Chapter Fifty-One
Three months later
The queen’s newly finished chambers gleamed in the glow of the sunrise reflecting off the stubborn snows clinging to the peaks of the Deàrr Mountains.
Aemyra was taking a moment to steady herself before she was expected in the throne room for her coronation. Her territory was shivering in the grip of winter, but the longest night had passed and, with the dawn, light was returning.
She had requested the trunk containing Draevan’s personal effects to be brought up, something telling her that today was the moment to finally lift the lid.
Gealach had made his new nest in the Blackridge Mountains, an effective warning to any who attempted to journey into Tìr Teine on foot.
Only two dragons now resided in the snow-capped Deàrr Mountains, and Aemyra frequently enjoyed a morning cup of tea with her husband while watching them soar together.
Holding her breath, Aemyra lifted the lid of the trunk and pulled Dorchadas toward her.
The leather scabbard was faded, the golden buckle heavy. If Aemyra concentrated, she could almost sense her father’s presence as she pulled the blade free.
The winter sun streamed through the window to illuminate the black blade, as though it was now ready for a new owner.
Placing the sword carefully on the floor beside her, Aemyra ran her hands over her father’s folded crimson fèileadh. The scent of woodsmoke and heather enveloped her, as though Draevan was giving her one last embrace before she officially became queen in all senses of the word.
Today, on her breithday, she would finally wear the crown.
“I wish you could be here, Father. You have already missed so much,” she whispered, stroking the woolen tartan with her thumb. The clasp of the sporran had been damaged, and as she lifted it, a scrap of parchment fell out.
Frowning, she snatched it up.
When she read what was written, her heart shuddered in her chest.
Two, maybe three
Braziers
Keeper appointed
Plinths?
Solstice ceremony
Tears sprung to Aemyra’s eyes as she scanned the writing.
Words that would only make sense in regard to dragon nesting.
Draevan had known about the eggs.
Pressing the parchment against her chest, Aemyra felt the grief squeeze her anew. These seemingly random last words were more precious than anyone could possibly realize.
Draevan hadn’t gone to his death without knowing that his line had made it possible for dragons to return to Erisocia. He had already been planning for their future.
Folding the parchment carefully, Aemyra tucked it into the bodice of her dress, the tight corset ensuring it wasn’t going anywhere.
The eggs had burned within their braziers for months, and she and Fiorean had finally decided to tell Fiorean’s brothers about their existence.
Nael had tried his luck on multiple occasions, always under close watch by Fiorean or Aemyra, but the eggs had not hatched. Elear had shown no interest in Bonding.
Straightening, she lifted Dorchadas off the floor and left her chambers.
She was going to be late for her own coronation.
Today she would be crowned queen of a united Tìr Teine in front of thousands who had journeyed to witness the spectacle and to celebrate the winter solstice in the capital.
The lower town was habitable once again, if sparsely furnished, but her people would not freeze during the winter. Certainly not with the appointment of thirty fire Dùileach responsible for lighting the streetlamps and providing peat fires for the non-Dùileach.
The corridors were empty by the time she made it to the throne room, and she risked a peek inside. Three hundred people had crammed into the space and the buzz of conversation was loud.
Aemyra’s family and council were crowding the first few rows.
The queen’s guard were bedecked in the cultural dress of their respective territories.
Iona sported fierce braids tracking one side of her skull, detailed charcoal symbols painted across her face.
Winter was her preferred season, and the water Dùileach had draped herself in lush furs for the occasion.
Nell wore a deep green velvet cloak with draped sleeves over fitted breeches, looking as though they were about to become one with the trees.
Clea’s expensive silk doublet had been brought back from Adhair by Adarian for the occasion.
All would be welcome in Tìr Teine, regardless of religion, background, or culture. It would be a peaceful home for all.
And their queen would fight with flame and fury to ensure it remained so.
It lifted Aemyra’s spirits to see Laoise wearing the jewelry Adarian had gifted her as she leaned over to speak to the two newest non-Dùileach members of the council, Dougal and Morag.
Freshly off the boat from Tìr Adhair, Laoise looked spectacular in a gown of midnight blue that complimented her brown skin perfectly.
Enjoying these precious few moments to observe, Aemyra’s gaze fell a few rows behind, where the heads of each major clan of Tìr Teine stood.
Riya had recently returned from Truvo with only a handful of her warriors to witness the coronation.
The laird’s dark hair hung in an onyx curtain to her lower back, her wrists and ankles were decorated with heavy bangles, and her saffron dress glittered whenever she moved.
Thear and Catriona Leuthanach were engaged in a conversation Cameron Sutherland was on his tiptoes trying to overhear.
Her gaze nearing the front of the hall again, she found Lachlann contentedly nursing from Maggie’s breast, Nael and little Fionn beside her.
Elizabeth and Elear were easily the most beautiful couple in the room.
Her golden locks complimented his tidy auburn queue, their three remaining sons matching them in shades of cream and gold.
Just beyond, Adarian and Fiorean awaited their queen at the base of the golden throne.
It was time.
With one last deep breath, Aemyra approached Sir Gavin, who stood beside the wide double doors. Passing him Dorchadas, she gave him an encouraging smile.
“I believe I am ready,” she said.
With a stiff bow, he signaled for the drums to begin and the chattering of hundreds of voices ceased instantly.
To her great surprise, Aemyra felt no nerves as the heralds walked ahead of her, crimson and gold banners fluttering in a conjured breeze.
Fiorean turned to watch her approach from the other end of the hall as the pipes struck up a discordant wheeze.
The swell of the music carried Aemyra through the doors to become forever changed, and the gathered crowd held their breath to witness the procession of the queen.
Several gasps and exclamations met her ears as they saw what she was wearing.
A dress people had only heard about in stories passed down through generations.
The living flame.
Aemyra had found Lissandrea’s wedding dress while digging through the crown jewels, looking for pieces that would buy her a new armada. Perfectly preserved in a magically sealed box.
Giving the impression that the wearer was being consumed by flames, only a fire Dùileach could wear it as the fabric channeled their magic.
Golden flames tinged with red licked Aemyra’s clavicle over the tight corset. The full skirts fell from her hips and dragged across the ground behind her, flickering embers woven through the fabric making it impossible to tell if the dress was gold, crimson, amber, or another color entirely.
As the awed whispers fell on her ears, Aemyra kept her gaze on the golden throne at the end of the hall. The throne she would finally sit upon.
Over the last months each member of her council had encouraged her to hold assembly from the throne room, with its impressive golden chair and stained-glass wall, but Aemyra had wanted to wait.
This was the moment people had died for, and Aemyra wished to give it the respect they deserved.
Heeled shoes clacking against the marble floors, Aemyra climbed the dais and stopped when she was close enough to touch the throne. Without taking a seat, she turned to face her people. Ready to swear the most important oath of her life.
Her oath to Tìr Teine.
High Priestess Greer stepped onto the dais and Aemyra sought out Eilidh among the other priestesses, finding her cheeks flushed with health and her expression one of utter contentment.
Greer raised her voice so it rang out through the hall. “People of Tìr Teine, you have all sworn oaths of allegiance to the true queen—Aemyra Daercathian. Now it is your queen’s turn to oath herself to you.”
When the High Priestess turned expectantly to Aemyra, she took a deep breath.
“Before I make my oath, I wish to ensure your acceptance of two people into positions of power,” Aemyra said, bracing herself for the whispering that was about to start. “It is my intention to rule as fairly and as justly as possible, but I can only do that with your continued support.”
There were some quizzical glances and a lot of furrowed brows.
Aemyra beckoned her brother out of the crowd, and she could feel the confusion radiating from Adarian as he faced the room.
“I name Adarian Daercathian as the Prince of Penryth,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
Those sapphire eyes, gifted from the mother neither of them had known, blinked with shock. Aemyra reached for his hand and squeezed it. “And queen’s justiciar.”
To this announcement, there was thunderous applause throughout the room.
He had always been the logical choice for the position that had remained vacant since Draevan’s death.
When Adarian bowed and returned to Laoise’s side, Sir Gavin hurried up the steps and placed Dorchadas into Aemyra’s hands. A few shocked gasps rose up as members of the crowd recognized the blade.
Wetting her dry lips, Aemyra stroked the leather hilt with her thumb as she drew the weapon out of its scabbard.
“My father’s magic-forged blade never wavered in carving out the path of the Goddesses within Tìr Teine,” Aemyra said, lifting the sword in front of her. “I now charge my husband, Fiorean Daercathian, with the same mantle as king consort.”
Now the muttering grew.
She saw several eyes narrow at Fiorean’s back when Aemyra bid him climb the steps to stand before her.
Aemyra tried not to look at her twin.
She had considered giving the sword to her brother, but Dorchadas needed to remain in Tìr Teine. As much as Fearsolais and Terrea were symbols of power that would keep Aemyra’s rule secure, Aervor and Dorchadas would do the same for Fiorean.
Their might would be unquestioned, and hopefully unchallenged.
To his credit, Adarian stood stoically in the front row as Aemyra passed Dorchadas’s heavy weight into Fiorean’s hands.
She hadn’t told either of them what she was about to do.
“This sword will always be wielded by a Daercathian worthy of it,” Aemyra said, loud enough to be heard throughout the cavernous room.
Fiorean shook his head only enough so that Aemyra could see it. “I cannot accept this,” he whispered, his lips barely moving.
Aemyra lifted the weapon, the steel darkened from Draevan’s flames.
“You should give this to Adarian,” Fiorean continued protesting, even as Aemyra knew his covetous heart wanted to take back the words.
Aemyra held the sword toward him, raising her voice so all could hear.
“I name my husband, Fiorean Daercathian, as king consort. He is charged with the protection of Tìr Teine and all its people. May this sword be the flame in the darkness to guide him in the ways of the Goddesses.”
These words seemed to cow most of the crowd, who began to nod with approval.
It was all the reassurance Fiorean needed.
A magic-forged blade of his own.
How many times had he watched Aemyra wield Fearsolais with a jealous pang?
Fiorean reached forward to grasp Dorchadas’s hilt and Aemyra watched his expression with wonder.
Evander had never been suited to rule, but Fiorean had been willing to give his life to ensure this territory thrived with or without him as king.
Without prompting, Fiorean sank to a knee.
“My sword, and my life, belong to Tìr Teine and its queen,” he said.
There was a smattering of applause, and Aemyra bid him retreat from the dais as she got ready to make her own oath. The heatless flames of her dress licking her skin, she lowered herself to her knees.
“I, Aemyra Daercathian, daughter of Prince Draevan Daercathian, do pledge myself to this territory and to its people. I swear to protect it, defend it, and die for it. May the Goddesses and the Great Mother hold me to this vow from now until my last breath.”
No mark appeared on her palm this time, but she felt a warm hand settle on her shoulder.
Brigid, ever present, always unreachable, letting the queen know she was listening.
As Aemyra’s knees grew numb on the floor, Fiorean crossed to the priestesses and accepted the crown from Eilidh.
Aemyra held her breath for this long-awaited moment.
Fiorean’s boots struck the steps and she looked up at her king consort.
Lissandrea’s crown was in his hands.
She hadn’t been able to find it in the vaults. Had torn the caisteal apart looking for it, and spent more hours than was rational crying over the thought of never wearing it.
Clearly she wasn’t the only one capable of surprises.
“It needed a little bit of updating. I hope you don’t mind,” Fiorean whispered with a wink.
Riya’s large ruby had replaced the garnet in the middle of the coronet, held in place by delicate gold metalwork.
Aemyra would recognize Adarian’s handiwork anywhere.
“You’ve coveted this crown for as long as I’ve known you,” Fiorean whispered. “I couldn’t have you wear anything else.”
Lost for words, Aemyra remained kneeling before her husband as the crowd held its collective breath.
Fiorean placed the crown atop her head.
It nestled heavily amid her curls, which had been braided back and pinned for the occasion. After a reverent moment, Fiorean helped her to her feet.
Feeling the weight of responsibility settle over her, Aemyra backed up, careful not to trip on her skirts.
With a thundering heart, Aemyra finally sank down onto the golden throne and let go of her husband. Placing her palms flat on the smooth arms, the first thing she noticed was how uncomfortable it was.
The second thing was that her head felt suddenly warm.
Faces paled, and several people fainted. Even Thear’s jaw dropped as the sun streamed through the stained-glass windows behind the throne, illuminating the queen.
And the flaming crown atop her head.
People began dropping to their knees, intoning prayers to Brigid, and pointing fingers toward the queen as the roars of two dragons sounded high above the caisteal.
“Aemyra…” Fiorean breathed, awestruck.
It wasn’t the sun that was causing beams of light to refract across the throne room; it was Aemyra’s very skin.
Aemyra’s face split into a wondrous smile as Brigid blessed her coronation by making her the second Daercathian in history to have the honor of being a queen crowned in flames.
The end
(For now)