Chapter Eighteen
Aemyra dragged Thear back around the caisteal to the camp.
“Where are you taking me?” Thear asked, practically jogging to keep up.
“To Eilidh. She has been helping us translate books from the library to find the magical component we are missing in the antidote. You are going to help her,” Aemyra said, a little breathless.
When the priestess tent came into view, flap open with flickering candlelight spilling onto the grass, Thear slowed down.
“You’re trusting me enough to help?” he asked.
“I flew all the way to àird Caolas to get you here, I might as well put you to work,” she replied.
An exhausted-looking Eilidh lifted her head as they entered the tent and tried to hide the dagger she had been practicing with under a ream of parchment.
Her eyes widened when she took in the hulking warrior.
But Aemyra stopped short when she discovered Riya Iolairean sitting beside the young priestess.
“Can I help you?” Aemyra asked as the laird smoothly got to her feet and bowed.
“I was about to ask you the same question. Again,” Riya replied.
They remained sizing each other up as Thear introduced himself to a blushing Eilidh and Aemyra crossed her arms.
“Did you follow me from dinner?” she asked.
“Yes,” Riya replied.
“Why?”
“You have been asking to train with the phoenix warriors for months. I will not extend this offer again.”
Aemyra looked toward Thear, who nodded encouragingly.
Trust us, he mouthed, pulling out a chair as Eilidh began explaining her notes, suppressing a yawn.
Knowing she had to do whatever it took to free her mind from the trauma she had gone through, Aemyra loosed a shaky breath.
“Thank you, my laird,” she replied. “I will meet you tomorrow before council.”
Riya was already walking out of the tent. “You will come now.”
There was no room for argument, and Aemyra was forced to follow her out of the soldiers’ camp and into the caisteal gardens where the phoenixes had taken up residence.
Laird Edouard had feared for his delicate topiaries and perfectly pruned begonias, but the women had been respectful. Aemyra decided that when she won this war she would repay Edouard by never visiting Balnain and disturbing his peace again.
Riya led her past the large fountain that dominated the middle of the gardens, water tinkling musically as it hit the surface. Her tent was nestled under the boughs of a weeping willow.
Igniting the candles and lamps with her magic, Riya pulled a few embroidered cushions into the middle of the vibrant rug.
“How long have you been unable to access your magic?” Riya asked quietly.
Trying for honesty, Aemyra replied, “Since the battle of àird Lasair.”
Riya held up a delicate hand. “I understand why you have not told the council, it would not do for word of this to spread, but who else knows?”
Aemyra paled. “No one. My father believes I am suffering lingering effects of the binding agent.”
“Good. Keep it that way. The Prince of Penryth has a tendency to overreact.” Riya made a scornful noise. “If you will let me perform our ritual, it could help you reconnect with your gifts.”
“You’ve done this before?” Aemyra asked, wondering how a ritual could override the will of a Goddess.
Riya lifted her chin to stand like she was six feet tall instead of five. “You will not recover your magic by force. As a result of your trauma, you have created a mental block to protect yourself. The ritual will help you process your trauma, but only you can recover your magic.”
That sounded a little like what Thear had said, and Aemyra was disappointed that there didn’t seem to be a quick fix. If this failed, perhaps Adarian could make her an antidote.
“What are we starting with?” Aemyra finally asked.
She understood the mechanics of physical healing, but she hadn’t the faintest idea of how one treated the mind.
“The basics,” Riya replied firmly. “There are five elements Dùileach can control—fire, earth, water, air, and spirit. You must understand each type of energy within you before you can master your gifted element. Fire is the heat of your body, the energy that fuels you, anger, hate, rage.”
Aemyra was entirely over-familiar with those.
“Water balances us, cleanses, and brings empathy. Earth grounds us, air brings change, and spirit has always been intangible. You must reconnect to all these parts of yourself.”
Feeling a little as though she had been found lacking, Aemyra watched as Riya settled herself on a cushion, the jeweled bangles around her slender wrists clinking.
“Sit” was all Riya said.
Aemyra indulged the laird, wishing she hadn’t worn such a heavy dress to dinner.
Riya busied herself with an elaborate tea set.
Aemyra watched her prepare the pot with fascination. When the tea was steeping and Riya still didn’t speak, Aemyra began to fidget.
“Focus,” Riya said brusquely.
The laird was sitting in the same position she had started in, not one hair out of place. Aemyra’s toes were tingling from crossing her legs.
“What are we going to do?” Aemyra asked.
“We sit,” Riya said simply.
Aemyra cocked her head. “We just…sit?”
To her great surprise, Riya nodded. Letting out an exasperated breath, Aemyra tried to settle. Perhaps this was a test of endurance, something the phoenix warriors used to train their mental fortitude.
“Focus on your breathing and lengthen your spine. Stop slouching,” Riya said, her voice irritatingly serene.
Aemyra suddenly regretted agreeing to let Riya help at all. “How long is this going to take?”
Riya cracked her eye open again. “Sit.”
Aemyra rolled her eyes and gestured to her crossed legs. “I am.”
Infuriatingly, the laird simply closed her eyes and ignored Aemyra.
“Empty your mind,” Riya said gently.
Confused, Aemyra peered through one eyelid to find the laird was perfectly still, dark hair a shining waterfall down her back.
“I can hear your thoughts racing from here,” Riya chastised. “I want you to clear your mind.”
“I am not a simpleton, I cannot simply turn off my thoughts,” Aemyra replied.
Riya fixed her with an onyx stare. “Your thoughts still when you sleep, do they not?”
“Not lately.”
“Precisely.”
Without further explanation, Riya fell silent. Aemyra closed her eyes again.
She wondered if Brodie had sent word from his search for the princesses, or if Katherine had been intercepted. If they were forced to move on Dildain without an antidote…
“You are still thinking,” Riya muttered.
Aemyra huffed. “I am queen, I have a lot on my mind.”
“Exactly,” Riya replied.
Seeming to sense that Aemyra was one step away from grabbing a spear and impaling her with it, Riya began to speak.
“You must become more in touch with your thoughts and emotions before you drink the tea. When a disturbing thought enters your mind, think instead of your breathing—how your skin feels, what you smell, or what you hear. Take yourself out of your mind and into your body.”
Aemyra frowned. “How my skin feels?”
Riya remained silent.
Deeply regretting her decision, Aemyra closed her eyes again.
She wondered how Sorcha was faring. She should find her tomorrow, if Draevan didn’t drag her into council. The queen’s guard had also requested an audience to discuss the role of their Dùileach regiments…
Catching herself, Aemyra replaced the thoughts with the feel of the dress she was wearing. When that led her to think about the scullery maids working night and day to prepare the clothing supplies for the army, she tried to focus on how the cushion felt under her thighs.
After a painfully long few minutes, Aemyra felt herself drift without thinking.
It wasn’t until she heard Riya pouring the tea that she realized she had been somewhere between waking and dreams.
Aemyra sniffed the steam spiraling from her cup.
“What’s in it?” she asked, unable to place half of the herbs even with her healer’s nose.
Riya fixed her with a look. “You are our queen. We need you whole. Drink the tea.”
Instinctively knowing this was no ordinary brew, Aemyra raised the cup to her lips and drained it.
The taste wasn’t altogether unpleasant, but it was bitter, and her mind began to swim.
“You don’t have the luxury of time, Aemyra,” Riya said sadly. “This will hurt, but it will help draw out the memories causing your block.”
The cup tumbled from her tingling fingers, her mind flitting aimlessly between sensations. The rustling of the leaves on the trees in the gentle breeze, the periodic soft caws of the phoenixes. Her buttocks were numb, and her armpits prickled as the tea made her sweat.
Aromatic spices tickled her nose, and the familiar scent of orange blossom…
Aemyra’s eyes snapped open as the panic surged in response, but she was no longer sitting in the gardens of Balnain.
The courtyard of Caisteal Lasair was far too crowded. People were packed together like mackerel being hauled onto deck in a bulging net.
Fiorean had trouble focusing thanks to the head injury Aemyra had given him in the harbor, but he had refused the healer’s orders to stay in his chambers.
Rain poured down in heavy streaks, blurring the lines of figures cloaked in gray. The only bright spots of color were the gold and blue dragons perched on the battlements.
The golden was too heavy and great chunks of rock hit the ground below.
Aemyra’s little brother flinched at the noise.
He hadn’t even known she had another brother.
Lachlann’s hands were bound, the ropes so tight the skin around his wrists had begun to chafe. But if the boy didn’t struggle, he would make it out alive. It was Aemyra’s parents Fiorean worried for.
“Send them to the dungeons, Ev,” Fiorean said, voice chilling. “We can use them for information, find out what Draevan’s plans are, who has allied with them.”
Alfred fixed them both with a glare as shouts from the blacksmith Pàdraig echoed through the courtyard, Sir Nairn kicking him forcefully in the stomach.