Chapter Seventeen
Under the moonlight, in the shadow of the caisteal, Thear strode across the lawns beside her. But not even the balmy temperature could chase the chill from Aemyra’s bones.
“You aren’t coping.”
“What?” Aemyra asked.
Thear leaned so close she could smell the scent of gorse lifting from his skin. “You have a haunted look in your eyes from what has happened to you, and to Fiorean.”
Aemyra could detect no hidden motive in his tone. He was being sincere.
“Do you want to talk about him?” Thear asked, sounding as though he would actually listen.
Aemyra tried to swallow, but her throat was dry as she beheld those gold flecks in his amber eyes.
“You don’t kill your husband without adding a few more emotional scars,” Thear continued, his voice below a whisper.
Aemyra opened her mouth, but she didn’t know what to say.
“You feel guilty,” Thear said, phrasing it like a statement.
“Every waking moment,” Aemyra replied, her breath hitching as she looked up into his face.
After a small hesitation, Thear’s arms came around her. To Aemyra’s surprise, she found herself relaxing into his warmth.
“You have lost far too much for one so young,” Thear said quietly, his lips moving against her hair.
“They all died because of me,” she replied.
Thear began to shake his head, but Aemyra gripped his thick arms, needing him to understand.
“If I hadn’t reached for power, for the throne, then my family and all those people who died in àird Lasair, and here in Balnain, would still be alive,” she whispered.
Thear’s chest rumbled as he spoke. “If you don’t take the throne now, thousands more Dùileach will die. The Chosen were always going to start this war, they just needed the perfect excuse.”
Aemyra stilled. “But my family were—”
“You did not give the order to kill them, nor did you swing an executioner’s axe.
You are not to blame,” he said softly, his arms squeezing her tightly enough that she could almost believe that he would hold her together himself.
“Being queen is a heavy responsibility, and your feelings for your former husband won’t just evaporate overnight. ”
She pulled back and Thear took her hand, turning the promise mark to the sky. She still did not understand why the Goddess had left it there, what Brigid wanted from her.
“Killing him did not bring you the clarity you seek because Fiorean is not the only person you need to make peace with.”
There were so many conflicting emotions welling inside of her that Aemyra didn’t even know where to begin.
“Then who?” she asked, afraid of the answer.
Thear’s large hands circled her waist over the embroidered gown. “Yourself,” he replied, his voice indecently low.
It seemed more impossible than letting go of Fiorean.
She could never forgive the mistakes she had made that had resulted in Lachlann’s death, or Orlagh’s, or Pàdraig’s.
She was the reason Sorcha had been kidnapped and tortured, why Eilidh had been imprisoned inside the temple for two months.
Not to mention the hundreds of souls who had rushed eagerly into battle only to perish in the name of their queen.
Her hatred for Fiorean had helped her to focus, but now that he was gone she just felt…lost.
To her horror, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and Thear’s expression grew sympathetic.
“I don’t want your pity,” she spat, wiping her eyes in annoyance. “The last man who pitied me took advantage.”
Thear hooked one finger under her chin and lifted her face to the moonlight. His tan had darkened thanks to a week spent marching in the sun.
“When my mother died, I felt much the same as you do now,” Thear said softly. “I…struggled.”
“How did you get over it?” she dared to ask.
Thear dropped his hand to his necklace. “This belonged to my mother. Wearing it every day keeps a part of her with me wherever I go. Grief isn’t something you move on from, you just learn to bear it.”
Aemyra eyed the purple crystal nestled against Thear’s collarbone and wished she had something of Orlagh’s.
Thear continued, “I can see when the memories trap you. It happened that first day in the Cuith, when you froze. I watched you shove the thought from your mind.”
Their faces were close enough that Aemyra considered headbutting him for being so infuriatingly perceptive.
Thear wisely moved back a few inches.
“All the grief, the overwhelming guilt, even the anger—you need to stop repressing it,” Thear said.
Aemyra stiffened. “Laird Riya said the same thing, mentioned some phoenix ritual.”
Thear’s eyebrows raised. “That was a generous offer.”
“I don’t know if I should accept. How can I fully trust her? Trust anyone?”
Thear brushed her wobbling bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “You let us prove ourselves to you by giving us the opportunity to help.”
Tears tracked down her cheeks as she thought of all the people she had failed and yet were still fighting for her.
Draevan and Maeve continued putting their lives on the line, Sorcha still traveled with her army, Eilidh was translating when she should be sleeping, and Adarian was far more understanding than she deserved.
“I can’t lose anyone else I love.” She sniffed, irritated that she was showing such weakness in front of her newest ally.
Thear moved his thumb from her lip to her cheek, wiping away the tear. “You can’t fight your way out of this.”
“Unfortunately, I rather enjoy fighting.”
Thear tucked a loose curl behind her ear, his lips curving. “Then how about a challenge?”
He was eyeing the archery range just up ahead, abandoned for the evening, the straw-stuffed targets looking sorry for themselves.
Striding confidently, Thear plucked a bow from the bucket, strung it expertly, and passed it to her. “The targets are close, you won’t miss.”
Aemyra eyed him. “Want to bet?”
Indulging him, she allowed Thear to lift her arms to shoulder height, cradling the bow between them. His body was warm and comforting, grounding her.
“Just like this bow, you must learn to bend instead of break,” Thear said, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
He withdrew his touch, and Aemyra’s hands shook with the knowledge that the last time she had fired an arrow, it had killed Fiorean.
“You have brought more death with your sword than you ever have a bow. There is no reason for you to fear it,” Thear said, his voice reaching her through the darkness.
Aemyra tried to weather the dread threatening to steal her breath, feeling something close to regret.
Thear’s bronze doublet rustled as he crossed his arms, the buttons straining against his impressive chest. “Once you fire at the target a few times, you’ll feel better.”
Aemyra wasn’t convinced. If anything, she already felt worse.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on the painted black dot in the center of the target ahead of her. Aemyra drew the bowstring taut, her muscles barely protesting the effort.
When she let go, the arrow completely overshot and landed in the hedge.
Thear whistled between his teeth. “You told me you were a terrible shot, but after how well you fought in the Cuith, I hardly believed you.”
Aemyra grumbled and pulled another arrow out of the bucket at their feet.
“Finally, something the dragon queen can’t do,” Thear laughed.
She glared at him. “Nobody’s perfect.”
He held his hand out for the bow and she passed it to him. He nocked the arrow, caressing the fletch in an almost intimate way, before locking Aemyra in his fiery gaze and releasing the string without so much as a glance at the target.
She gaped when he hit the target dead center.
“That shouldn’t be possible,” she said.
Thear shrugged, tossing the bow back to her. “Don’t overthink it.”
Muttering curses under her breath, Aemyra nocked another arrow. This time it wasn’t memories of her husband distracting her, but the presence of the very large warrior.
He seemed to sense her trepidation. “Tell me what you like to do for fun…I assume it’s not archery.”
Aemyra shrugged. “I enjoy swordplay, but that was pushed upon me by my father for obvious reasons. I heal well thanks to my mother’s tutelage, but I don’t spend hours foraging or scribbling about cures and ailments like she did.
” Feeling the soft fletch against the pads of her fingers, Aemyra let her mind drift to think of happier times.
“I suppose I enjoy forging. I like the rhythm of it, the challenge of tempering and shaping metal for different uses. Creating pieces of art out of something practical.”
“Like your golden dress,” Thear said, his voice deep.
Aemyra smiled, appreciating that he had been thinking about it. “Yes. Like my dress. And my dagger.”
She enjoyed the way Thear was appraising her strong back muscles, the way her shoulders rounded the sleeves of her dress.
“You are like the metal you shape,” Thear breathed as though entranced. “You can be hit again and again without breaking.”
The words rang true. Draevan had taught her to endure pain with sparring, Pàdraig had taught her how to bend things to her will, and Orlagh had balanced them both with empathy and gentleness.
Aemyra had been forging herself with their help for twenty-six years, and the three of them had given her the tools she needed to be a righteous queen.
Even a broken sword could be mended.
This time, her arrow hit the upper corner of the target.
“A small improvement,” Thear said, stifling a laugh.
He conjured a tongue of flame to his palm, the light dancing across his heavy brow. Aemyra ignored the handsome face and focused on the fire.
“Not easily impressed, are you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’ve seen bigger.”
Thear tilted his head to one side. “It’s all about how you use it.”
Aemyra eyed the flame critically. “Not compared to him it’s not.”
She had meant for her words to come out with a laugh, but they sounded hollow, and Thear extinguished his flame.
Regretting saying anything, Aemyra took a step toward him. Her people would benefit from the alliance with Clan Leòmhann; she should make more of an effort.
Fiorean was dead. When the war was over, she would be expected to marry Thear.
She desperately needed a light in the darkness and this warrior gleamed like her own personal sun. So she let him splay his hands over her hips and draw her in. Aemyra found her gaze straying to his lips. Buttery soft and indecently sweet.
Just as Thear dipped his head toward her, she felt his magic pressing against her skin as a reminder of what she truly needed to focus on.
Aemyra pulled away.
Thear let his hand drop to his side, straightening with a sheepish expression.
“Can’t fault a man for trying,” he sighed.
Aemyra blushed in spite of herself. “I’m sorry. I’m just…not ready yet.”
To his credit, Thear nodded and bent to pick up another arrow. “Don’t worry,” he said, straightening to look at her earnestly. “I’ll be right here when you are.”
She took the arrow from his outstretched hand, more grateful than he could possibly know for the lack of pressure.
“Luidsean.” Aemyra muttered the insult in the Seann, cursing both of them for fools.
Thear grimaced. “On this occasion, I would be inclined to agree.”
The tension between them broken with a self-deprecating grin, Aemyra tapped a finger against his muscular chest.
“You speak the Seann? Who taught you?” she asked.
Thear smiled. “My mother. I did tell you she taught me my letters and numbers.”
“Yes, but you failed to mention which ones,” Aemyra replied shrewdly.
He ran one hand through his luscious waves. “What can I say? You aren’t the only one with a talented tongue.”
Aemyra raised her eyebrows.
Thear chuckled, a grin spreading across his face. “For languages.”
Surprising her, he reached up and traced the contours of her bottom lip, heating the already flushed skin until it tingled.
“What else does that pretty mouth do, I wonder?” he asked, his voice low.
Despite the way his words made her pulse skitter, Aemyra raised the bow to shoulder height.
“Hurt your feelings,” she replied, and let the arrow fly.
A solid thwack told Aemyra she had hit the target, but it was the flash of triumph in Thear’s eyes that let her know she had finally struck within the circles.
Biting his full bottom lip as if he was trying to control himself, Thear backed away slowly.
“Yes, I do believe you will,” he said, sounding as if he was looking forward to it.
“Wait,” she called out, an idea forming in her mind. “You said you have a talent for languages?”
The warrior raised his eyebrows. “Among other things.”
Aemyra felt her hopes rise. “You don’t speak the Caillte, do you?”