Chapter Two
Three months later
Soft petals were crushed under Aemyra’s boots as she slipped through the streets of Balnain with the dawn.
Ribbons were fluttering in the gentle breeze that now brought the promise of summer. Offerings littered the river town as the smoldering embers of many bonfires leached color from the sunrise. The season of Brigid, the Goddess of fire, was upon them.
Halting her steps, Aemyra bent to pick up a woven crown of flowers.
Vibrant primroses were speckled with flecks of mud that spoke of the small joys her people seemed to find even in the middle of war.
Balnain was an old place, steeped in ancient rituals and folklore, and the residents had been determined to celebrate Brigid.
This year’s Beltane celebrations weren’t what they had deserved, but rather what they had stolen from the jaws of defeat.
Draevan’s latest push north had sent four of Laird Edouard’s best warships to the bottom of the river and the phoenix warriors were growing restless.
With a sigh, Aemyra let the child’s crown fall to the ground. Tucking the book she carried more securely into the crook of her arm, she passed the ancient temple without entering as her feet trod the now-familiar path to the modest forge.
For three months she had made offerings to the Goddess at every sunrise and sunset, had enlisted the help of the devout resident priestesses, yet her magic still had not returned. For the first time in her life, Aemyra had not felt the power surge afforded all fire Dùileach upon Brigid’s feast day.
Most believed the queen to be recovering from wounds she suffered during her captivity in àird Lasair. Little did they know that while her body had healed quickly, her magic was far slower to mend.
Filled with shame, Aemyra had spent the last months between the council chambers and the forge. The dagger she was crafting and ancient books were her only company.
Her people couldn’t know Brigid had abandoned the first female Daercathian in a century.
Stepping through the wide doors, Aemyra breathed in the familiar bite of molten steel and the tight band across her chest loosened. The wall in front of her was lined with tongs, pliers, and chisels of all sizes.
Depositing the book on a stool, she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, a pink scar peeking out from underneath the fabric. Another marred the skin of her chest.
Aemyra refused to hide the marks Sir Nairn had given her. They were a reminder of the strength it had taken her to survive, and the strength she would need to continue.
The roaring forge smothered the overwhelming emotions she tried to keep buried. As if the physical manifestation of such consuming power allowed her mind to finally still.
A little while later, the hammer sat cleanly in her hand as she brought it down at exactly the right angle and blinked sweat out of her eyes.
Hissing as her shoulder muscles cramped, she rolled the joint to work out some of the tension.
To her surprise, a familiar tendril of flame snaked around the dagger and imbued the metal.
“You need to temper the edge or the blade will become brittle.”
Adarian’s voice followed his magic from the doorway, the gentle tap of his walking stick accompanying his labored footsteps.
“You sound like Pàdraig,” Aemyra said stiffly.
“Reminiscing?” Adarian asked, blue eyes scanning the forge.
Aemyra sighed. At the sight of her twin, russet hair curling at his temples and cheeks rosy with health once more, she could almost pretend their late adoptive father, Pàdraig, was working the bellows behind them.
Almost.
Furrowing her brow, Aemyra pushed those memories to the back of her mind. Orlagh wasn’t about to soothe her tired muscles with an ointment, and Lachlann would never again tug on her shirttails looking for attention.
The noise of Adarian’s walking stick striking the ground set her teeth on edge. She had made such a horrific mess of her brother’s leg, Orlagh would be berating her from Brigid’s halls.
“Do you ever sleep?” she asked quietly, noting Adarian’s stained fingers and the purplish bruises under his eyes.
He eyed her equally pallid complexion. “Do you?”
Not wishing to discuss her vivid nightmares, Aemyra gestured to the book she had brought. “I found something to help your search for an antidote.”
He rifled through the pages with interest. “Never thought I’d see the day when you spent more time with your nose in a book than with a sword in your hand.”
“Yes, well, that was before I realized how much I don’t know.
” She sighed, bending a tiny sliver of metal with the tongs.
“Finding an antidote to the binding agent could mean the difference between victory and defeat for our Dùileach when they meet the Covenanters in battle. More arrive in Edinbane port with each passing week.”
“Which is exactly why I am the one doing the mixing. Your poultices always ended up lumpy and lopsided.” Adarian flashed her a melancholy smile.
The book lay open between them, as though taunting their ignorance.
“One passage mentions something about negating magic, but I don’t recognize the words,” she said.
Adarian peered at the yellowed pages with a frown. “You’re more fluent in the Seann than I am, why didn’t you ask Father?”
Aemyra didn’t answer.
“You have been avoiding him for weeks,” Adarian continued. “You barely raise your voice during council and he is taking full advantage.”
“What do I know of leading an army? I’m twenty-six and have never even held court,” she replied.
Adarian fixed her with a look. “Father’s fifty-one and doesn’t seem to be doing much better.”
Aemyra blew out a frustrated breath and slammed the pliers down on the anvil between them.
“My poor judgment is why my army has been recuperating here for months, unable to mount a full-scale attack on Fi—” Aemyra’s words choked off, unable to utter the name.
Her twin spotted the promise mark on her palm, and she clasped her hands behind her back.
“Father understands war,” she said.
“He thrives on it. You understand the cost.”
The words rattled through Aemyra. If she hadn’t understood before claiming her crown, she certainly did now.
Their family was dead. Sorcha had been rescued alive, but whatever feelings she had once held for Aemyra were long gone.
Evander was dead, his dragon Kolreath mortally wounded and Goddess knew where.
Athair Alfred had the Covenanters protecting àird Lasair and Aemyra suspected the princesses were under lock and key.
Nausea engulfed Aemyra at the thought of what might happen to them. She had no love for Elizabeth, and little connection to Charlotte—but Maggie…
“Brodie said his father’s band of rebels managed to ferry a group of six Dùileach and three priestesses out of àird Lasair the day before yesterday. They should arrive within the week,” Adarian said.
Aemyra bit her lip. “Colm is taking too many risks, he was almost caught last time.”
“They don’t have a choice. The temples are boarded up and Fiorean is offering a reward for anyone who brings a priestess to the caisteal, not to mention the mandatory registration of Dùileach in the city,” Adarian countered.
The idea of her people being persecuted in the place she had once called home, by the man she had once thought her equal, was abhorrent. Yet somehow it was their current reality.
“I know why you are desperate to find an antidote,” Adarian said, his eyes on her scars.
She tensed. No one knew about her magical block and she was determined to keep it that way.
“The things those…” Adarian took a steadying breath to keep his voice low. “What the Chosen did to you will leave a mark on your soul.”
Aemyra tried not to regret telling her brother the truth of what had happened in Caisteal Lasair.
Adarian’s voice grew concerned. “You think I do not hear you wandering the corridors when your nightmares keep you from sleep?”
The time between moonlight and shattered stars made Aemyra’s bed grow cold and her chest turn hollow. Until her feet bore her through the gilded halls of Laird Edouard’s caisteal with no tangible relief from Fiorean’s false words in her dreams.
Nothing truly helped distract her from the tug behind her navel that constantly drew her toward àird Lasair and the false king who sat the throne. The burning of the promise mark reminded her incessantly of the debt she now owed the Goddess.
Aemyra spun the new dagger in her hand, the garnet gleaming in the firelight. It was well balanced despite the gemstones, and she would love nothing more than to bury it in Fiorean’s neck. But if she went after him without access to her magic, she would not leave the fight alive.
She had underestimated her husband once, never again.
“You are my sister. My twin. Your pain is my pain,” Adarian said firmly. “I watch you spend every day holed up in your chambers with books, pushing everyone away, pushing me away. I fear it is doing you no good.”
Aemyra knew he didn’t understand her need for distance.
But Adarian was the only one who still knew what Orlagh had smelled like.
Who remembered Lachlann’s infectious laugh and Pàdraig’s booming voice.
Even if Aemyra died trying to reclaim her throne, she would do everything in her power to ensure Adarian survived.
Reflexively, Aemyra glanced at Adarian’s thigh. The garishly pink chunk of missing flesh was visible beneath his fèileadh, which he had taken to wearing daily because breeches put too much pressure on the limb.
“Forging won’t bring them back,” Adarian said, grief sharpening his words.
She jabbed a finger at the book. “Then help me protect those of us who are still fighting. The binding agent is giving the Covenanters too much of an advantage and we don’t have the numbers. We need our magic.”
A gentle nudge came through the Bond.
Her dragon was soaring through rolling hills several miles west of Balnain and their two-way connection rumbled with Terrea’s self-confidence. As the only she-dragon in existence, she was secure in her superiority. As queen, Aemyra should have felt similarly.
Letting Terrea know she was safe with Adarian, she pulled back into her own mind.
“You need to sleep,” Adarian said firmly, noting her troubled expression.
“What I need to do is rid my territory of the second man to have stolen my throne, find an antidote, and rescue the princesses from the sadistic clutches of Athair Alfred.”
Well used to her snappy retorts, Adarian saw right through her words.
“I thought you held no affection for the princesses?” he asked.
Aemyra bristled. “If I want to be queen, I need to be queen of all my people. I cannot pick and choose who to care about. The princesses are innocent and have been subjected to untold grief. I desire to prevent further harm coming to them by the hands of Alfred or Fiorean.”
When the promise mark burned again, she hissed through her teeth.
Adarian softened. “You might be able to pretend in front of the council, but you cannot fool me. You came to care for Fiorean during your captivity. I don’t understand why, but I can see what it is doing to you.”
Shoving the feelings down, Aemyra shifted her feet. “I cannot trust anything I felt for a person who was holding me prisoner. Taking my throne because he saw it as a way to protect his family is one thing, but siding with Alfred after what he did is unforgivable. I loathe him.”
Hate was what Aemyra clung to when everything threatened to overwhelm her. Hating Fiorean, Alfred, Sir Nairn, Katherine, Evander…it was easier.
Before Adarian could say anything else, Laoise appeared in the doorway.
“Blessed Beltane,” the fire guard said, her honey-colored eyes softening as she came to stand beside Adarian. “Your Majesty, I was told you were still abed.”
Aemyra eyed the hammer. “I discovered myself with a growing need to hit something.”
Laoise looked nervous as Aemyra leaned against the anvil. Aemyra didn’t believe anyone could deserve her brother, but Laoise wasn’t a terrible option. She was sister to the Laird of Balnain, a formidable Dùileach warrior, and beautiful.
The sight of them both, finding someone to love in the middle of a war, sent a pang through Aemyra. She smothered the desire to fly north to the capital.
Suddenly, she couldn’t bear being alone with two people free to stoke the kindling of their romance with nothing standing in their way.
“I need to scout with Terrea,” she said, grabbing her cloak from the peg.
“Aems—”
Ignoring her twin, Aemyra strode from the forge.
Balnain was significantly smaller than àird Lasair, but the buildings were sporadic, making it feel larger. The wide street littered with evidence of the Beltane revelries offered a spectacular view of the river and the rolling hills beyond.
As queen, she was responsible for every soul sheltering here. A duty so enormous she quite honestly had no idea where to start.
No one is born knowing how to rule…
The words had been whispered gently into the shell of her ear as Fiorean’s hands had washed the stain of assault from her skin.
Stroking the mark that marred her left palm, Aemyra hardened her heart.
She had gone over the events of the last few months a thousand times, but there had been nothing in Fiorean’s words or deeds that would have made her suspect betrayal. Until she had discovered him lounging across the golden throne that belonged to her.
Fiorean had mended the broken pieces of her soul with expert words, before shattering her so completely that Aemyra wasn’t sure she could put herself back together.
Making her way through the town as Terrea landed nimbly on a rise, Aemyra curled her fist over the promise mark and vowed to find a way back to her magic.
The Goddess was ignoring every other offering, but once Aemyra’s oath was fulfilled, Brigid would return her gift.
Fiorean’s breaths were numbered.