Chapter Five
Aemyra made her way to the temple with the sunrise after a fitful night of sleep.
The panic hadn’t quite left her system and she had jolted awake with a racing heart every time she had begun to drift off.
Plagued by dreams of Fiorean that alternated between tender passion and vicious murder, Aemyra berated her subconscious for thinking about him at all. She stuffed the hand bearing the promise mark into the pocket of her breeches, determined not to look at it.
The oath was making her twitchy, constantly tugging her toward Fiorean when her duties as queen needed her to move in the opposite direction. Aemyra was already dressed in her flying leathers, boots quiet on the cobblestoned streets as she went to beg Brigid’s forgiveness—again.
The town felt a little eerie at this quiet hour, the forest creaking, the camp not yet stirring on the hill.
Turning a corner, she discovered a young couple passionately embracing on the stoop of the nearest house. Feeling awkward, Aemyra tried to back away quietly but instead knocked over a plant pot that shattered against the cobblestones, scattering compost over her boots.
“Fuck.”
A graphic sucking noise met her ears and she suddenly recognized the women as they extracted themselves from each other’s arms.
“Aemyra?”
Sorcha was still clad in her nightclothes; Maeve was dressed for scouting.
“Y-your Grace,” Maeve stammered, smoothing her hair and wiping her lips with the back of her hand.
Sorcha had no such shame and met Aemyra’s eyes unflinchingly.
The three women stared at one another, not quite knowing what to say. Aemyra hadn’t expected to feel jealous at the way Maeve’s hands had eagerly been exploring the curves she knew so well.
Aemyra was trying valiantly not to look at Sorcha. Or notice the bite mark on Maeve’s neck.
Sorcha rolled her eyes as the silence stretched. “Anyone would think neither of you had kissed someone before.”
Fighting the jealousy, Aemyra ground out, “I wasn’t exactly expecting to stumble upon you both at daybreak. Did either of you even get any sleep?”
The barkeep had frequently kept Aemyra busy from supper until dawn crested the horizon.
Sorcha’s lips quirked at the insinuation. “A little.”
Even though they had seen each other in passing for months, Aemyra hadn’t really spoken to Sorcha properly since the day she had been rescued.
At least Maeve would be able to protect Sorcha, and perhaps help heal the rift between them.
Sorcha crossed her arms over her ample chest. “Apparently you’re getting married again?”
Aemyra eyed Maeve. “Should I just give her a seat on the council if she’s going to fuck all my secrets out of you?”
Maeve shifted her feet uncomfortably and, remembering the general’s obstinance during the council meeting, Aemyra felt her claws come out. “Does Sorcha still like to pull hair when she climaxes? I used to have the worst headaches afterward, but Goddess she tasted good.”
A flush crept up Maeve’s neck, but Sorcha’s lips quirked. “A seat on the council as treasurer is the least you could give me. I did all the accounts for my tavern—which is now derelict thanks to the rebel riots in the city.”
The words prickled uncomfortably. Aemyra did owe Sorcha. Fiorean had captured her, locked her in a dungeon, and Aemyra had been too wrapped up in her own scheming to make rescuing her a priority.
When the silence stretched, Maeve sketched a deferent bow in parting. “I must position more foot scouts in the surrounding woodland ahead of your departure.”
They both watched the general walk up the hill.
When Maeve was out of earshot, Aemyra said, “I wish to apologize and I didn’t want an audience.”
Surprise lightened Sorcha’s dark eyes. Her beauty had been unmarred by her time in captivity, but there was now a haunted look about her that Aemyra recognized all too well.
“I understand that you need time to heal from what you went through. Please, believe I understand that. But I want you to know how sorry I am for my part in it.”
Sorcha raked her eyes up Aemyra’s frame, pausing when she caught a glimpse of the new dagger she held loosely by her side.
“I prayed for you to rescue me every day, you know,” Sorcha said, in a voice that pierced Aemyra’s heart.
“I prayed to all the Goddesses that you would have strength to endure Fiorean. That Beira would make your vengeance swift, and Cliodna would make the path clear to you. When you didn’t come for me, I was certain it was because they were torturing you. ”
Guilt speared through Aemyra like a physical pain. She didn’t bother arguing, didn’t bother detailing the nuances of what had happened within Caisteal Lasair. Sorcha wouldn’t want to hear it.
Briefly, she wondered if Maggie, Charlotte, or Elizabeth were making similar prayers to the Savior. More likely they were praying for Aemyra’s demise.
“I’ve made many mistakes,” Aemyra finally said, running her thumb over the garnet that was now embedded in the dagger’s hilt.
“You were wearing that stone as a necklace when you rescued me,” Sorcha said in a flat voice.
Aemyra nodded. She had disassembled the necklace Fiorean had gifted her, placing the black diamonds in a formation that fit between her fingers as she grasped the hilt.
The garnet was wrapped in gold and nestled snugly against her palm, right above the runes depicting love and death.
It had taken weeks to forge without magic, but it had provided a necessary distraction.
“Much has changed,” Aemyra replied.
There had been a time when she had felt the need to decorate herself with pretty jewels. Now everything she wore would have a purpose. If it had a sharp blade or a pointy edge, all the better.
She would never walk into a room and be caught unawares again.
“You’re thin,” Sorcha said, stretching out her hands.
With more relief than she expected, Aemyra took them.
She was no stranger to these hands. For five years they had brought her pleasure and comfort, but Sorcha had never known who she was truly touching.
“I’m sorry,” Aemyra said again, attempting to convey the depth of shame she felt. “I’ve missed you.”
Sorcha turned Aemyra’s palm over and traced the promise mark with her index finger.
“This is the first vengeance that makes sense to me,” Sorcha said, the rising sun bathing her olive complexion with a glow. “Fiorean killed your family, imprisoned me, and betrayed you. Repay him in kind.”
Aemyra curled her fingers over the mark as Sorcha bowed to her. It was the first time the woman had shown any recognition of Aemyra as queen.
Aemyra owed it to her to behave as one.
With a parting smile that didn’t reach her eyes, Aemyra continued up the street toward the temple, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could squeeze the chasm of loneliness in her chest closed.
—
The cool quiet of the temple was a balm.
After they had arrived in Balnain, Aemyra had spent too much time within these walls. Praying that Adarian would survive his wounds, that her magic would return, and that Brigid would keep them safe.
Prayers born of desperation.
As the weeks passed, Aemyra had found herself arguing with the Goddess more often than praying. She had made offerings of food and wine, sacrificed lambs that would have been better used to feed her people, and spilled more of her own blood than had been sensible. None of it had worked.
On more than one occasion, Eilidh had been forced to escort her from the temple before she hurt herself, or someone else.
Today, Aemyra simply stood before the stone altar, replaying Sorcha’s words in her mind.
Brigid was the Goddess of strength, hope, and power. Aemyra had always known she would have to prove herself worthy before she could wear the crown, but she hadn’t expected the Goddess to test her quite so much.
With the promise mark throbbing, Aemyra tried to summon her magic.
Focusing on the candles littering the altar, cooled wax solidified in thick drips, Aemyra held her index finger out.
The well of power in her chest was smothered; where fire had once rushed eagerly through her veins, they now felt hollow.
Aemyra stared at the black wick of the candle and knew that only the smallest tongue of flame would be required to light it.
She had fueled the forge of àird Lasair singlehandedly for ten years, surely she could manage to light a candle?
But her hand shook and suddenly it felt as though there wasn’t enough air inside the temple. Her lungs constricted as panic gripped her.
A sharp sting in an intimate place, rough hands restraining her, a cloth pressed against her mouth…
With a gasp, Aemyra collapsed to her knees with the promise mark searing. The cool marble of the altar steps hit hard against her shins and she bit back a cry. With a frustrated groan she reached for the candle she had failed to light and launched it across the room.
It clattered to the ground, the noise echoing through the empty space.
“Your Majesty?”
Aemyra’s gasping breaths halted as Eilidh paused in the doorway. The young woman wore the gold band of a priestess upon her brow, crimson robes draped across her small frame and her brown hair loose about her shoulders. Kenna would have scolded her for not tying it back.
Taking a moment to compose herself, Aemyra stooped to pick up the candle, the wax smooth against her palms as she placed it gently back on the altar.
She hoped the young priestess hadn’t understood the reason behind Aemyra’s outburst. If her people found out their queen couldn’t harness her magic anymore…
“Apologies,” she muttered, “I have a lot on my mind.”
Eilidh’s robes whispered on the floor. “You need not apologize to me.”
Eilidh gestured for Aemyra to follow her into a side room, where she found stray pieces of parchment and leatherbound books sprawled across a singular table in a disorganized fashion. An inkwell was balanced precariously on top of a stack of loose papers.