Chapter Twenty-Nine
Aemyra stood at the base of the hill, facing the enormous altar.
It had been dark for a few hours, and torchlight flickered like the fingers of flame were reaching for the sky, begging to be closer to Brigid. Aemyra took a deep breath and felt Adarian at her elbow.
“I won’t be far,” her twin whispered.
Unable to turn her head under the weight of the elaborate headdress, Aemyra felt him disappear into the crowd gathered on either side of the path to watch the ritual.
Then the drums began.
The gathered crowd held their collective breath as Aemyra took her first step up the path. Her feet were bare, save for intricate gold chains looping around her ankles, and she walked purposefully in time with the heavy beat of the drum. Each step was punctuated by her stuttering pulse.
Terrea was a deeper shadow amid the darkness behind the altar, the enormous dragon a symbol of their queen’s might. The flames swirling deep in Terrea’s chest illuminated the dragon’s scales from within, turning the dark onyx into a shimmering violet.
Aemyra felt the gazes of every one of her subjects fall upon her as the torches lit her way. Her sheer crimson dress left little to the imagination, the gold circlet of metal flames around her waist the only thing holding the fabric on her body.
The dress plunged from her shoulders, exposing most of her cleavage and muscular back. Her shapely legs peeked out from the sheer skirts with every step.
While the material was scarce, there was barely an inch of skin that wasn’t dripping in jewels. Her auburn hair had been intricately braided by Adarian and coiled atop her head, a headdress even more extravagant than Greer’s rested on her brow.
The weight of the red gemstones and gold metalwork made her neck stiff, but Aemyra kept her focus on the altar; even as she caught a glimpse of Maggie, Elizabeth, and Katherine standing within the crowd beside Laoise.
Still, the drums beckoned her forward.
Aemyra prayed no one would notice Adarian summoning in her place and tried to judge how drunk the crowd already was. It would not do for everyone present to see their queen’s ineptitude atop the altar.
Greer’s chanting grew more insistent, voices rising within the crowd as the drums accelerated. Aemyra increased her pace as she climbed the hill, the altar close enough now that she could make out the offerings that had been laid upon it.
Laird Maryk was on his knees beside Greer, shaking violently, his hands and feet in chains.
Through the Bond, she could feel Terrea’s desire to devour him.
The drums stopped when the queen made it to the altar and, ignoring the laird who was to act as the solstice sacrifice, Aemyra turned to the crowd.
“My people!” she cried, raising her voice to the right pitch. “You have fought by my side with sword, claw, and wing. You are the strength of Tìr Teine, and you will free her from the traitorous grip of Chosen supporters like Laird Maryk.”
Uproarious cheers met her words, some Dùileach releasing sparks of flame and gusts of wind into the night sky in agreement.
“Tìr Teine is my home, and I am tasked with caring for all who live here. However, I cannot let treason go unpunished.”
An expectant intensity descended across the camp. Aemyra’s breath caught as she looked out at the faces of the men and women who had followed her across Tìr Teine.
She saw nothing but devotion staring back at her. Somewhere in the last few months, through her haze of nightmares and near-constant panic, her people had truly accepted her.
Aemyra looked down at the sniveling laird and prepared to be the queen they deserved.
“Do you have any last words?” she asked Maryk.
He went prostrate before her, weeping and kissing her feet. “Mercy, my queen. I beg mercy.”
Disgusted mutterings echoed through the night from the spectators and Aemyra was glad his daughter didn’t have to witness her father’s last act of cowardice.
She had offered Catriona the option of breaking her house arrest and witness the execution. She had declined.
Now, Aemyra pulled her jeweled feet away from the sniveling laird. “Your queen is showing you mercy. I could have had you drawn and quartered, instead I give you a quick death and pray it pleases the Goddess.”
Aemyra held out her hand, and Draevan stepped up to the altar with Fearsolais. Without looking at her father, she wrapped her hand around the runic hilt, her sword an extension of her arm.
She had never beheaded someone before. It took too much effort in battle to fully decapitate a person, and even with momentum from her swing, it would be a test of her strength to cleave through muscle and bone.
The priestesses dragged Maryk on top of the altar, his head dangling over the edge. As though finally accepting the inevitable, with a dragon growling behind him, Maryk spat at her feet.
“Filthy Dùileach whore, you will never survive the force Laird Lorna has gathered in Edinbane. The Savior will never take pity on your soul. He sees all. Savior, I pray, have mercy on me.”
Ignoring Maryk’s ramblings, Aemyra stared down at the promise mark and prayed this would work.
This was for Brigid, and for her people.
Poised with her sword held aloft, Aemyra was grateful for her years spent hammering steel in a sweltering forge. Her solid shoulder muscles straining for the downward swing, she felt the barest brush of Adarian’s magic and Fearsolais’s blade ignited.
The flaming sword came down in an exacting arc that cut right through Maryk’s spinal cord.
Teeth gritted and muscles taut, Aemyra breathed a sigh of relief when her blade passed cleanly through bone and sinew and the head tumbled to the ground.
Terrea loosed a torrent of fire into the sky as Adarian quickly snuffed his own flames.
Aemyra heard a muffled scream from within the crowd and she hoped Maggie and Katherine could prevent Elizabeth from causing a scene.
As Laird Maryk’s lifeblood poured across the altar in offering, Aemyra handed Fearsolais back to her father as the priestesses removed the body. She had to send a solid warning through the Bond to prevent Terrea from setting herself upon it.
Forcing a smile when the mark remained inert on her palm, Aemyra listened to the High Priestess.
“A hundred years we have waited for a true queen to invoke a ritual in the name of a Goddess,” Greer called out, the glorious spill of stars across the open sky flaring brighter as she spoke.
“Tonight, we celebrate the summer solstice by lighting the shortest night and give thanks to Brigid, Goddess of fire.”
A cheer rose up through the crowd and people began to lift woven crosses above their heads, the four strands made of straw or sticks tied with string or horsehair.
Aemyra felt sweat beading on her forehead, but she dared not lift her bejeweled hands to wipe it away.
Greer lifted her red-robed arms to the sky. “Tonight we make our offerings to the Goddess who watches over Tìr Teine and all Dùileach.”
Stiffening, Aemyra wondered how many non-Dùileach worshippers Greer had just unintentionally offended. Only a few short weeks ago, Aemyra would have heard nothing amiss in the High Priestess’s words. But now, mostly thanks to Sorcha, she knew better.
Oblivious to her queen’s thoughts, Greer continued, “Goddess of strength, power, and hope, we make our offerings to you for protection and guidance. Walk with us through this life and the next.”
Terrea flared her wings impatiently, claws raking through the earth as Draevan stepped out of the crowd.
Her father was resplendent in a crimson fèileadh complete with gold dragon brooch, his auburn hair left loose to spill across his shoulders.
He offered Aemyra a deep bow before reaching for her hand to guide her up onto the altar.
Aemyra tried to avoid stepping on the congealing fish that had been plucked from the river and left for Brigid. Berries burst underfoot, their fragrant juices staining her toes purple.
Aemyra got to her knees.
A queen kneeling for a Goddess.
“You have gifted our queen beyond measure. Continue to bless and guide her through this hallowed crusade to free Tìr Teine from tyranny,” Greer said.
There was an expectant pause, and Aemyra tried to focus on the feel of the altar underneath her, the smell of smoke in the air, the breath of the dragon at her back.
She could feel the pulsating power inside of her, as though the depth of the gift within her chest was slumbering but could not be touched.
But when she tried to call it forth, it stuttered in her veins and was snuffed out.
Her hands began to shake, both with the effort of summoning and with fear. She didn’t want to have to rely on her brother, but such a public failure could be ruinous.
Lifting her eyes from the altar, seeking Adarian’s face in the crowd, Aemyra made ready to lean on him.
Suddenly, the torches flared to life, illuminating the pathway in a glorious rush of fire. The unlit bonfires scattered throughout camp were rapidly ablaze and the night was on fire for the Goddess.
But it wasn’t Adarian’s doing.
Terrea rumbled as the people began to cheer, but Aemyra’s eyes snapped up to the tree line, following the magical signature she knew as well as her own.
Fiorean.
Her heart was pounding, and if she hadn’t already been kneeling she would have fallen over as the blessed magic surged through the camp, lighting the night for the Goddess and the queen.
Just when she thought she was imagining it, Fiorean’s magic wrapped around her like a warm embrace, bringing the delicate scent of orange blossom through the pine trees.
Her husband was alive.
Fiorean was alive!
Trapped on the altar, Aemyra had to force herself not to move.
How was he here? How had he survived?
There had been a vision from Aervor, when Adarian had removed her bandages. Aemyra had thought it another glimpse into the past. Not Fiorean’s present.
Someone had healed him, in a murky cottage with a view of the twisted forest near Balnain.
Fiorean had been so close to her, all this time.
And now he had returned.
Fighting to keep the emotion off her face as Greer pulled a wickedly sharp knife from her pocket, Aemyra connected to the Bond.
Terrea was equally as furious with Aervor for keeping this from her, and the dragon’s tail lashed angrily across the ground.
The drums were pounding out a furious, thumping beat that stirred Aemyra’s blood.
Oblivious to his daughter’s internal turmoil, Draevan was shoulder to shoulder with Greer, offering her an encouraging smile.
“It won’t hurt much,” he muttered, eyeing Aemyra’s trembling limbs.
Unable to leave the altar until the ritual was over, she offered her bare arms to them both.
The burn scars shivered in the light of the flames, the skin barely healed.
Aemyra kept her gaze fixed on the tree line where she knew Fiorean was lingering.
Try as she might, she could not see him.
She winced as the crooks of her elbows were punctured by twin blades.
Crimson rivers trickled down her forearms and she turned her palms up just as Terrea flared her wings behind her.
The she-dragon released another plume of fire into the air, keeping Aervor away from the ritual and promising to deal with his deceit later.
The flames illuminated the queen atop the altar as the priestesses rushed forward with chalices filled with watered-down wine and Aemyra wished Eilidh was participating.
People began to flood the torchlit path, thousands who wanted the queen’s blessing.
Thankfully, only the first few hundred would be granted the opportunity, and Aemyra prayed no fights would break out.
Even if they did, no one would stop them.
Brigid was the Goddess of strength, and if people wished to battle to taste the blood of the queen she had chosen, it would likely please her.
The pounding of the drums gave way to the ethereal clarsach, the melodic strings plucked by women either side of the altar. With each musical note, Aemyra’s heart tugged painfully in her chest, reminding her who was waiting.
As if she could forget.
As her people came forth one by one, Aemyra barely registered the reverence on their faces as she gazed into the trees, wishing to look upon the one person she could not see.