Chapter Forty-Nine
Only a few nights later, Aemyra stood beside Fiorean in the caisteal gardens, readying to celebrate Lughnasa. With the temples still undergoing repairs, they had extended the invitation to celebrate the air Goddess in Caisteal Lasair to everyone.
Common folk were exclaiming at delicacies and nobles were doing their best to find common ground with those they might have once thought beneath them.
Night had fallen on the feast of Beira, and Aemyra’s crimson cloak was draped over her deep red gown. Summer was slowly gusting away.
“Thear was right,” Fiorean commented, his eyes glinting in the light of the torches. “When you give people enough, it curbs their greed.”
Contrary to Elear’s staunch protests to the contrary, the trestle tables were still groaning with food and the jugs of wine were far from running dry.
Aemyra swilled the òmar in her goblet. “This is how I want everyone in Tìr Teine to live. Able to work their trades and use their skills while never returning home to an empty belly.”
Fiorean rested his hand gently on her lower back. “Look at the progress you have already made.”
The new Goddess grove had pride of place in the garden, built by talented stonemasons and crafty air Dùileach. Now, everyone was gathered to watch the queen and the High Priestess bless the grove and welcome Beira’s season.
“Sir Gavin still looks on edge,” Aemyra commented as the new captain snatched a cup of wine from the hands of a passing servant and sniffed it suspiciously.
Fiorean sighed. “We all bear scars from the war, some more visible than others.”
Reaching out from under her cloak, Aemyra took his hand.
The scar on her chest was visible under Orlagh’s necklace, and Fiorean no longer made attempts to hide his facial scars. His back was still healing, the worst of his injuries hidden by his wine-colored tunic of heavy brocade.
While conducting a thorough search of the caisteal for more books, Aemyra had unearthed twenty trunks full of royal garments that had been locked behind a boarded-up door.
Elizabeth and Maggie had been beside themselves and had disappeared, squealing into a cloud of silks, then called for the laundresses to help them save what they could.
Aemyra wasn’t exactly sure which ancient Daercathian’s clothes they were all wearing, but she certainly appreciated the fashion.
“Have you had word from Adarian?” Fiorean asked in a hushed whisper.
Aemyra shook her head. “Not for a week, but they should have arrived in Elysmere by now.”
“Later than we had hoped with four Dùileach assisting the crossing. King Virean’s Gathering will almost be over by the time they arrive,” Fiorean commented.
Aemyra sighed. “Perhaps that is for the best. My brother is there to form an alliance between our territories, not to toss a caber or compete in a joust.”
A hush descended over the crowd as Greer stepped before the grove, a priestess of Beira beside her. The woman looked like a wisp, her dark hair rippling in a phantom wind, layered gray robes making it impossible to ascertain if she had a body underneath.
Greer addressed the crowd. “Tonight we relinquish Brigid’s season to her sister, Beira. May we all let Beira’s wisdom guide us, and take courage from her blessings.”
Clea stood to the side of the statue of Beira, freckled face tipped to the stars, awaiting her power surge.
Fiorean unclasped the cloak from around Aemyra’s neck, gathering it into his arms as the queen took her place beside the High Priestess.
“My people,” Aemyra began, scanning the faces in the crowd, “this marks a new beginning for our city. As the home of fire Dùileach, Brigid plays a central role in our lives, but we still recognize the importance of the other Goddesses.” She let her eyes fall on Katherine, Maggie, and Elizabeth.
“So too are we making space for those who worship the Savior.”
There were a few scattered mutterings from the crowd and Aemyra let them die down before continuing.
“This peace will be lasting,” she declared. “What we build now will shape the future of Erisocia. Make it worth remembering.”
Turning her back on the crowd, Aemyra stood between the two priestesses and gazed upon the grove.
It truly was a work of art. A burning plate of oil sat at Brigid’s feet, and a smoking incense stick was tucked into Beira’s carved arms. A gently tinkling fountain was pouring from Cliodna’s hands, and Aemyra knew she would enjoy practicing mind-stilling here on quiet mornings.
Ivy crawled up Brenna’s figurine, half obscuring her face, but somehow Aemyra thought the earth Goddess wouldn’t mind.
Cailleach and Hela were carved above, either fighting or embracing. One could never be sure.
“Your Grace?” Greer prompted, extending the burning branch to her.
It reminded her of her hasty marriage to Fiorean in a cramped temple in the middle of a war, and she wrapped her hand around it. The flames licked her wrist familiarly and she set it upon the runic altar at the center of the grove, silently thanking Brigid for all she had done.
As soon as Aemyra stepped back, Beira’s priestess waved her arms and the flame was extinguished, leaving behind tendrils of smoke that would linger until morning.
As midnight arrived, a sudden gust of wind blew through the garden, lifting skirts and blowing hair into faces.
“Lughnasa is upon us! We make our offerings to Beira, Goddess of air!” Greer intoned, lifting her hands to the full moon.
Cheers rose up from the crowd and soon everyone was jostling to be the first to decorate the grove. Children waved ribbons on sticks, and the air Dùileach hurried over to the balustrade, sticking their faces into the wind coming off the loch.
Stepping back to allow the people their revels, Aemyra spied Maeve hovering on the outskirts. The woman looked like a shell of herself.
Praying to Beira that the general would have courage, Aemyra found Thear had joined Fiorean.
“Eilidh looks well,” Thear commented.
The young priestess was laying her offering beside the grove.
Eilidh had returned to the capital a week ago after traveling with Katherine and the princesses from Edinbane.
She was still weak, and mostly bedridden, but tonight she had donned her priestess robes and her gold browband glittered in the torchlight.
“She still fancies me,” Thear said, stuffing his mouth with a pork pie.
Aemyra rolled her eyes. “I don’t think anyone is as in love with you as you are with yourself.”
Thear scoffed and gestured to where Brodie was sitting on a bench, drinking with his father. “Not true. He’s already proposed twice, little social climber.”
Aemyra had to laugh. Brodie was completely enamored with Thear, but a social climber he was not.
“Will your father travel for the coronation?” Fiorean asked. “We have given everyone four months to prepare. Riya will make the journey from Truvo.”
Thear ran a hand through his bronze waves. “My father is content with my position here as his emissary. No doubt he will send Ceana eventually, but he prefers to remain in àird Caolas, just as Riya clearly prefers the southern sands.”
“Yes, well. The fact she remained in Edinbane long enough to attend my father’s funeral was a miracle,” Aemyra replied.
The phoenixes had experienced heavy losses during the battle, and Riya had retreated to her palace as soon as was appropriate. Aemyra exchanged almost daily correspondence with the laird, but she missed her presence dearly.
Excusing themselves, the king and queen wove through the air Dùileach flapping kites, streamers, and flags of all colors. Graciously accepting well-wishes and bows, Aemyra and Fiorean surveyed their people.
Marilde was thoroughly enjoying the food she had cooked for the occasion, helping herself to a fourth pastry. Màiri was conversing with Brodie and Colm, bouncing her now-fat babe on her hip and telling anyone who would listen that the queen herself had delivered her daughter.
The presence of the children seemed to put everyone at ease, the hardy manner of those raised in the lower town bolstering the confidence of the royal princes.
Even Elizabeth seemed comfortable around the magical fires as she rocked one of her toddlers to sleep in her arms, the boy a deadweight draped over her slender frame.
“The fact that your family have adapted so quickly gives me hope,” Aemyra muttered to Fiorean.
She had never seen Elizabeth look so at peace. At least until the sound of dragon wings passed overhead.
Aemyra tilted her face to the sky, where the dark outline of Terrea was just about visible among the stars. The she-dragon was enjoying the challenge of the Lughnasa winds, and Aemyra promised her they would fly together tomorrow for the simple pleasure of sharing the sky.
“Do you think Gealach will return?” Fiorean asked, sitting down on a stone bench in the shadow of a rosebush.
Accepting the bowl of cranachan he passed her, Aemyra shook her head. The emerald dragon was likely still somewhere in the Blackridge Mountains, ensuring that every last Covenanter was either dead or back over the border where the dragon could not cross.
As long as Gealach didn’t burn the Silent Forest down, Aemyra was content to leave him where he was.
The tartness of the raspberries washed over her tongue as she took a spoonful of the cranachan, the sweetness of honey balancing it perfectly.
“How are they?” Aemyra asked in a hushed voice.
Fiorean didn’t have to ask her to elaborate, they had spoken of almost nothing other than the dragon eggs for weeks.
“Same as yesterday, and likely the same as tomorrow,” Fiorean said, dipping a finger into the cream.
Aervor had fussed incessantly over the nest, growing more and more agitated, until Fiorean had been forced to hike into the Deàrr Mountains and retrieve them.
The two precious eggs now burned in braziers under the temple, protected night and day by priestesses sworn to Brigid, with no idea what they guarded.
Fiorean’s magic fueled one brazier, Aemyra’s the other.
Entrusting the secret to no one, they had been relieved to discover that, even in his madness, King Haedren hadn’t allowed Alfred to burn the history books.
Aemyra and Fiorean had purged the dank hole the books had been shoved into and did their best to restore them to their original state with the most delicate fire magic.
A few pages had gotten singed, and some were beyond repair, but they had gleaned precious information about dragon egg care.
Thanks to an impeccable ledger, they had been able to trace both Aervor’s and Terrea’s lineage. To their surprise, Aervor had been sired by Gealach, even though the males were largely indifferent to each other.
Less surprising was that Terrea’s dam had been Sylthria, the wild silver dragon who had Bonded to the princess Isobeìl.
Throwing magic into the mix, Aervor’s, Gealach’s, and Terrea’s bloodlines were distinct enough to consider further breeding. If just one of the two eggs hatched a female, they really could usher in a new age of dragons for Erisocia.
“My father would have given anything to be here for this,” Aemyra whispered, losing her appetite for the cranachan and clutching Fiorean’s knee for support. “I can already imagine him scratching away with his quill, improving the ledgers and writing detailed histories.”
Fiorean’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He had never spoken of Draevan’s sacrifice, but Aemyra knew he felt guilty for being the reason her father was dead.
Fiorean’s hands were warm as they clasped her own.
“He lives on in you. As does Orlagh,” he said.
Not caring how many people were in the gardens, Aemyra kissed her husband until her cheeks flushed. Breaking apart to a few encouraging cheers and titters, she found Katherine watching them.
The dowager queen stood a little apart from the rest of the gathered crowd, but despite all she had been through within these walls, she stood a little taller.
So used to seeing her in habitual black, Aemyra had been surprised when the dowager had donned a gown of bright marigold for the ritual.
It was a close estimation of the Daercathian colors, but the style was outdated enough to make Aemyra wonder if the woman had unearthed a dress she had worn before her marriage.
Perhaps Katherine was now finally able to discover who she was without the restraints of the men controlling her.
When Katherine raised her glass, Aemyra gave a tentative smile in return.
If the dowager queen could put what had happened behind her and attempt to move forward, so could she. There was far more uniting them than driving them apart.
Then Maggie’s voice cut through the celebrations.
“Oh my Savior!” the woman gasped, clutching her very large, very expectant belly.
Nael excused himself from Thear and Brodie, hurrying to his wife’s side.
Aemyra gathered the skirts of her dress and rose from the bench, even as Maggie flapped her hands and flushed at all the attention.
“It’s nothing, really. Don’t mind me,” she protested as heads turned in her direction.
“What auspicious timing!” Greer cried exuberantly, the air priestess agreeing loudly and encouraging the air Dùileach to swirl wind through the garden. Maggie gritted her teeth and Aemyra rushed to her side.
Katherine’s gray eyes were concerned, Elizabeth hovering just behind.
“How long have you been having pains?” Aemyra asked, noting the light sheen on Maggie’s face even though the garden was cool.
Her tone was firm, and Maggie’s brown eyes were downcast as another pain swiftly took her.
“Since before dinner, but I didn’t want to make a fuss.”
Aemyra summoned the nearest servant. “Prepare the princess’s chambers and fetch my bag.”
With practiced fingers, Aemyra found that Maggie’s pulse was strong but fast.
“Right, time to get you upstairs before you cannot walk,” Aemyra said briskly, taking Maggie by one elbow, Nael taking the other.
The gardens were abuzz with excitement, muttering about a royal babe born on Beira’s day. Maggie looked like she wanted to crawl through the floor and hide.
Thank the Goddess for Thear Leòmhann.
“Let’s turn this into a proper celebration, shall we?” Thear asked, uncorking another bottle of wine and pouring it generously into Brodie’s goblet. “Because I have an excellent drinking game that involves a shinty stick, a copar, and questionable judgment.”
It was the perfect distraction and soon everyone forgot about the princess’s labors as Thear’s trodach began whacking one another with sticks.
She had a sneaking suspicion that come sunrise the royal gardener would be having a conniption about the state of his lawns.
But by the time they were climbing the stairs, Aemyra heard the dowager queen laugh for the first time and decided it might just be worth it.