her pulse sparked. There was three feet of space between them and yet his eyes held her captive.

Breaking first, Aemyra straightened her headscarf before crossing the floor. “We might have several shoes that are suitable,” she muttered, catching the scent of floral soap and horsehair as she passed the prince.

Knowing she reeked of peat, sweat, and iron ore, Aemyra refused to be ashamed of her ragged appearance. It hadn’t stopped a hundred people oathing themselves to her the night before.

Nevertheless, the luxury of Fiorean’s garb irritated her as she lifted the lid on two barrels.

“How are you enjoying your new accessory?” Aemyra asked as she scrutinized several varying sizes of horseshoes.

Fiorean bristled. The obscenely large garnet was clearly visible, the scabbard crafted specially so that it could be seen. The gemstone gleamed in the firelight.

There was a part of Aemyra that could admit she was a little jealous.

“My breithday is not for a number of weeks but my mother was so pleased with your brother’s work she bid me wear it immediately,” he replied, parting his cloak to reveal the sword belted on his narrow hips. “It is an exemplary weapon.”

His tone suggested that he expected Aemyra to take offense, but her voice was quiet when, lifting her eyes, she replied, “My brother is better than me in every way that matters.”

Those shapely brows peaked, his angular jaw tensing with surprise.

“Except when it comes to weapons,” Aemyra added with a sly smile.

Fiorean glanced toward where her own sword lay.

“If you wish for a demonstration of my skill, I will gladly give you one,” Aemyra said, holding up three shoes for him to choose from.

He hesitated.

“Afraid to get your hands dirty?” she asked.

The prince went still as he observed her. Then, with one careful step, Fiorean reached forward. His motions were sure as he selected the shoe in her left hand, calluses from years of swordplay rasping against her own. Without her noticing, his fingers reached beyond the curved metal to brush against her wound.

A jolt of electricity speared through Aemyra’s gut and she fumbled the horseshoe. Before it could land on either of their toes, Fiorean expertly plucked it from the air.

“I assure you, I have no qualms about roughing it,” Fiorean said in his assured, soft-spoken voice. “You might not appreciate the finer details of my weapon, but I assure you the blade will cut just as deeply.”

The thought of picking up her sword and issuing a challenge right here in the forge was deeply appealing, but Aemyra knew better. She was so close to claiming her true place, she couldn’t jeopardize it now.

Fiorean opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a pair of broad shoulders muscling in through the door behind him.

For the briefest of moments, Aemyra thought it was Adarian, until the mud-flecked face turned in her direction. Her heart stumbled in her chest.

Two princes now stood in the forge.

“What’s taking you so long, Brother?” Prince Evander grumbled. “I’m getting soaked out there.”

The fire behind her grew unstable, and she hid her hands behind her back, concealing the slice on her palm. It could easily have been a simple temple offering, or an accident while mending armor, but Aemyra suddenly felt as though all her secrets were too close to the surface.

“Nothing, I have what I came for,” Fiorean said hastily, turning his back on Aemyra.

Unfortunately, Evander had already spotted her.

“Ah, is this the blacksmith’s ward who insulted you?” Evander asked, slapping Fiorean on the shoulder. “I see why she’s gotten under your skin. She’s a pretty one.”

Fiorean didn’t reply, his expression unreadable.

Aemyra didn’t dare speak. Not even as Evander pushed past his younger brother with the confidence of a man who had never been denied anything.

“She looks harmless enough,” Evander continued.

With those words, he dared to reach out and cup Aemyra’s chin like he was appraising a horse at auction.

The unwanted touch was an annoyance, but the way his green eyes, several shades lighter than his brother’s, were roving hungrily across her curves was nothing short of a violation.

Aemyra couldn’t wait to topple him off the throne.

“Don’t sully yourself with commoner filth,” Fiorean said, angling his body between them.

Aemyra kept her eyes on the ground and tried to stop the prickling of fire in her veins. Since when had men begun to think that they could treat women this way without consequences?

The five Goddesses might be wrathful, and temperamental, but with knowledge and the strongest magic passed down through the maternal line, they ensured that those responsible for bringing life into the world maintained its proper balance.

Evander’s hand began to drift down from her chin, but Aemyra dared not release her magic. Draevan would cleave her in two with Dorchadas if she ruined his plans now.

“Unhand her, Evander. That’s enough.” Fiorean’s hand closed around his brother’s wrist, pulling it from the edge of Aemyra’s shirt. “I long for a bath and a decent cup of wine after our day. Come.”

Evidently the thought of the luxuries that awaited them across the bridge was enough for Evander to remember himself. Straightening his cloak, the fur trim tickled the russet stubble on his chin as he stared down at her. Aemyra longed to singe every hair on his head.

One day, she just might get the chance.

“Indeed. My lady wife will be waiting for me,” Evander said, stressing the word lady in a way that was obviously meant to belittle Aemyra.

“Poor woman,” Aemyra muttered under her breath.

Fiorean stiffened, but Evander hadn’t heard her, as he clapped his brother on the back once more and strode through the door into the rain.

“Have you no sense of self-preservation?” Fiorean asked when they were alone, his tone somewhere between admiration and derision.

Standing her ground, Aemyra replied, “You should show your subjects the same respect you demand from them.”

Fiorean’s curtain of auburn hair had parted, giving Aemyra a glimpse of a well-hidden scar that traversed the left side of his face. Wondering how a prince had come by such an injury, she couldn’t help but stare.

It was too small to have been caused by Aervor’s talons. The cobalt male hatched to Abhainn and Kolreath had Bonded to Fiorean as an adult dragon.

The prince caught her staring and, with practiced ease, angled his head so that his hair concealed the scar.

“I must apologize on Evander’s behalf. He should never have touched you without your permission,” he said.

“Don’t patronize me,” Aemyra replied, bristling at his measured tone.

Fiorean glared at her. “Remember to whom you are speaking. Respect goes both ways.”

“The forge is closed for the night. I must ask you to leave,” she said.

Those emerald eyes glittered dangerously and flames sparked at his fingertips. Evidently Prince Fiorean also had a temper.

Aemyra longed to shove them down his rutting throat and let him choke on the flames.

“I was under the impression this was your warden’s forge. My mistake, my family will take our business elsewhere in the future,” Fiorean said, his tone scathing.

Without another word, he dropped the horseshoe at her feet, narrowly missing her toes, and threw himself out into the street.

Clenching her fists so hard that she reopened the cut on her palm, Aemyra resisted the urge to fling the shoe at the back of Fiorean’s head and damn the consequences. Slamming the door closed to drown out the sound of hooves clattering up the street, Aemyra groaned. Pàdraig would be furious about the loss of business, not that it would matter for long.

Turning, Aemyra grabbed her sword from the table and resumed her practice. Raising her arms, she brought the blade down in a rush of steel that seemed to cleave the very air in front of her and her blood thrummed in response. Tongues of fire snaked from her fingertips and merged with the weapon until it glowed.

She had forged this sword with sweat, blood, and magic. It would not fail her when the time came.