Chapter Nineteen
A curtain of auburn hair, an expert tongue sliding against her own, the swipe of a knife on his chest, the branding touch of shared Dùileach flame…
“Careful there!” Thear shouted.
Blinking away phantom fire, Aemyra breathed through the wave of grief and guilt as Riya had taught her. It had been a long night, and Aemyra never wanted to drink tea again, but after a day spent recovering—she felt lighter.
Coming back to her own mind, she found Thear holding a spear that had been shaken loose from the armory wall behind them.
“Copar for them?” Thear asked.
Scratching the still-healing burns on her arms, Aemyra sighed. “Nothing to trouble you with.”
Those amber eyes were perceptive, but thankfully he didn’t pry.
Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the armory, she observed Thear’s trodach as they gathered supplies. Thear himself had an enormous book open on his lap and a pile of them scattered around his feet.
Adarian, Laoise, and Eilidh were seated around a rickety table with them. The light from one high window filtered down onto the books, jars, vials, and sheafs of paper as they eagerly discussed how the antidote was progressing while trying to assist the army in preparing for the march.
They were running out of time.
“Your Grace, I really do believe we should look to the Bond for the answer,” Eilidh said, thumbing the dagger Adarian had been teaching her to use. “Joint magic is referenced multiple times, as well as shared magic.”
“Do you agree?” Aemyra asked Thear.
He gave Eilidh a wink and the poor girl flushed the same color as her robes.
“It is the best lead we have so far. I say we try it,” he said.
They all turned expectantly to Adarian, who sighed. “We would need something of both Dùileach and beathach. Blood would mix well with the suspension liquid I have created.”
Aemyra nodded. “I’m planning to scout with Terrea. I’m sure I can retrieve some if you have a spare vial—”
Thear interrupted. “I cannot let our queen bleed herself for something that may not work. I’ll summon Dòiche.”
“Oh, she’ll be thrilled,” Aemyra drawled.
Adarian stifled a smirk and Laoise stroked his curls fondly. Battle approached, with the army ready to march on Dildain, but this breakthrough was giving them all hope.
Fiorean’s blood on her tongue, his fingers stroking the fire inside of her…
Stilling her mind as Riya had taught her, Aemyra took half a step back—right into Thear. His large hand splayed over her damp shirt and it grounded her.
Focusing on the heat of his touch, a beautiful illustration of dragons caught Aemyra’s eye from the book open on his knee. She could not read the words, but the drawings were captivating.
It had clearly been written in a time before the Fifty Year War—when dragons had been abundant. She traced her fingers over the anatomical drawings of wings and crystallized eggs.
So much history had been lost.
Oblivious to her melancholy, Eilidh smiled. “That is why Clan Daercathian were so powerful. They married the most blessed Dùileach from each family of the clan to one another to preserve their depth of magic.”
Aemyra’s heart thumped painfully as she thought of the way Fiorean’s magic had often skittered across her skin. He had been the only Dùileach able to match her.
She wished she could ask Aervor why he had sided with Alfred in the end. None of the memories she had been privy to indicated betrayal.
Now that Riya’s tea had helped her to process the lingering trauma, she almost wanted Aervor to show her more.
Laoise interrupted her thoughts. “You cannot increase magic through marriage; you can never predict who the Goddesses will choose to bless.”
“No,” Eilidh conceded with a small smile. “But they have always favored certain matrilines over others, and dragons are drawn to powerful Dùileach. Up until 1685, you can trace a direct line of female Daercathian rulers all the way back to 1088.”
Thear looked up from the book. “1685? When Queen Lissandrea brokered the treaty?”
“Yes. The Fifty Year War ended, and magical creatures could no longer pass the borders,” Adarian said. “The dragons began to die out and the Daercathians grew weaker.”
“Until Her Grace,” Eilidh said, bestowing a smile on Aemyra.
Feeling completely inadequate to be compared to the most powerful fire Dùileach in recorded history, Aemyra clasped her hands behind her back. To her surprise, Thear looped their fingers together.
The Daercathian clan had once been nigh untouchable, encompassing more than thirty families with more than a hundred Bonded dragons.
“Thear, how many families are there under your clan banner?” Aemyra asked.
“If you count the handful of people living in the arse end of nowhere on the western point, nearly forty—why?”
“And how many people in your clan have the opportunity to Bond to a chimera?” she asked.
Thear hesitated, glancing over at his trodach as if this was some sort of test. “When a warrior turns fifteen they prove themselves in the Cuith and then the laird will handpick twenty warriors to enter the caves.”
“Sounds exclusive,” Aemyra muttered, almost to herself, as she turned the page.
This time, drawings of eggs on plinths and columns of fire were in the margins. The Daercathians had held egg ceremonies every year on the summer solstice, allowing any Dùileach from Tìr Teine to participate. But only the Daercathians were allowed to try more than once.
Royals had been known to visit eggs multiple times, or Bond to adult dragons.
Aemyra thought of Lachlann and his love of dragons. Even if he had been born two hundred years ago, he would have only been given one chance to Bond.
And what chances were the non-Dùileach given?
It reeked of privilege.
Slamming the book closed, dust motes spiraling through the air, Sorcha’s words swam through her mind.
She was disgusted with herself for not seeing it sooner.
No wonder non-Dùileach had been so eager to convert to a Savior who offered them more than the Goddesses ever had.
Years of oppression had them turning on innocent Dùileach the moment the Chosen had provided a spark to transform their anger into action.
“When this war is over, we still have a lot of work to do,” Aemyra muttered.
A clattering noise sounded from behind the rack of helmets, and Adarian excused himself to investigate. He still walked with a limp, but at least he no longer needed the support of his walking stick.
“He will be with the cavalry,” Laoise said gently, noticing Aemyra’s worried expression. “He will not fall behind.”
Aemyra nodded absently, thinking of everything she needed to change, and wondered if she would ever possess the strength to do it.
Laoise worked a smile onto her face. “This antidote will work, I am sure of it. It will give us the advantage to take Dildain and then march on to Edinbane.”
“No word of the princesses or Katherine?” Aemyra asked the table with blind hope.
“No, Your Grace,” they chorused.
Disappointed but not surprised, Aemyra tapped the leather cover of the book. “We march tomorrow and have one week until we lay siege to Dildain. Make sure the antidote is finished by then.”
With that, Aemyra strode from the armory and into the sunlight in search of her dragon. She needed a good long flight to clear her head.
Armies were notoriously difficult to rush, and she wanted to personally ensure the way was clear through the tangled forest.
Rounding the tents, a familiar head of dark hair emerged beside a cookfire.
“Sorcha,” Aemyra called.
The woman raised her head, one hand still stirring the large pot in front of her.
“I hope you aren’t still angry with me,” Aemyra said carefully, stepping over ropes and a discarded cloak.
Sorcha shrugged, and the delicious scent of onions and roasting meat met Aemyra’s nostrils.
“You always did make the best stew in àird Lasair,” she said lamely.
“The soldiers need their strength for the march tomorrow,” Sorcha said, lifting the wooden spoon to her lips.
Shifting her feet awkwardly, Aemyra said, “I wish you would reconsider accompanying the army to Dildain. I have plenty of cooks positioned within the ranks, and Laird Edouard is kindly sending us off with more bannocks than I could eat in a lifetime.”
Sorcha snorted. “With your appetite, I doubt that very much.”
“Sor, it will be dangerous and you are no fighter. Please stay here where it is safer.”
Sorcha sprinkled salt into the pot sparingly. “Where Maeve goes, I go.”
“I could order you to stay,” Aemyra said obstinately. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted them.
Sorcha sighed. “You can’t have it both ways, Aemyra. You are either my queen or my ex-lover. Which is it? Because I don’t believe I have much to say to either woman.”
The words hurt, and Aemyra blinked in surprise. Sorcha had changed, hardened. She supposed it was to be expected.
“Maeve caught two rabbits this morning,” she said, lifting the spoon between them.
Aemyra frowned. “Maeve is catching your lunch now?”
When Sorcha didn’t answer, Aemyra bent her head to the spoon and almost groaned. The taste took her straight back to rowdy nights spent in the tavern with Adarian. The gravy was thinner, and the meat less flavorful, but it was a taste of home.
Smiling at her noises of appreciation, Sorcha filled a bowl. After some hesitation, Aemyra accepted it.
“Maeve commands mostly non-Dùileach infantry from all the clans who pledged themselves to your cause. I will march to battle and help them however I can,” Sorcha continued, a tinge of pride in her voice, and Aemyra found herself admiring the woman’s resilience.
Pausing with the spoon halfway to her mouth, she knew there was something Sorcha wasn’t saying.
“Out with it then,” Aemyra said with an affectionate sigh.
Sorcha perched her hands on her ample hips. “Please don’t forget those of us without magic. Almost all of those who lost their lives in your last two battles were non-Dùileach.”
Feeling as though they were back in àird Lasair, squabbling over a card game, Aemyra replied, “All of the soldiers who attacked us were also non-Dùileach. Besides, every one of my soldiers were given the proper burning rites regardless of magical affinity. Please, tell me what other allowances you would have your queen make?”
Sorcha wiped her palms on the light cotton dress she was wearing. “You have no non-Dùileach representative on your council.”
Aemyra rolled her eyes. “Sorcha, look around and tell me that the members of my council do not have the best interests of my people at heart.”
Losing her appetite for the stew, Aemyra placed the bowl down and searched for the right words.
“I expect my father taught me a little too much about petulance and entitlement than I should have listened to.”
Sorcha wiped her hands on a rag. “Ah, but you also had Orlagh and Pàdraig raising you. Maybe put a little more stock in their lessons?”
Grief stretched between them and Aemyra reached for the woman, pulling her into a tight embrace. Her raven hair smelled of onion and woodsmoke, and Aemyra pressed a firm kiss to the side of her head.
“Maeve is a lucky woman,” she muttered into Sorcha’s ear. “Be careful on the march.”
With a final squeeze, Aemyra set off for Terrea’s nest, wondering how in Hela’s realm one person was expected to be so much for so many.