Chapter Fifty
Fiorean’s features danced in the light of the braziers as his hands lazily roved the contours of her body.
They were in the catacombs under Brigid’s temple, fire coating the walls from the strength of their magic, the two braziers holding the dragon eggs gleaming like twin beacons of hope.
They had taken to visiting often, as if to make sure the eggs were still real.
After a full week of being disturbed while trying to make love to her husband by various “urgent matters requiring the queen’s attention,” Aemyra had dragged Fiorean under the temple and locked the door.
For just a few hours, it made a nice change to not be the one giving orders.
“The harvest festival will be well under way,” she said, feeling only a little guilty.
Fiorean smiled, pressing a kiss to her bare breast. “Who would dare to tell a queen she is late?”
The room was small, the lack of windows making the air thick, and they turned to the eggs once again.
“At least we know what color the hatchlings will be,” she said.
“Does it matter?” Fiorean asked, pressing gentle nips against her skin with his teeth.
“No, but it paints a nice picture,” she replied.
The eggs looked like nothing more than rounded husks of molten rock spewed from the depths of a volcano.
The camouflage was so excellent, Aemyra half suspected there might be other eggs still hidden in Beinn Deatach.
Other than the fissures that gleamed with inner fire, and the glistening hue that gave a hint of the color of the dragon within, they looked completely ordinary.
“The indigo would look handsome flying between our dragons,” Fiorean admitted.
They had a sneaking suspicion that when the larger egg hatched it would be a lighter version of Terrea. Aemyra drank in the sight of her husband, his skin pale and fiery hair now unbound and shining down his back.
“The crimson egg is my favorite,” she said.
“Because of our clan colors?”
“Because it reminds me of you.”
Fiorean reached up to finger the ends of his hair and she shook her head.
“No. All of you,” Aemyra explained, letting her fingers trace the pink scar marring his alabaster cheek, thinking of the red gemstone that had somehow come to bind them together.
Capturing her lips in a kiss, Aemyra knew she would be content to lie here with her husband all day.
“I wonder when they will hatch,” Fiorean mused.
“They might never,” Aemyra replied.
Fiorean eyed her knowingly. “With a true queen ruling the Daercathian clan, everything is possible.”
Nervous of tempting fate, Aemyra picked her dress up from the heap on the floor. “The last dragons barely lived longer than their growing years.”
Fiorean stretched like a cat before getting to his feet, the crisscrossing scars on his back thrown into sharp relief by the fire.
“With the way Aervor and Terrea are carrying on, I don’t think we’ll have much to worry about,” he said.
Their dragons had found a larger cave in the Deàrr Mountains, and one particular night two weeks ago, Fiorean had marched into the council room, thrown everyone out, and then fucked Aemyra on the table.
It was only when they heard the roars coming from the Deàrr Mountains that they suspected their dragons had been behind the intense rush of hormones.
Aemyra melted as Fiorean’s arms came around her, his lips tracing delicate kisses in the hollow between her neck and shoulder.
Their dragons were also curled up together, Terrea’s slender neck tucked under Aervor’s wing.
Aemyra wrapped her arms around her husband’s narrow waist, needing to feel his solid weight against her, to breathe him in and remind herself that he was real and not going anywhere.
Fiorean seemed to understand her unspoken need. “We will protect each other, as well as our territory, a ghaoil.”
Raising their hands in tandem, they funneled a little more magic into the braziers before locking the door behind them. Climbing the stairs, they emerged into the now-gleaming temple.
Eilidh gave a small wave from where she was tidying the altar, and they walked out into the city.
“Thear managed to find enough coin to fund the festival then?” Fiorean commented, eyeing the lanterns and bunting strung overhead.
Aemyra smiled to see them bobbing in the gentle breeze. The autumnal equinox celebrations were about more than giving thanks for a harvest—this year’s had been pitiful thanks to the war—but it kept people’s spirits up.
“The crown jewels are growing a little sparse, but no one will starve through the winter,” Aemyra grumbled, having parted with a pair of beautiful gold earrings just the day before.
“Are we to be destitute rulers?” Fiorean asked, quirking an eyebrow.
Aemyra snorted. “Don’t fret. I still possess my magpie-like tendencies even if Laird Edouard did fleece me.”
Edouard had been amenable to Aemyra’s demand of fifty new warships. But she harbored suspicions that his ridiculous price had included repairs to his own personal property from the damage caused by their lengthy stay in Balnain.
As they walked down the cobbled street, Aemyra followed the sounds of auctioneers and laughing children. The harvest festival had turned the lower town from a rubble-strewn wasteland into a vibrant market.
Avoiding the pig shit, Aemyra noted that farmers from across Daercathian lands had come.
“Brenna blessed some with a half-decent yield, thank Cailleach,” Aemyra said, eyeing the large squashes, baskets of root vegetables, and fat pigs ready to be slaughtered and salted for the winter.
“Will your mother take a break from the gardens to join us?” Aemyra asked Fiorean.
Katherine had taken to assisting Nell, showing a surprising affinity for growing things and sharing stories of their childhoods in Tìr ùir.
“I think my mother is seeking to replace all the shiny things you have sold with flowers,” Fiorean said, thinking of the lavish arrangements currently draped over every banister and table in Caisteal Lasair.
They made Aemyra’s nose itch.
Lifting her emerald skirts through a questionable puddle, Aemyra replied, “I will not sit in my caisteal dripping in jewels while my people starve, even if those earrings would have gone perfectly with my hair.”
Despite her joking, they were hardly destitute.
The Chosen had been hoarding significant amounts of gold in their towers, used to fund both the transport and the production of weapons.
It had been confiscated with the sole purpose of using it to rebuild.
Alongside her and Fiorean’s combined fortune, Tìr Teine hadn’t buckled under the weight of war.
“Sister!”
Maggie’s voice reached them from the other side of the pigpen, and she wove carefully around the patrons with her baby son strapped to her chest.
Aemyra smiled at the sight.
Maggie stroked her son’s head lovingly and Aemyra offered her a peck on the cheek. Despite her young age, motherhood suited her immensely.
“Where is Nael?” Aemyra asked, knowing he hadn’t properly recovered from his time in captivity, no matter his protests to the contrary.
Bronwyn’s magic might have healed Elear, but both of Fiorean’s brothers had struggled mentally following the liberation of àird Lasair.
“He is with Fionn judging the baking,” Maggie answered.
From the looks of the crumbs on her cheeks, Maggie had been involved in the sampling.
“How is your milk supply? Are you eating enough?” Aemyra asked.
Maggie blushed, leading them away from the livestock auction. “Marilde has brought me lemon cakes every day. She told me I can strap Lachlann to my chest and help in the kitchens from next week.”
The familiar ache spread through Aemyra’s chest at the name now belonging to her nephew.
When little Lachlann had emerged with a gust of air, his parents had been beside themselves to discover their son was an air Dùileach.
The Goddesses did like to be unpredictable, and little Lachlann was the first in the family to be blessed by Beira.
“I think it will do you well to bake again,” Aemyra said, mustering a smile. “But only when you are fully recovered. You shouldn’t even be out of your rooms for at least another week.”
Maggie blushed. “I needed the fresh air.”
Aemyra wrinkled her nose; the smell of manure and farm animals was ripe. “There’s nothing fresh about the air in this city, even now, but get Nael to take you to the meadow for a picnic before the weather turns.”
“Summer is already over.” Maggie pouted, looking despairingly at the flat gray clouds above their heads.
By the time they made it to the royal table, Maggie had broken a sweat. Aemyra deposited her gently onto the bench.
“If you ripped your stitches, I’m going to be extremely cross,” Aemyra said.
Fiorean bent to whisper in her ear, “We can always send for Bronwyn if need be.”
Aemyra scoffed as Maggie unwrapped Lachlann. “She told us she is not a hound to be summoned. If we have need of her knowledge, we must go to her.”
The crone had staunchly refused to leave her cottage in the forest, even after learning of Orlagh’s necklace and its potential applications for administering the antidote on a wider scale.
At least those who had witnessed the effects of spirit magic heal Elear in the kitchens had wisely kept it to themselves.
For now.
Taking Lachlann from Maggie, Aemyra cradled the infant in her arms as Katherine joined them.
The dowager was still wearing yellow, a color that clashed horribly with her pale skin, but no one had the heart to tell her.
The youngest royal children were playing with carved dragons on the grass, the older retinue taking turns jumping over hay bales. Several nannies chased them with puffing red cheeks.
With Lachlann’s solid weight in her arms, Aemyra chose to believe their clan would remain united and untouched by horrors in the future.
Katherine, Maggie, and Elizabeth attended tower services daily in the caisteal, just as Aemyra and Fiorean made offerings in the temple. All of them praying for those they had lost.
A helpful servant spooned several steaming heaps of porridge out for the queen, drizzling it with honey and fresh raspberries that were almost out of season.
“Enjoy them while you can.” Fiorean smirked. “The trade routes with ùir are in shambles.”
Thear made a noise of despair from the adjacent table, already on his second helping.
Ignoring them both, Aemyra observed the festival as she ate.
Young girls walked arm in arm, batting eyelashes at strapping farm lads. Men drank ale beside the trees, arguing good-naturedly about whose pig deserved what ribbon. Courtiers less accustomed to the bawdy atmosphere remained on the fringes, watching the tug-of-war like they wanted to join in.
Colm and Brodie were searching for someone to act as their anchor.
With a decisive grunt, Thear rubbed his hands together. When he wrapped the end of the rope around his enormous shoulders and squatted, the rival team began loudly complaining about cheating.
At that moment, Lachlann screwed up his little face and Aemyra froze. His cheeks turned red and within seconds he was screaming loudly enough to startle the swyfts in their coops back at the caisteal.
Sensing the magic just in time, Aemyra shielded herself as those tiny fists clenched hard enough for a blast of air to blow the spoon right out of her hand.
Katherine ducked to avoid it and Aemyra tried in vain to settle the little boy.
Panicking when he didn’t stop, Aemyra heard a chair scrape back before Lachlann was deftly plucked from her arms. Fiorean positioned him carefully over his shoulder, one hand gently cupping his little bottom, the other stroking his small back.
He stopped crying instantly.
Aemyra scowled. “Show-off.”
Elizabeth, seated across the table, addressed Maggie. “Are you sure you will not employ the binding agent to contain his magic?”
The Dùileach within earshot stiffened, but Aemyra allowed the question. It had already been discussed at length, after Maggie had been suffocated by her son during one particularly nasty bout of colic.
Just as she had promised to allow Laird Catriona the choice of worship, Aemyra had extended that same courtesy to her sisters.
“I will not stifle my son’s powers,” Maggie replied. “They were a gift from the Goddess Beira. It would be wrong of us to smother them.”
Elizabeth accepted this quietly.
The ghosts of the people who had died to get them to this point of easy familial conversation filled the empty chairs. Aemyra could imagine Orlagh’s dark eyes assessing Maggie from afar, Pàdraig pulling with his team in the tug-of-war, and Lachlann running through the maze with the other children.
Resting her chin in her hand, Aemyra was surprised by how contented she felt.
There was still so much work to do, an unthinkable responsibility sitting on her shoulders, but now she could see a way through it.
“What are you thinking, a ghaoil?” Fiorean muttered, his strong hand stroking her thigh under the table.
Almost instantly, her blood heated.
“Something entirely different now,” she replied.
Eyes darkening, Fiorean let his hand drift up her leg, curving around toward the inside of her thigh.
“Oh really?” he asked, his voice low. “Do you wish for a willing subject to pay homage to his queen?”
Aemyra bit her lip. “I do enjoy it when you kneel for me,” she whispered, trusting in the lively conversation to cover her words.
Fiorean’s grip tightened as she scanned his angular face, those deliciously wicked lips she desired against her skin.
“Who am I to disobey a direct order from my queen?” Fiorean whispered, leaning in to brush his lips across her bare neck as though he had read her mind.
“If you two are going to make a little Daercathian heir, would you mind not doing it at the table?” Nael asked, making Elear choke.
Aemyra broke away from Fiorean to look into his emerald eyes.
Thanks to Bronwyn’s healing, the eggs under the temple might yet Bond to a Daercathian royal heir. One day.