Chapter Twenty-Eight
Preparations for the solstice ritual were well under way.
Greer had ordered soldiers to chop wood and build bonfires throughout the town and camp. Thear had carried a slab of rock for the altar up from the river, but Aemyra had a sneaking suspicion the priestess hadn’t asked him to do it shirtless.
It was now strewn with brightly colored flowers and thick wax candles.
Everywhere Aemyra looked, her people were preparing to celebrate and honor the Goddess on the longest day of the year.
Nobody would have guessed her army had fought a significant battle just days before.
The temperature was soaring as the afternoon progressed, and Aemyra wiped sweat from her brow as she walked through the camp. She spotted Clea and Iona training together, wielding their elements as one to create a small ice storm.
The air had been cooler among the clouds and she had enjoyed a lengthy flight with Terrea earlier that morning to clear her troubled mind.
There were no signs of Covenanters lurking close to the town, and the Balnain fleet was securely anchored off the coast, ready for the army to advance toward Edinbane.
Gealach flew overhead, Draevan already seated on his back as they went to scout in the opposite direction.
“How is the young priestess?”
Riya appeared out of the crowd, a cerulean shawl draped over her brown shoulders.
“Much the same, but her body is strong. As long as infection does not set in, she should pull through,” Aemyra said, having visited Eilidh in the infirmary earlier that morning.
“I am glad. She is a brave lass,” Riya said as they walked companionably through the camp, observing the preparations.
“What are the chances we go into battle in Edinbane with an antidote that actually works?” Riya asked as they passed several priestesses constructing a bonfire.
“Thear has a good grasp of the Caillte and he has already begun reviewing Eilidh’s notes. Adarian insists his suspension is ready once we find the missing magical ingredient.”
“Ingredient?” Riya asked, lips twitching.
Aemyra shrugged. “We’re making this up as we go, it all sounds ridiculous.”
Riya’s gaze snagged on the promise mark when Aemyra brushed her curls back from her face.
“Have you been practicing mind-stilling like I taught you?”
“I have it under control,” Aemyra said tersely.
In truth, for the last few nights she had allowed Aervor’s memories to flood her consciousness between dreams.
She hovered in that liminal space before waking, when Aervor’s thoughts were on his Dùileach, and watched memories of Fiorean playing with his nephews, training with the sword, even his brothers’ weddings.
Knowing this was the only way she would ever see him again, Aemyra was loath to put a stop to them.
Aemyra supposed she should be glad Aervor was not burning her while she slept.
A soft caw broke through her thoughts and Aemyra looked skyward to where Sujaron was gliding high above, his crimson feathers a splash of color against the cloudless sky.
“Tell me how you Bond to a phoenix,” she asked Riya.
They passed two of Thear’s warriors as they wove Brigid’s crosses on the sun-warmed grass.
“We are more selective than the furballs, and one phoenix will often remain Bound to one matriline. They are immortal, but not abundant, and their breeding is slow. My clan boasts five families of the most noble and powerful blood who have Bonded to phoenixes for generations. Sujaron was Bonded to my grandmother, and her great-grandmother before that.”
Aemyra thought once again of Lachlann, and the egg ceremony he would never have.
“No man has ever succeeded in winning the loyalty of a phoenix. Even my own nephews failed,” Riya continued, a hint of self-satisfaction in her voice. “Probably for the best anyway. Men don’t mix well with power.”
After all Aervor had allowed her to see, Aemyra privately disagreed. When Adarian limped around the nearest tent, she knew her brother would make an excellent king should she ever perish in battle—just not a very happy one.
The battle had exacerbated Adarian’s old leg injury, and he was using his walking stick again.
“Has Eilidh woken? Has Thear made any progress?” he asked, looking to the crumbling manor where they had set up an infirmary.
Aemyra shook her head. “No, and no.” Reaching for her brother, she linked their arms. “Forget about the antidote for the rest of today. We have a solstice to celebrate and a Goddess to honor.”
Adarian inclined his head respectfully to Laird Riya. “What were the two of you gossiping about?”
Aemyra shrugged. “Just learning about Riya’s clan customs is all.”
“Trying to plan for our own after the war is done?” Adarian asked.
Aemyra had hardly dared to think about the day she finally sat the golden throne. Whenever she pictured it now, she was hit with a gaping chasm of guilt, knowing Fiorean should be seated beside her as king.
As though reminding her of who her future consort would be, Thear rounded the corner wearing nothing but his fèileadh, his rippling muscles displayed for all to see.
Riya scoffed. “The cleansing ritual is over, put on a shirt.”
Thear grinned at them all, sketching a bow to Aemyra and Adarian. “It’s bloody roasting today and the priestesses are already stoking fires.” He fell into step with them. “I came to let you know that wee Maggie has requested to attend the solstice ritual.”
Aemyra stopped dead, Adarian stumbling slightly beside her.
“What?”
Thear shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you were, but she was quite insistent.”
“You said you wanted to be queen to all your people,” Riya added. “This could be a good way to bridge that gap.”
Knowing how boisterous the feasting after the ritual could become, Aemyra was nervous about allowing Maggie, a pregnant princess, into the fray.
Adarian nudged her. “Laoise and I can act as her guards.”
Assessing Riya and Thear, Aemyra replied, “Maggie may come, as long as Elizabeth and Katherine also attend.”
Knowing the ritual would entail significant magic use on the part of the queen, both Thear and Riya exchanged worried glances.
“What am I missing?” Adarian asked.
“Nothing,” Aemyra said quickly, shoving them all in the direction of the priestess tent. “So, we were discussing how phoenixes Bond…”
Riya narrowed her eyes, knowing the queen was deflecting. “Would you bring back the egg ceremonies once you are queen?”
“We have no dragon eggs to hold ceremonies with,” Aemyra said, sensing Riya was angling for something. “King Realor banished our great-grandfather to the Sunset Isle and hoarded the eggs for himself. We all know what happened to the dragons after that.”
“Until you.” Riya nudged her.
“It is an impossibility,” Aemyra said firmly.
Riya paused, looking between the twins. “Didn’t we already establish that Terrea and Aervor are mated?”
Adarian’s eyes bugged. “Terrea is what?”
“Keep your bloody voices down,” Aemyra hissed, shoving them all inside the tent and closing the flap. If Riya was trying to push her into coming clean to her brother about her magic, she would set Terrea on Sujaron.
The tent was a mess, the queen’s ritual garb flung over a chair.
The scent of freshly cut flowers threatened to make her sneeze as she rounded on them. Thear looked like he had already taken Riya’s side.
“You are the future of the Daercathian line, the future of the dragons,” Riya pressed.
“He deserves to know.” Thear shrugged.
Adarian looked between them. “What have you been keeping from me?” he asked Aemyra.
She felt like screaming.
“You must never let them know how hard it is to bear,” Riya said. “But sometimes you must share the burden.”
Focusing her breathing, Aemyra looked at the tent strewn with solstice preparations, willing Brigid to speak to her. But her magic remained inaccessible, the mark on her palm throbbing.
So she turned to Adarian.
“Terrea might possibly be mated to Aervor, it is true. But I know nothing of dragon mating bonds, or reproduction,” Aemyra said helplessly.
Adarian’s eyes dropped to Aemyra’s abdomen, thinking about what Alfred had ordered done to her.
“Why did you not tell me this before?” he asked, eyeing Riya and Thear as if wondering why they held more of the queen’s trust.
“There is something else you should know,” she said.
She quickly recounted the loss of her magic, her internal struggles over the last few months, how Riya had helped her with the tea ritual, and the visions of Fiorean she was experiencing through Aervor.
By the time she was finished, Adarian had sat down heavily on a crate and looked as though he had been hit over the head with Pàdraig’s hammer.
“Red gìogag?” he asked, turning his glare on Riya. “What in Hela’s realm were you doing giving my sister that herb?”
Riya crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “My clan has used the steeped leaves to process trauma for generations, and the queen needed help.”
Adarian’s cheeks grew red. “By subjecting her to hallucinations?!”
“We did not have the luxury of time, Prince Adarian.”
He turned his gaze to Aemyra’s forearms, lingering on the burn scars.
Adarian’s fist clenched around his walking stick and she swore she heard it crack before he rounded on the two lairds.
“My sister needs time to heal. I do not care if she arrives at the gates of Edinbane without a single ember, she has an army of devoted soldiers who will go to their deaths defending their queen,” he said, his sapphire eyes blazing with inner fire.
She could see him piecing together the puzzle now. Her erratic behavior, the frequent dizziness and nausea, her lack of magic use.
“Try bearing the weight of her losses and responsibilities for a fraction of the day and see how well you handle it,” Adarian snapped at Riya and Thear. “You are both dismissed.”
“As you wish, Prince. I must join my warriors for the ritual,” Riya said with a parting bow to Aemyra.
Thear’s look was apologetic as he followed Riya out. “I’ll go…find a shirt.”
When they were alone Adarian sighed, rubbing his calloused hands across his face. His hair was cropped tidily above his ears but his beard was growing unruly.
“I haven’t agreed with many of your decisions since becoming queen, but keeping this from me has to be the very worst,” he said once they were alone.
“I was trying to protect you,” Aemyra whispered. “You have been working yourself to the bone to procure an antidote, and lead the cavalry, and assist the healers. You didn’t need to worry about me too.”
Adarian’s face fell. “You are my sister, I always worry about you.”
As the weight in her chest lessened further, Aemyra knew she should have confided in him long before now.
“Tonight I must lead my people in an ancient ritual without access to my magic and somehow make sure none of them suspect my weakness.”
Adarian leaned heavily on his stick as he got to his feet. “You are anything but weak, Aemyra. But if you are unable to summon your magic for the ritual, let me do it in your stead.”
She frowned. “How?”
He gave her a wry look. “We shared a womb, our magical signatures are nearly identical. When you are atop that altar, pretend to summon and I will light the torches and bonfires for you. No one will suspect it isn’t the queen’s doing.”
Pulling Adarian in for a hug, Aemyra gripped him tightly.
They had survived Dildain, but after this ritual they would march on Edinbane, where thousands of Covenanters awaited them with the insurgent non-Dùileach united under Clan Sutherland.
The enemy outnumbered them, and if they lost too many soldiers in the battle for Edinbane, they wouldn’t have a hope of liberating àird Lasair.
She didn’t have to put her fears into words, the way Adarian held her told her he understood.
After a moment, they stepped back and Aemyra picked up her solstice dress.
“I noticed Thear has been sharing your bed,” Adarian said. “Have you begun planning the royal wedding?”
There was a knowing edge to her twin’s words. As if he could see right through her.
“Thear Leòmhann is good for me. His presence is…calming.”
“And is that enough to marry him?”
Aemyra sighed, folding the dress over her arm. “There is only one man in this world I have ever believed to be my equal. Matrimony binds more than just bodies. Once you join hands, you can never let go. No matter how much it hurts.”
Like a fire raging through a forest, destroying everything in its path, her marriage to Fiorean had effectively torn Tìr Teine apart.
She faced her brother and couldn’t help the words spilling from her lips. “I remain bound to Fiorean until the bitter end, no matter how painful.”
Adarian was quiet, his unspoken thoughts softening his features. Aemyra had expected him to convince her that she would move on in time.
“Laoise is good for me too, Aems,” Adarian said, a hopeful note entering his voice. “She’s…well, she’s Laoise.”
“Wow, so eloquent,” Aemyra drawled.
“Shut up.”
“You should write her poetry, I’m sure your inspirational words will stir her passions.”
Adarian’s neck was as red as his beard and Aemyra stopped teasing. He was entitled to steal as many moments of happiness as he could. None of them knew how this war would end, and she wasn’t the only one lying alone with her grief in the gaping silence of the night.
“For what it’s worth, Orlagh would have loved her,” Aemyra said gently.
Her twin’s smile widened. “I believe she would have.”
The golden flush of sunset filled the tent and the revels from the camp outside grew louder.
“I must dress for the ritual,” Aemyra said, breaking the tender moment as her nerves returned. “My people deserve to see their queen lead them. No matter how undeserving she feels.”
Adarian handed her a washcloth and she began wiping the sweat from the back of her neck.
“Will you help me dress?” Aemyra asked.
Adarian made the sign of Brigid’s cross and bowed to her. “It would be my honor.”