Chapter Thirty #2
Fiorean’s hands loosened their grip, but Aemyra remained burning before him. The kiss had stolen away the parts of herself she hadn’t wanted to bear, turning her very worst thoughts into nothing more than insubstantial smoke.
She felt herself come alight even as questions bubbled on her tongue. When she pushed him gently away, Aemyra felt Fiorean smile against her lips.
“I need to know how you survived,” she asked, breathless. “I watched the arrow sink into your spine.”
Looking as though he would rather be doing anything other than talking, Fiorean took a measured step back. “The residents of Balnain still tell Folk stories for good reason. Aervor carried me to a clearing in the forest where an old crone brought me back from the very cusp of Hela’s realm.”
Lost in the melody of his voice, Aemyra was slow to respond. “Wait, what?”
Fiorean unbuttoned his shirt, parted the white linen to reveal the alabaster skin beneath. His scars stood out starkly in the moonlight as he let his shirt flutter to the bed of pine needles at their feet.
“The spirit Dùileach aren’t all dead.”
Aemyra was stunned. It wasn’t possible.
“They were consumed by the curse. None have been seen in two hundred years and you expect me to believe one of them found you?” Aemyra asked.
“You’re the healer, is there another explanation for me surviving such a wound?” Fiorean asked, turning around.
Aemyra’s breath caught as she looked upon his back. Fiorean was far thinner than the last time she had seen him. The hard muscles lingered, but she could count his ribs. At the sight of the wound she had given him, she failed to stifle the gasp that parted her lips.
Purplish veins tracked outward from his spine, and a dark line where the arrow’s head had sunk into his flesh was raised from his skin.
Hesitating for only a moment, Aemyra raised her fingers to inspect it. Fiorean made a desperate noise in the back of his throat that had nothing to do with pain.
The wound was healed, but it was ugly. Dark bruising marred his spine, and she didn’t understand how he was alive, never mind walking.
A wound like this would have been beyond even Orlagh’s skill to heal.
It wasn’t the only new scar on his back. Angry red lines sliced from the base of his neck into the waistband of his breeches. Aemyra knew they were from Alfred’s whip—Aervor had forced her to watch exactly what the priest had done to her husband.
What was left of the wall around her heart crumbled.
“Fiorean…” she breathed, seemingly unable to raise her voice. “You shouldn’t have—”
He turned back around, cupping her face.
“I was forced to make an impossible decision in the space of a moment that would keep you all alive. I would do it again in a heartbeat if it kept you safe.” His gaze was penetrating as his thumb skated the line of her jaw.
“I sacrificed myself at your altar and you didn’t even know it. ”
But she knew now. Knew beyond a doubt that she could trust this man, that they wanted the same thing. It would be difficult to convince her father or Adarian, but she had faith they could do it together. If they could only get rid of Alfred—
Aemyra held her hand up as the promise mark flared and she felt the blood drain from her face. “No.”
Her knees buckled and Fiorean caught her.
“I promised the Goddess your life. Now I know you aren’t dead, the mark will only grow more insistent until I kill you,” she said, suddenly terrified.
She frowned when Fiorean did not seem concerned. “Why are you smiling?”
“There is still much you do not know,” Fiorean replied, fingering a tiny white line on his chest.
After a small hesitation, he reached between the thin folds of her dress to trace its twin on the top of her breast. A remnant of passionate lovemaking, a time when they had desired to be as close to each other as physically possible.
A kiss that tasted of iron and ancient promises…
“We oathed ourselves to one another long before we faced each other in that throne room,” he explained, his voice low. “The Goddesses cannot take back a blessing once given.”
Aemyra’s eyes widened. “Then Brigid never accepted the death promise?”
Fiorean shook his head.
“But then, why—”
“Why does this exist?” Fiorean asked, looping his long fingers around her wrist and turning her marked palm to the inky sky. “Because you did make an oath in that throne room, but not to kill me.”
“Then who—”
Before the words had left her lips, Aemyra knew.
Alfred.
“I never said your name,” she muttered, thinking back to that fateful day in the throne room. “I was pointing my sword at you, but I was thinking about what Alfred had done, about how badly I wanted him to pay for it.”
Fiorean nodded, as though the memory haunted him.
“Just as we communicate to our beathaichean without words, so too do we communicate with the Goddesses,” Fiorean explained. “Intent is far more important.”
“Riya has always despaired at my mental focus,” Aemyra replied with a wry smile.
They stood there, water burbling around the riverbend, the cheers from the solstice feast reaching them through the trees. It was enough to make Aemyra hope again.
Fiorean rested his forehead against hers. “I have learned much in the time we have been apart. Let me share it with you.”
The emerald eyes she had dreamed of pierced her very soul, and perhaps she was a fool, but she couldn’t find a trace of deceit within them.
He melted into her hands. “It has been too long since I have felt a gentle touch.”
The words made her heart ache, but she tried valiantly to keep her composure.
“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me gentle,” she replied.
Before Aemyra could kiss him, a branch snapped, followed by heavy footfalls.
“I won’t be far,” Fiorean whispered, breathing her in before letting her go. “Please, take care of my mother and sisters. They have been through too much.”
The footsteps grew louder and a tether that was almost as tangible as the Bond to their dragons went taut as Fiorean slipped into the shadows.
“I will keep trying with the mating Bond. I will call for you,” he whispered.
With a shaky breath, Aemyra turned her back on her husband just as Thear emerged, wearing an expression of concern.
“Aemyra?”
“Lairdling,” Aemyra replied, failing to keep her voice steady.
“Who were you talking to?” Thear asked, scanning the trees.
Aemyra stepped in front of him, away from where Fiorean had disappeared. She only hoped Dòiche wasn’t prowling the forest.
“I was giving thanks to Brigid, privately,” Aemyra said, hurrying into the shallow water to wash her forearms of the dried blood. “Even queens need a moment to themselves.”
Thear closed the gap between them. “Your father is asking for you, and I find myself in need of a dancing partner.”
A weak laugh was all Aemyra could manage in response as she finished cleaning her skin.
Noticing her trembling hands, Thear offered her his cloak. She didn’t tell him that she wasn’t cold.
It smelled strongly of chimera and instantly overpowered Fiorean’s delicate scent lingering on her skin. It made Aemyra’s nose itch.
Emerald eyes glinted from the shadow of the trees, and Aemyra wasn’t sure if the flash of a blade in the moonlight was the product of her imagination.