Chapter Six
The sea frothed below them, chunks of foam spouting up from the cave entrance and hanging thickly against the speckled rock.
The outcropping that served as an entrance to the cave city of àird Caolas had been too small for the dragons to land, and the unstable coastal air currents had already put too much strain on Gealach’s wings.
Instead, they had been forced to land on the windswept cliffs high above and make the treacherous descent on foot.
Aemyra was given no time to appreciate the magnificence of the cave entrance as Draevan’s mood turned positively murderous.
He had pushed them at a punishing pace, allowing them to reach àird Caolas in less than two days, but his detailed commentary about what he was going to do to Fiorean and Alfred had been worse than his pointed silences.
From the way Draevan was cursing Beira’s name, she was surprised the air Goddess didn’t sweep him off the path and into the sea. Aemyra was almost looking forward to meeting Lonan and his fearsome son just for some relief.
By the time they had stumbled the half mile down from the heather-strewn cliffs, Aemyra was just as exhausted and irritable as her father, but she wisely kept her mouth shut before he lost his temper entirely and decided he didn’t need an heir after all.
The basalt columns before the entrance were large enough for them to step on, albeit precariously positioned above the roiling sea.
“I’m beginning to understand why no one wants to visit,” Aemyra muttered as she followed her father into the mouth of the cave.
Draevan didn’t answer, but she heard him curse when his foot slipped on one of the fractured rocks, narrowly avoiding a dip into the frigid waters below.
Aemyra dared not laugh.
The mouth of the cave would have easily fit Terrea had she been able to tuck her wings to land, but it soon narrowed. The lofty ceiling sloped steeply and the uneven floor smoothed underfoot, a welcome relief from the scraggy hillside they had descended from.
Chilled to the bone and utterly exhausted, Aemyra was glad to find a dozen guards waiting for them within the shadowy cave mouth. The water was calmer here, the sound of the waves muffled as they sucked the rock beneath their feet.
“Welcome to àird Caolas, Your Grace, Your Highness.”
Each guard held a golden-tipped spear and wore a simple bronze chest plate above leather breeches. Their arms were rippling with enough muscle to make Aemyra envious—both the men and the women. The guard in the middle of the formation addressed them again.
“We have been sent to escort you safely inside.”
Aemyra snorted. “I think if we made it this far on our own we’ll be all right.”
“Laird Lonan did not deign to welcome us himself?” Draevan asked, handing his pack to a bewildered young guard.
The Leòmhann guards impressed Aemyra by not shrinking from her father’s ruthless gaze.
“Laird Lonan remains in Caisteal Cloiche. He will greet you both during dinner.” The guard noticed Aemyra’s frizzy hair and salt-crusted clothes. “We shall escort you to your lodgings so you may freshen up beforehand.”
Silently grateful that she would be able to compose herself before being introduced to the second husband to be foisted upon her, Aemyra followed the guards into the cave.
The salt-licked walls gleamed, and Aemyra found her trepidation growing as they journeyed through the cramped tunnel. She had thought the busy streets of àird Lasair were crushing during market day, but as the stone swallowed her, she had to work to keep her breathing steady.
No longer able to walk abreast, they advanced single-file, and Aemyra hurried her steps, wishing the guard at the front would walk faster. The sensation of being trapped underground was a novel one, and she did not like it in the slightest.
Just when she was about to lose patience, they emerged into a twilit cavern.
Her jaw dropped as she beheld the glimmering blue underground loch that spread out before them.
“Loch Deur…” a female guard said with a smile, noticing her expression.
Shaking her head in wonder, Aemyra approached the unnaturally blue water.
The glittering loch sprawled at the base of the stone city, with many delicately hewn bridges connecting the buildings across the vast cave.
Faint light filtered down from cracks in the ceiling far above, illuminating the city that belied its impossible location.
Upon arrival, she had been ready to curl up on the nearest moss-covered rock and succumb to her fatigue, but now she was wide-awake.
“Shall we?” Draevan asked, when the guards seemed content to let Aemyra look her fill.
They were led across a stone walkway, bypassing expertly carved houses around the loch, toward Caisteal Cloiche lingering in shadows against the far wall.
Aemyra was shivering in the damp air, her muscles aching from the long flight across Tìr Teine.
“Caisteal Cloiche, Your Grace,” the guard said with an enthusiasm that was contradicted by their surroundings. The entrance was comprised of nothing more than an archway of plain gray stone, the corridor beyond gloomy and unadorned as it fed into smaller passageways.
Compared to the opulence they had left behind in Balnain, and even the striking Caisteal Lasair, this place was decidedly…lacking.
If Clan Leòmhann were so rich, where were they spending all their coin?
Neither Draevan nor Aemyra said a word as they stepped into the chimera’s den.
Eager to have a moment alone, Aemyra stifled a sigh of relief when at last they reached the guest quarters.
Without waiting for dismissal, she pushed her door open with a creak. A small bed was set into the wall, a dark fireplace gaped across from it, and a large sunken pit lay in the corner. Everything was carved from rock.
Draevan elbowed his way inside the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Can I help you?” Aemyra asked obstinately.
Her father ignored her, his boots loud in the sparse chamber.
“Laird Lonan refusing to greet us was no mere oversight. It was a tactical decision. You are the queen of Tìr Teine and should have been met with a royal escort on the clifftops,” he hissed.
“Chimeras respect nothing but strength. They should have witnessed two dragons arriving and begged forgiveness for not supporting your claim sooner.”
As Draevan put one hand to his furrowed brow, Aemyra softened. Clearly, he felt that he had put Gealach through a strenuous flight for nothing.
“Lonan has already agreed to the terms of the alliance,” Aemyra said. “All that is required is for me to meet Thear and have them both take the oath to me as queen. If he had betrayed us and accepted terms from Fiorean, we would not have been escorted into the city at all.”
Draevan flicked his wrist at the empty hearth and a fire sprung up instantly. Aemyra shivered. There were no rugs on the floor, and no glass panes in the window to keep out the chill.
She wondered how long she could keep her lack of magic a secret. Especially now her father knew what Alfred had ordered done to her, she was surprised he hadn’t turned the dragons north to paint àird Lasair red with blood.
A twinge on her palm had her clasping her hands behind her back.
Pacing the room, Draevan continued, “Lonan has not moved his increasingly large backside from the comfort of this palace in years. I should have expected this.”
The chimeras were notoriously secretive. It hadn’t surprised anyone that Laird Lonan had been resisting a call to arms.
“Even more than the phoenixes’ desire to remain in the southern sands, the chimeras cling to their caves,” Aemyra said.
“You will have one chance to impress him,” Draevan said, turning to face her. “I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
The words chafed, but it was hard to feel superior to her father when he was towering over her.
Feeling a nudge of irritation from Terrea down the Bond, Aemyra practiced patience.
She was nervous enough about meeting Thear for the first time, and dreading what he would be like.
If the rumors were true, she half expected to find him tearing into a deer carcass with his own teeth and wearing a crown of human bones.
“Are you here to escort me to the dining hall while I am still in my flying leathers, or may I dress myself in peace?” she asked, meeting her father’s gaze with steel in her own.
Draevan narrowed his eyes toward the heavy pack she had carried all this way herself.
“Don’t be late,” he said, flinging the door wide.
“Send up a servant, I need to bathe,” Aemyra called after him, his cloak fluttering around the door. “It’s hard to appear queenly when I stink of dragon.”
Her words died on her lips as a servant entered before the door had time to close. Shutting her mouth, Aemyra stood awkwardly beside the bed.
“Your Grace,” the woman said politely with a small curtsy.
Unbuckling her belt with chilled fingers, Aemyra placed her weapons atop the sheets. “Um, that is to say, if it isn’t too much trouble, I would like to wash before dinner.”
The woman had a kind face and graying hair that was pulled into a practical bun. She curtsied again and crossed to the hollowed-out stone basin that Aemyra had assumed was for storage. She watched as a section of the wall slid back with a rasp to reveal a spout.
Intrigued, Aemyra watched as the servant pulled a lever and began to pump steaming water into the room. Within minutes, the basin was full.
“Incredible,” Aemyra breathed. “How does it work?”
The woman gestured out of the window to Loch Deur far below. “The loch provides us with water for washing and drinking. There is a network of pipes running through the city that we can draw from.”
Peeling off her stiff leathers, Aemyra placed her dagger within arm’s reach on the lip of the stone basin and stepped into the water. It was pleasantly warm, not as hot as if servants had boiled pots, but if she had been able to access her magic it wouldn’t have been a problem.
“The gold dress, please,” Aemyra called out, lathering her skin with sweet-smelling soap as the servant unpacked.
Relaxing in the warm water, she wondered what her new husband would be like. And if marriage to another violent man would be worth it if she could win the war.
Scrubbing her hair, Aemyra felt her chest constrict as she thought of Fiorean. Was this to be her destiny? Shackled in marriage to men who only wanted to use her to gain more power?
If she had access to her magic, she wouldn’t feel nearly so vulnerable. She would be able to challenge Fiorean outright, fulfill her debt to Brigid, and win the war alone. Instead all she could do was pray he wouldn’t attack before her fire returned and beg protection from a clan she didn’t know.
For three months, Fiorean had remained in àird Lasair acting as king with Alfred never far from his side. According to Brodie’s correspondence with the rebels, the princesses hadn’t been seen in weeks and no one had seen Fiorean’s brothers since the battle.
The lower town had been all but destroyed, but there were thousands who still lived within the hastily rebuilt walls. Some obeyed Fiorean and Alfred’s new regime; others, like Colm, partook in quiet rebellions; a precious few struck back at the Covenanters and were never heard from again.
Aemyra knew the princesses and their children weren’t safe within the caisteal walls. Especially if Elear and Nael had disappeared and Katherine was traveling to Tìr ùir.
Which was why she was currently sitting in a cave while Fiorean sat on the throne.
Even though she knew it was unlikely, Aemyra hoped Terrea’s dominance was the reason Aervor hadn’t yet flown out to decimate her army.
Aemyra made sure the servant wasn’t watching before trying to force her magic to the surface. Her hands began to shake, sweat beading on her forehead with the effort, and she heard her teeth grind together.
Just as it was about to come forth, it was swept away by a wave of terror.
Heart thundering, Aemyra collapsed against the side of the stone basin and submerged her trembling hands.
She couldn’t hide this for much longer. Most of her people had only accepted her as the true queen after seeing the depth of Brigid’s gift.
If she no longer possessed it, how could she ever hope to prove herself?
A few moments later, the servant passed her a warm towel.
“Thank you,” Aemyra muttered absently as she rose, dripping, from the basin. She cursed under her breath as she realized her hair was now soaking wet with no means by which to dry it.
“Do you require assistance dressing?” the servant asked politely from her unassuming position against the wall.
Aemyra’s fingers were warmed by the soft towel.
“Are you Dùileach?” she asked.
The woman nodded. “Yes, my lady. I am unBonded, but Brigid has blessed many of us here in àird Caolas. Although, by all accounts, to a much lesser extent than yourself.”
“What is your name?” Aemyra asked, weathering the now-inaccurate comment.
“Roisín, my lady.”
Aemyra affected a self-deprecating demeanor, wrapping the towel around herself. “I require assistance with my hair, if you have any talent with styles? My curls can be somewhat unruly and I can never see the back of my head well enough to get it right.”
“I would be delighted,” Roisín said, reaching into a drawer to bring out several combs, brushes, and oils.
Eyeing the woman curiously, Aemyra began to act like the blacksmith’s daughter who had gleaned important information from a corner of the forge.
As the woman picked up a brush, Aemyra took her first step to reclaiming her power.
“Tell me, Roisín…”