Page 10

Chaos ensued.

Sir Nairn called for the city guards, who were instantly prevented from advancing by the priestesses. Small scuffles broke out, and weapons clattered to the ground. Guards closed ranks around little Prince Fergys and his mother, Charlotte.

People were shouting questions and arguing with one another until the noise in the temple grew to a furious crescendo. Aemyra spotted several fingers pointed angrily in her direction, but she refused to cower before them. The weight of her true surname had settled on her shoulders, and she shed her old life like a second skin.

“Silence!” Katherine finally shouted above the clamoring crowd.

By some miracle, the temple quieted as the dowager queen gathered the skirts of her heavy black dress and climbed the steps to the dais, the captain and her sons not far behind.

When the Dùileach of the queen’s guard armed themselves with elemental magic, Katherine halted. Aemyra’s hair stirred in the wind of Clea’s making and the familiar brush of Adarian’s fire steadied her.

From behind his mother, Fiorean shot a look of pure venom in their direction.

“You befoul the body of my late husband with your inferior blood and dare to speak such treason publicly?” Katherine hissed, looking between Aemyra and Draevan.

Draevan didn’t move a muscle, hands resting on the hilt of his sword. Instead he stared down his long nose at the dowager queen and sneered. “The Goddess and the priestesses have claimed my daughter as queen. Your priests have little influence in this territory and there are too many witnesses for Aemyra to conveniently disappear now.”

Necks were craning among the gathered crowd, the situation balanced on a knife’s edge.

Katherine’s lip curled behind the black veil and Aemyra’s stomach turned. She had always thought that Draevan’s comments about Katherine poisoning the king had been in jest. But as she watched the fury pour out of the small woman clothed in mourning black without a shadow of grief behind her eyes, Aemyra wondered if her father had been speaking plainly after all.

“You should have come directly to the king upon her birth,” Katherine hissed. “This matter should have been handled privately.”

Sir Nairn shouldered his way past the four princes to whisper in Katherine’s ear again, his crimson cloak dragging on the ground, and the dowager queen stiffened.

No doubt she had just been informed of the fifty Dùileach soldiers surrounding the temple.

The dowager queen removed her glare from the twins and turned toward Draevan. “The Penryth Daercathians have ever had treasonous inclinations. I am certain we will discover a bylaw that prevents your secret bastard child from ruling. Until then, Evander remains heir to the throne.”

“Did you not witness Brigid’s acceptance? Or the depth to which the Goddess has blessed Aemyra? I can bring out the ancient texts if you feel the need to remind yourself of our laws, Katherine,” Draevan said loudly enough for those gathered in the temple to hear.

The whispering grew agitated, and Aemyra watched Fiorean drop his hand to his sword.

“I respected my late husband’s wishes by having his body laid to rest in this temple,” Katherine said spitefully. “That does not mean I believe in your heathen rituals.”

The dowager queen lifted the veil from her face as she turned with dramatic slowness and said in a gravelly voice, “Lairds of the court, people of àird Lasair, this news has shocked us in our time of mourning and must be put before the Great Council. For now there will be a temporary truce between the two branches of our clan. After the burning, we will vote on the succession.”

Aemyra narrowed her eyes at the vague words, the sweeping phrases. Nothing Katherine had said had claimed Aemyra as part of the clan, nor as the true queen. From the sounds of the jeering coming from the crowd, the people of àird Lasair did not like the idea of a vote.

“Lissandrea born again.”

“Traitorous plan.”

“Finally a true heir.”

“Suspicious timing.”

The presence of the priestesses was enough to deter outright violence, and with Draevan’s Dùileach guarding the temple, they were safe enough inside.

But there was still a fight to be had.

For a moment, Aemyra thought the crowd would resist. That she had just caused too much of a commotion for people to leave without further inquiry, but as the priestesses pressed them forward, they went willingly enough.

They had witnessed a young woman display more powerful magic than had been seen in generations. By nightfall there wouldn’t be anyone in the city who didn’t know a true queen had declared herself. By tomorrow, every farmstead and hamlet north of the Forc would be abuzz with rumors.

Sparing a glance for Evander, Aemyra quietly thought that there was no person less suited to rule. His black clothes were wrinkled and his short hair was hanging unkempt around his ears. He looked like he had been dragged from a pleasure den and he reeked of stale wine. Only a mother’s blindness could convince Katherine that he would make a better ruler than Aemyra.

Nevertheless, with the way Fiorean was looking at her, Aemyra would rather have been standing in her breeches and holding her dagger than in the golden ball gown.

Little Prince Fergys was watching her with wide eyes, his fingers summoning the smallest tongue of flame to his palm as though trying to emulate her trick with the eternal fire. It was something Lachlann would have done.

“Your timing is highly suspicious,” Katherine spat at Draevan. “Am I supposed to believe you returned to this city the very same week the king dies yet played no part in his demise?”

From the way Draevan tilted his head back to the lofty ceiling, he looked to be praying to Brigid for strength. “News travels through Caisteal Lasair as quickly as swyfts fly to Penryth. I could accuse you of foul play just as easily.”

It could have been Aemyra’s imagination, but it looked as though Katherine’s already pale face whitened further at the accusation.

“Watch your tongue,” Fiorean threatened, displacing Sir Nairn to stand beside his mother.

Draevan smirked. “Come now, Katherine. You don’t give yourself nearly enough credit for how much of a cunt you can be.”

Fiorean reached for his sword at the insult, but Katherine simply held up a warning hand toward her second son and turned her gaze to Aemyra, who willed herself not to break eye contact as those gray eyes roved across her hair, her face, her body. Evidently finding the obvious similarities between Aemyra’s features and Draevan’s.

Then Katherine turned her gaze on Adarian.

“This one’s eyes are blue, not green,” she declared in a haughty tone. “And his hair might be too short to tell, but the hue of his beard is significantly lighter than that of the girl. Her hair must be dyed.”

Draevan rolled his eyes. “My son takes after his mother, that is true, but where my daughter is concerned the resemblance is undeniable.”

As her father’s hand wrapped around the hilt of Dorchadas, whether as a comfort to him or as a threat, Aemyra hastily jumped in to avoid bloodshed.

“I can name a dozen members of our clan who have blue eyes, Evander’s own son being one of them,” she said, pointing to Prince Fergys.

Clasping her hands, Katherine moved carefully to angle herself in front of her grandson.

“It matters not. Bastard-born as you are, and by a traitor no less, you have no right to rule. Your mother was not royal,” she said viciously.

Kenna swiftly stepped between them before Aemyra could forget herself or Draevan could draw his sword.

“The Goddesses dictate that inheritance and magic can be passed down from either parent to a child of either sex. In the eyes of the Great Mother, the concept of bastardy does not exist.”

Katherine opened her mouth to interrupt, but Kenna held up a hand. To Aemyra’s great surprise, the dowager queen held her tongue.

“Things may work differently in Tìr ùir, but here in Tìr Teine we still live by the ways of the Goddesses,” Kenna continued.

“But—” Katherine started in an attempt to interrupt.

“Is it not true that the True Religion will recognize a legitimate heir born out of wedlock if the father claims the child as his own?” Kenna asked, fixing Katherine with a look that told everyone gathered that the dowager queen was about to lose.

Sir Nairn was standing stiffly in his armor, and Fiorean’s piercing green eyes were thrown into the shadow of his frown as Draevan smirked.

“I have ever respected your faith, now you must respect the faith of the territory Aemyra is set to rule,” Kenna finished, her voice firm but gentle.

Katherine’s gray gaze turned to ice and Evander looked as if he needed a drink.

“You will never sit the throne,” Katherine hissed. “If you so much as try—”

Before Draevan could unsheathe Dorchadas in retaliation, Aemyra surged forward with her skirts rustling on the floor.

“Threaten me again and you will see exactly how much I resemble my father.”

The high priestess sighed.

“How dare you? You are but a commoner dressed up in finery. Sir Nairn, remove her of her falsehoods,” Katherine screeched in disbelief.

Aemyra stood her ground, but Draevan’s eyes were on the captain.

“Lay a finger on my daughter, and you will lose your arm,” Draevan growled.

Her queen’s guard had closed ranks and Aemyra didn’t need to turn to know they had summoned their elements. She would love to see Iona drench Fiorean’s perfect hair with a well-aimed jet of water.

“This isn’t helping,” Kenna said stoically, turning to look upon the king’s body still present on the altar. Katherine followed her gaze, her gray eyes hardening at the small drops of blood staining the wrappings.

“At ease, Sir Nairn,” she simpered. “These Penryth ruffians are not worth the time it would take to gut them.”

Fiorean’s hand was still on the hilt of his sword, the large garnet glinting in the light from the eternal fire, and Aemyra didn’t dare take her eyes off him.

Draevan spoke in a voice so low that it might have tricked everyone else present into thinking he was in control of his temper.

“Go back to your caisteal and tell your beloved priests their days in Tìr Teine are numbered. We will respect the burning rites for King Haedren and abide by this truce you have declared, but come sunrise on the sixth day, my daughter will sit the throne.”

Katherine began to back away, Savior’s pendant clutched in her white-knuckled hand. “We shall see.”

Outnumbered, the royal family did the only thing they could do—retreat.

With a final withering look in Draevan’s direction, Katherine stormed off. Her guard dog, Sir Nairn, was dispatched to retrieve Prince Evander from where he had slumped down in a recess behind one of the pillars. The wives hurried after Katherine, dragging Prince Fergys behind them.

Aemyra shared an incredulous look with Adarian. Had their father’s plan actually worked?

With a withering look in the captain’s direction, Draevan jogged down the steps to put the next phase of his plan in motion. Aemyra knew she would soon have to follow.

Instead of retreating with his family, Fiorean fixed his emerald gaze on Aemyra and waited expectantly for the queen’s guard to part for him.

“Let him through,” Aemyra said, surprising herself at how regal her voice sounded.

Hands clasped behind his back, Fiorean stepped onto the dais. The light from the eternal fire at her back danced across his angular face, his anger so clearly simmering beneath the surface.

Fiorean stood as though carved from marble, staring at Aemyra.

No longer forced to keep her magic secret, and with the temple well secured, Aemyra was not afraid.

“You look uncannily like your father. How odd that I never noticed before,” he said.

Aemyra lifted her chin.

“So, you claim me as your true queen? I can summon Kenna for a chalice if you wish to make your oath.”

Fiorean gave her a darting smile that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. “You may not be a blacksmith, but you are no kin to me.”

“Careful with your challenges, Prince, I no longer have to pretend to be helpless.”

As if testing her words, Fiorean reached across his father’s body toward the eternal fire. The flames latched on to his arm hungrily, embers dancing between his fingers.

Bonded to his dragon Aervor, Fiorean was more powerful than her.

For now.

Almost without conscious thought, Aemyra’s own fire escaped her palms and snaked up her forearms. Fiorean let go of the flames, not a trace of fear present on his face. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and leaned toward her.

“Do be careful on the way up, Princess, it is an awfully long way back down.”

Drawing his eyes off of her, his curtain of hair flowing down the back of his fitted black tunic, he strode from the temple, leaving her feeling decidedly unsettled.

Aemyra stood there, wearing a dress fit for a queen…and wondering why she still didn’t feel like one.