Chapter Thirty-One
As Aemyra wove through the bonfires with Thear, she decided to keep the truth to herself until they had a chance to speak privately. If Fiorean hadn’t chosen to publicly reveal himself yet, it would be for good reason.
“It is good to see you happy,” Thear said, dodging sparks. “It was the right choice asking Adarian to light the fires for you.”
A small shred of guilt wormed in beside her joy, but she dared not tell Thear the truth and risk losing the alliance with the chimeras right before the march to Edinbane.
Thear had always been understanding, but everyone had their limits.
Thoughts whirring, Aemyra watched the four Dùileach of her queen’s guard playing with their elements for the amusement of the non-Dùileach soldiers.
“I should get back to Eilidh’s books,” Thear said tiredly. “We don’t have any time to waste.”
Aemyra watched Laoise’s dark cheeks glow from the flame she held cupped in her palm. Clea was coaxing a small torrent of wind around it while Iona and Nell observed, eyes intent over their mug of ale.
“We all believe in you,” Thear said.
Aemyra wrapped her hands around his and felt her smile grow. Perhaps Brigid had been listening after all.
“Forget about the antidote for tonight. Tomorrow we can resume our search.”
With Fiorean quite literally back from the dead, she felt like anything could happen and an answering grin split Thear’s face.
He pulled her around a crackling bonfire, the roaring heat close enough to sear her skin. Adarian was on the other side, conversing amiably with Maggie, and even Elizabeth seemed to have relaxed. Meanwhile Katherine’s gray eyes were trained on Draevan, who was dancing with Maeve.
“It is enough to make you hope, isn’t it?” Thear said, looking between them.
“Women from Tìr ùir who worship the Savior attending a Goddess feast with Dùileach of Tìr Teine?” Aemyra replied. “As if enough miracles have not already happened tonight.”
Thear leaned closer, amber eyes dark. “You were a miracle upon that altar. I’ll be surprised if half your army isn’t worshipping you as a Goddess by the sunrise.”
She took a healthy step back from the warrior. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed.
Soldiers with musical talents had struck up a lively tune on the fiddle and couples were dancing around the bonfire.
“Dance with me,” he chuckled, pulling her into his arms.
Before Fiorean’s reappearance, this easy familiarity would have been welcomed, but now Aemyra felt as though Thear was crossing an invisible boundary.
Aemyra briefly wondered if she ought to refuse.
But people were watching the queen speaking to her betrothed, and Greer seemed one chalice of wine away from another proclamation.
Her people and her army still needed Clan Leòmhann, so Aemyra allowed herself to be pulled into the ring of couples around the firepit.
Thear’s strong arm went around her shoulders and they stepped into the dance.
“I’m still surprised you can move your bulk so gracefully, lairdling,” Aemyra said, trying to ignore the tug in her chest pulling her back toward the trees.
Thear grinned, twirling his queen under his arm. “The finest dance tutors in àird Caolas would disagree.”
Iona was now dancing with a handsome soldier, her willowy frame graceful. Clea and her partner, Martyn, were content to sway on the spot, wrapped in each other’s arms. It made Aemyra ache just to see it. Thear’s arms were a little too bulky, his frame too stocky.
Unaware of her inner turmoil, Thear spun her around so her back was to his chest, making her lose sight of the trees. He lowered his mouth to her ear.
“What’s wrong?” Thear muttered.
Aemyra froze in his grip, the twirling pairs around them blurring together. The warrior was far too astute for his own good.
“Nothing. I’m just tired,” she hedged.
Thear stopped dancing, the light from the bonfire flickering across his face. “We have always shared a certain frankness, you and I, so don’t spare my feelings. Whatever you need to say, I can take it.”
Aemyra’s stomach dropped. “I warned you that my heart was not free to be given.”
Thear was close, far too close. “Can you blame me for falling for the most beautiful, captivating woman I have ever met? From the minute you jumped into the Cuith I knew resisting my feelings was hopeless.”
Thear was earnest as he clasped her hands to his broad chest. “Have I not proven that you can trust me by now? I’ve kept your secret, worked tirelessly with Eilidh on the translations, fought in your battles—and won.
” His smile was so hopeful it overwhelmed Aemyra. “Your heart will be safe with me.”
She knew it was true. Her heart would have been protected and sheltered, but his love would be nothing more than a cage compared to the way Fiorean set her soul on fire.
Thear didn’t understand the wildest parts of Aemyra. He had already actively sought to change them. Yes, he softened her and made her kinder. But did Tìr Teine need a soft queen? Or a strong one?
She pulled her hands away, knowing she would have to break the news to him sooner than later. “I am capable of protecting my own heart.”
The infinitesimal space between them turned into a chasm.
Thear swallowed his smile, a trace of hurt clear in his amber eyes. “I was beginning to believe I was winning you over.”
Aemyra did not step away. “What happened to your swaggering confidence?”
Thear ran a hand through his bronze waves. “It disappeared somewhere during the battle in the valley when I saw you covered in blood and thought you were going to die before I could kiss you.”
Aemyra braced herself. “Will you rescind your father’s offer?”
“I cannot speak for my father, but our only hope of securing a Tìr Teine we believe in is with you on the throne. Ideally with me beside you,” Thear said.
When her face fell, Thear frowned. “You were as set on this betrothal as I was—even if your depth of feeling did not mirror my own. What has changed?”
There were some secrets Aemyra still needed to keep, and she eyed the tree line, wondering if her husband was watching them.
“I cannot say. Not yet, anyway.”
With immense effort, Thear relinquished his hold on Aemyra.
“This war is far from over. Three thousand Covenanters have amassed in Edinbane to reinforce three thousand enemy clansmen, Alfred holds the capital, and Kolreath is still out there. I understand if war is all you can focus on right now, and I will be whatever you need until you are ready—a friend, a warrior, a confidant—but don’t give up on me just yet. ”
Aemyra didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t risk losing Thear’s support, politically or otherwise, but she now knew Thear would never grow to be more than a friend.
Thankfully, Draevan interrupted them.
“I request a dance with my daughter,” he said, proffering his hand.
Thear gave them both a gallant bow before fixing Aemyra with a look that told her he wasn’t going to let this go. With his usual ease, Thear plucked a tankard of ale from a table and joined his trodach in their exuberant celebrations.
“Should I be concerned?” Draevan asked as the next dance began.
Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Aemyra replied, “I can handle myself.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about you. My concern is for Tìr Teine, because I’m not sure Thear Leòmhann will survive a marriage to you.”
“What?”
Draevan smiled indulgently. “We Daercathians are volatile at the best of times, why do you think I have spent the majority of my own life unwed?” Draevan continued, raising his voice slightly as they passed the piper.
Aemyra frowned. “Your late wife died of a cold not three months after you exchanged vows.”
Draevan shrugged. “Laird Fenella was nothing more than a political strategy that gave me the Balnain fleet. She was as indifferent to me as I was to her.” His expression turned tender as he looked upon Aemyra. “Your mother was the only woman truly better than me. Until you came along, of course.”
Unable to answer, Aemyra allowed her father to lead her in the dance, knowing that despite every scathing comment, every punishing look, Draevan had spent his life in pursuit of her birthright.
“A chimera is no match for a dragon, but Thear is not such a bad option,” Draevan continued. “Perhaps you will realize that yourself, in time.”
As she turned with the music, Aemyra’s eyes snagged on a commotion beside the line of tents and saw Maeve hurrying after Sorcha, wearing an expression of deep upset. Perhaps Greer’s words during the ritual had been more obvious than Aemyra had previously thought.
“Do you think Dùileach are superior?” she asked her father.
Draevan frowned. “To the Chosen? Absolutely. We are more honorable, more respectful, and don’t invade people’s homes and cities preaching at the tops of our voices.”
Aemyra shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”
Draevan looped her through his arms. “Elaborate.”
“I only want to make sure that I don’t think myself above other people because of my gifts.”
“You are above other people because you are the queen,” Draevan said firmly, his green eyes scanning her headdress.
“I want to make sure that my rule is fair and just. That Dùileach and non-Dùileach will have equal opportunities regardless of their backgrounds,” Aemyra said, suddenly understanding how much the disparities in her society disturbed her.
“I grew up as a blacksmith, my mother was a healer, I don’t see myself as any different from the people I rule. ”
“You could do with starting,” Draevan said, his voice hard.
“No,” Aemyra replied, dropping out of the dance before it was finished.
“I know this land. I have tilled the soil, I have drank from the wells and swam in the lochs. I might not be practiced in ruling, but I am an expert in what my people want. I was raised among them, as one of them. That will guide my every decision, every law I pass, every judgment I make. That is why they will support my rule. Not because I am better than them, but because I am one of them.”
Aemyra met her father’s eyes and was surprised by the empathy that was reflected back at her.
“It is a worthy sentiment, but a queen cannot be everything for everyone,” he said. “You will not set yourself on fire to keep others warm. You are too precious.”
Her father let her go, allowing himself to be pulled into a boisterous group dance with Iona and Nell. When Maeve emerged, a flower crown lopsided on her head, Aemyra pulled her from the line.
“When Sorcha returns, send her to the manor. I have decided to appoint her to my council,” Aemyra said.
Maeve gave an exasperated sigh. “The woman is stubborn as an ox. I have no idea what I’ve done, but I doubt she will speak to me before we do battle in Edinbane.”
Having been on the receiving end of Sorcha’s silences, Aemyra gave the general a grim smile. “She’s been through a lot, but she’ll come back around. Talk to her in the morning.”
Aemyra patted the despondent general on the arm and tugged her off for a mug of ale. She had known Sorcha long enough to discern it often took a whole night of silence for her to mellow.
She only wished Fiorean was so easy to figure out.