Chapter Thirty-Four
Aemyra lay, utterly spent, in the middle of the stone circle watching the sun highlight the patchwork bruising of Fiorean’s back.
“Does it still hurt?”
Fiorean tried to conceal it, but she could see pain in the rigid line of his shoulders. “A little. There are limits to spirit magic, just as with ours.”
Aemyra lightly traced her fingertips over the scarring, following the line of a wound that should have killed him. If this was the limit of spirit magic, it was stronger than any she had ever seen.
“You should meet her,” Fiorean said.
“Who? The crone?” Aemyra asked, sitting up.
“Her name is Bronwyn.”
Aemyra rolled her eyes. “The spirit Dùileach are supposed to be dead, and now you tell me this woman is named after the greatest healer in living memory?”
“You have a problem with the name?”
“It’s a little on the nose.”
Aervor and Terrea flew above them, and she turned her face to the sky. Through the Bond she looked down at herself in the middle of the stone circle. With a confused shudder, she came back to her own mind.
“Do you think this will be a permanent thing?” Aemyra asked, massaging her temples.
“I hope not,” Fiorean said wryly, his own eyes still unfocused.
Pulling on her shirt, Aemyra knew this connection between the four of them worried Fiorean as much as it did her.
“Bronwyn has interesting views on Kolreath’s madness,” Fiorean said, shaking his head. “I discussed it with her. I needed to know if it was something she could heal, or if it was simply inevitable.”
Aemyra didn’t blame Fiorean for thinking it might be hereditary. “There are no recorded histories of mad Daercathians or dragons before Kolreath. I doubt it is inevitable,” she replied, stepping into her breeches.
“Bronwyn suggested that something might happen to the brain when the Bond severs upon the death of a beathach or Dùileach,” Fiorean said.
“Disgusting organ, really. Horrid color and an even worse texture.”
“Regardless of your personal aversion, do you think it’s possible?”
Aemyra ran a hand through her unruly curls, attempting to flatten them.
“In times of great mental or physical stress, the mind can seize. Orlagh treated a young boy once, not much older than Lachlann, who deteriorated each time the convulsions took him.”
Fiorean was quiet where he sat.
“He went from being a normal young lad to nothing more than an empty shell in the course of three years,” Aemyra continued, seeing probability in the idea.
“If the same thing happens each time a Bond is severed, it would alter the mind irreparably. Perhaps in such small increments that it only becomes noticeable after multiple Bonds.”
“Then why have we only ever seen it in dragons?” Fiorean asked.
“Phoenixes immolate upon the death of their Dùileach, so I assume rebirth would heal them. Chimeras are far more plentiful than dragons, so the chance of multiple Bonds are far fewer. Firebirds die with their Dùileach…” Aemyra’s words trailed off as she thought of her mother and Solas.
“So Kolreath’s madness accelerated with each new Bond,” Fiorean sighed.
Aemyra agreed. “We failed the dragons in our greed.”
“Perhaps we will have our chance to reverse what our ancestors wrought.”
Aemyra ignored this. She couldn’t think too far into the future. Not when there were still so many unknowns.
Fiorean fixed her with a look. “You underestimate yourself.”
Aemyra scoffed. “I don’t doubt my skill in battle, but we are no closer to finding an antidote than we were four months ago, and my magic still has not returned.”
Fiorean unraveled himself from the ground, all long limbs and lethal grace.
“It was your mother who taught you true strength, Aemyra. Knowing when to cut off an infected limb to save the body, how to be ruthless in preventing the spread of disease. To stand up to death and tell Hela ‘not today’ with a poultice in one hand and your fire in the other—not a sword ready for deliverance. Those are the qualities that will make you the true queen. Not how many people you can bend or break with your will.”
As she buckled her belt, Aemyra knew Orlagh would have agreed. Her mother would also have wanted her to meet this Bronwyn. She shouldn’t be so suspicious and prideful.
For too long, Aemyra had been swinging her sword at anyone who got too close—coating herself in the armor her father made her.
Fiorean’s emerald eyes were knowing. “You have idolized Queen Lissandrea for years, but what did you pay attention to while reading her histories? Her faults? Her failings? Or only her victories? No one can be a perfect ruler—what matters are your intentions.”
He had finished buckling on his fèileadh, and Aemyra felt something settle in her soul.
Just because she sometimes struggled, that didn’t mean she wasn’t fit to rule.
But she did need Fiorean beside her.
“Do not reveal yourself to be alive until I tell my father and my council. I’d rather not watch you cut each other to ribbons when we have a war to win. Regardless of my personal feelings, you are an asset we cannot afford to lose.”
Fiorean smirked. “I’m touched.”
As much as she was making light of it, she knew there was a very real hatred between her husband and her father.
Fiorean hated Draevan for killing Evander, and Draevan hated Fiorean for everything that had happened to Aemyra.
Not to mention her entire army believed that Fiorean had sided with Alfred.
They were about to walk a very fine line together.
Lost in her thoughts, Aemyra traced the patterns in the stones.
“No one pays these circles much attention now,” Fiorean said, coming up behind her. “But they used to be symbols of Caledonia.”
Aemyra raised her eyebrows. “I recently had to listen to a court jester sing an entire song about Caledonia in entirely the wrong key. Has your mysterious crone been teaching you about the lost city?”
Caledonia had been the ancient heart of Erisocia, the capital of the spirit Dùileach. It had fallen to the curse that had taken the entirety of Tìr Sgàile and was now nothing more than a memory.
Fiorean laughed softly. “A little. Although after the healing I often wished she would cease her lecturing, I had a terrible headache.”
The way Fiorean looked at her told Aemyra he wasn’t going to let this go. She sighed.
“Fine. Take me to the duplicitous hag.”
Fiorean flashed her a grin. “Oh, please call her that to her face.”
Eyeing the angle of the sun, knowing she had already been away from Dildain too long, Aemyra backed away from the stones.
“Summon Aervor, we best get a move on before my father comes looking for me.”
Fiorean unclipped the brooch from his fèileadh. “We don’t need to fly there.”
Aemyra frowned. “Then how do you propose we travel?” She peered through the trees beyond the stones. “Is her cottage within walking distance?”
With an indulgent smile, Fiorean pulled her toward the largest stone and held up the brooch. There was a small amethyst crystal embedded into the knot, similar to the one Thear wore around his neck, and Fiorean pressed it against the rock.
“What are you do—”
The words died on her lips as the whorls lit up with purple light, spreading until the design etched into the stone was glowing.
Fiorean grinned. “Hold on tight.”
“Wha—”
Before she could protest, they were sucked into darkness. Streaking indigo light flashed before her eyes as she felt as though her body was unraveled and then put back together again.
Lungs screaming for air, they emerged in a tangled forest, a tall stone glowing halfheartedly behind them.
She fell to her knees, legs shaking, and clutched the grass as though she might never let go.
After a few deep breaths, as soon as she felt like a person again, Aemyra snatched the brooch from Fiorean.
“What in Hela’s realm is this?”
“I told you, the stones used to lead to Caledonia,” Fiorean said.
“Caledonia is gone.”
“Yes, but the stones still work for those who possess spirit magic.”
Aemyra handed the brooch back so hard it almost left an indent in Fiorean’s chest. “I prefer flying,” she said, irritated that he knew something she didn’t.
Even more maddening was how delighted Fiorean was at her ignorance as they stepped away from the half-hidden stone toward a dilapidated cottage. The whole place reminded Aemyra of a badger’s warren—at once cozy and confusing.
With an unpredictable tenant.
“Bronwyn?” Fiorean called out, stepping through the rune-carved doorframe like he had lived there all his life.
A grunt came from the shadows beyond.
“She’s home,” Fiorean translated, beckoning Aemyra forward.
Demonstrating a distinct lack of self-preservation, Aemyra followed him, and was blocked by some invisible force.
“What the—”
The shadows moved. Aemyra felt the blood drain from her face as an elderly woman materialized beside Fiorean, wearing the darkness like a cloak.
Aemyra felt as though she was looking at Hela herself.
“Great Mother have mercy,” she breathed.
Bronwyn cackled, displaying cracked teeth. “I was blessed by the other one.”
She threw something toward Aemyra, and a bitter smell slunk up her nostrils.
“What was that?” she asked, smothering a cough. When she took a step, she was able to pass into the house.
“Protection,” Bronwyn replied cryptically.
Eyeing the runes, Aemyra thought of the druids. A peaceful people who had worshipped Gods and Goddesses in every river, tree, and breath of wind long before the Goddesses had begun their blessings. Centuries before the Savior’s name was first uttered in Erisocia.
There were few of them left, and all were said to be a little addled.
Fiorean called back over his shoulder, “Best not to ask questions.”
“I thought that was what we were here for?” Aemyra asked, tracking Bronwyn’s movement through the cottage.
Fiorean pulled out one of the chairs and sat down at the table looking decidedly lopsided. “Winnie tells you what you need to know when she’s ready.”
“Winnie?” Aemyra asked, an eyebrow peaked.