Chapter Twenty-Two
Shivering violently in the twilit priestess tent, Aemyra blew her nose in a decidedly un-queenly way.
“Here,” Thear said, approaching with a thick crimson robe.
Accepting it gladly and covering her nakedness, Aemyra tried not to glance down at his sporran, now knowing what lurked underneath.
The warrior’s feral grin told her she had been unsuccessful. “Like what you saw?”
“I’m not sure. You were so far away it was difficult to make anything out among all that hair,” she retorted, moving a basket of chicken feet off the table and hopping up onto it.
Unperturbed, Thear rolled his massive shoulders. “You did well tonight.”
Feeling as though her sinuses were stuffed, Aemyra sniffed again. “Perhaps Cliodna will put in a good word with Brigid for me,” she said, holding up her mark.
Thear walked forward until her palm hit the heat of his chest. This time when she shivered it had nothing to do with the cold.
“You have only been working on mind-stilling with Riya for a fortnight. Give it time,” he said.
“We don’t have time. We march to battle tomorrow,” Aemyra said, her voice scratchy from the burn of the water.
“In just a few minutes the council will pile in here with questions because they know how dangerous this next battle will be. You can’t save me, lairdling,” she muttered, leaning forward to rest her forehead on his chest.
Thear’s highly capable hands began massaging her shoulders, and Aemyra groaned at the delicious sensation.
“You know your problem?” Thear asked.
“I’m sure you’re about to tell me,” Aemyra drawled.
His chest rumbled with his laugh. “You regret the selfish choices you made in the past, so now you refuse to put yourself first.”
She made no reply, letting Thear’s hands massage the tension from her neck and shoulders until he shifted to stand between her legs. Her breathing grew shallow.
“We need our queen whole, Aemyra,” Thear said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay to put yourself first every once in a while.”
“Was it this bad for you?” she asked, the skin of his chest warm against her cheek. “When you lost your mother?”
The circles stilled for a split second, a slight hesitation in his thumbs.
“I don’t imagine the memories I had to relive were anywhere near as bad as yours, no,” Thear admitted. “But I clung to my grief. Sometimes it seemed to be the only way I could keep the memory of my mother alive.”
Many people would remember Orlagh—mothers of the babies she had delivered, and the people she had healed. Still more would remember Pàdraig for his skill as a smith and in the weapons or tools that bore his seal. But Lachlann…her little brother had been too young to have left his mark on the world.
Aemyra had to bite her lip to keep it from wobbling as she thought of what Cliodna had allowed her to see. Part of her wished she had also seen Fiorean, and now worried he truly was wandering the Otherworld with no chance at peace.
If that was true, how could she begin to let go of her grief?
Aemyra sniffed and Thear cradled the back of her head, holding her in his gentle embrace.
“It is not forever,” he finally said.
“What?” Aemyra asked, lifting her head to look at him.
His eyes were soft, his features blurred in the dim light of the cluttered tent.
“The way you are feeling. You will always bear it, but it gets easier.”
“I can’t lose anyone else tomorrow,” she whispered. “I won’t survive it.”
Thear’s nose was inches from her own. “The price for loving deeply is an even greater hurt when you lose it.”
His body was pressing between her thighs and she could feel the heat of him through the robe.
Hela take her, she wanted this man. If only to make her feel alive before they marched toward death.
“You have been trying to endure it alone for too long,” Thear said. “Give some of the pain to me, Aemyra. Let me bear it for you.”
Her robe had fallen open, exposing her chest, and Aemyra’s breath caught as his hand slipped under the fabric. His eyes dragged across her bottom lip as he cupped her breast.
Goddess, she wanted to give in. She wanted to close that infinitesimal distance and press her lips against his.
Thear’s hand tightened on the back of her head, pulling her closer, her nipple scraping against his calluses. Aemyra leaned into his touch, Thear’s full lips just barely skimming her own.
She desperately wanted to be ready to move on.
But there was a part of Aemyra that, despite everything, still wanted to be scorched.
Needed kisses that ended with singed lips and desired a touch hot enough to brand skin.
In spite of it all, she didn’t want a gentle companion, she wanted love so dangerous that to hold it close was to feel what it was to burn.
“Some of us believe if we push through the valley, we will be ambushed.”
The sound of the queen’s guard outside had Aemyra reeling back.
Thear released her immediately, his hands falling to either side of her legs, splayed flat on the table. Carefully, she pulled her robe closed as the council poured in.
Too busy debating battle strategy, no one noticed the flush in Aemyra’s cheeks or the tension in Thear’s broad back. Riya and Draevan followed the queen’s guard inside, carefully closing the tent flap before Clea soundproofed it with pressurized air.
Taking up the mantle of queen once more, Aemyra hopped off the table as Maeve spread maps across it.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said dismissively as Aemyra passed her a candlestick, Maeve lighting it with her minimal magic.
“We could bypass the valley and go through the river instead,” Iona offered, continuing their conversation from outside without elaboration.
“The non-Dùileach have no choice but to take the most direct route, but we will be sitting ducks in that valley,” Maeve said.
The general’s concern for the infantry was warranted and, mindful of Sorcha’s advice, Aemyra made a mental note to appoint a non-Dùileach representative to her council as soon as the battle was over.
Her council was strong, but it could always be improved.
Clea, Nell, and Iona had been serving under Draevan since his failed coup against Haedren. Appointed to represent their respective territories, not just their elements.
Aemyra might be the ruler of Tìr Teine, but she valued the insight from Adhair, ùir, and Uisge.
Thear stepped forward. “As we have already discussed, the trees on either side of the valley will provide excellent cover for my warriors.”
“For the enemy as well,” Maeve interjected.
Aemyra rubbed her gritty eyes, nose feeling swollen from the loch water. “We will not change our plan now.” Lifting her eyes, she scanned the tent.
“The cavalry will—” Aemyra did a quick headcount. “Where is Adarian?” she asked.
Draevan smirked. “I think he’s a little busy on the eve of battle.”
Aemyra thought of the antidote, before realizing Laoise wasn’t present either.
With a sigh, Aemyra addressed the council. “Adarian’s cavalry will remain with the main body of the army and we will push through the valley. Clan Iolairean and their phoenixes will cross the river and loop around to trap Laird Maryk’s forces when the chimeras engage from the trees.”
Riya was nodding from where she was rifling through talismans hooked on a peg. “I did try to tell Maeve it was a good plan. She is worrying unnecessarily.”
“The main body of the army will be vulnerable on the valley floor. The hillsides are steep, there would be no escape. Not even on horseback,” Maeve replied, looking to Draevan for assistance.
He provided none.
Iona shared a glance with Clea. “Our scouts report fewer than fifty Covenanters with the non-Dùileach clansmen—even without an antidote, if we are lucky most of us will avoid the binding agent.”
There was a part of Aemyra that felt guilty. The majority of Clan Leuthanach soldiers were better suited to wielding a scythe than a sword.
“Even one Covenanter can wield enough mist to incapacitate dozens of Dùileach. Do not get complacent,” she reminded them. “We have a hundred test vials of the antidote to be split among our Dùileach forces. Pray that it works.”
Iona thumbed her engraved axe. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Draevan rapped his knuckles on the table. “Your plan is a good one. Our lessons in strategy are paying off.”
The tent flap was ripped open and Laoise stepped inside, thrusting a swyft scroll ahead of her. “This came from my brother, Your Grace.” Her braids were askew, the flush in her cheeks enough to tell them what the missive had interrupted.
Aemyra beckoned her inside and broke the seal with a thundering heart. If something had happened to the Balnain fleet…
The council exchanged glances—some curious, others worried.
“Laird Edouard reports that two of the ships pursuing the dowager queen were run aground in a summer storm…with minimal casualties, thank Cailleach,” Aemyra said.
Draevan cursed, looking at the tightly bound smudge sticks that the priestesses had used to cleanse the camp that morning. “We should have made more offerings to Beira and Cliodna for safe passage.”
Aemyra was already shaking her head, a triumphant smile fighting to spread across her face as she continued reading. “The Goddesses work in mysterious ways, because there was a third shipwreck. This one with a singular survivor.”
Draevan went utterly still.
“Katherine Daercathian,” Aemyra said, parchment trembling in her grasp.
Power crackled from Draevan, hot enough that Clea cringed away.
“Give me leave, Your Majesty,” Draevan said eagerly, his voice low.
Aemyra met her father’s eyes over the parchment.
“Bring her to me,” she replied.
With savage eagerness, Draevan barely stopped to bow. The last thing she saw was his lips curling in a feral smile before he disappeared to summon Gealach.
“But what of the dragons? We need them tomorrow!” Maeve cried out, rounding the table as if to chase after Draevan herself.
Aemyra held out an arm to stop her.