Page 14

Aemyra had forgotten how different the Sunset Isle was from àird Lasair.

Not only was it cleaner, quieter, and significantly less populated—there was a general aura of contentment that hung over the harbor town that sat between the ocean and the base of Beinn Deataiche.

It had once been an active volcano, and the first dragon eggs were said to have formed out of the molten rock. Hatching upon the first fire Dùileach touch, dragons had been born into the world.

Upon arrival, Aemyra had considered climbing it on the off chance there was a forgotten dragon egg somewhere in the crags.

Many Daercathians had scoured the ancient nests in an attempt to find more eggs and had been chased away by The Terror when he had still nested in the mountain.

Aemyra’s reality was that The Terror was gone, and so were the rest of the dragons.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Aemyra stared into the clear waters of the lagoon and wished Lachlann were here to see the wonders of the island. They had received no word of her family since arriving in Penryth three days ago.

The moss was damp under her cloak as she rolled the gemstone she had stolen from Fiorean between her palms. Steam lifted lazily off the surface of the lagoon, while jet black salamanders curled up in the crevasses that leaked heat from the heart of the mountain. Their vibrant orange stripes spilled across their backs like lava over ancient rock. One tiny beathach no bigger than the size of Aemyra’s fist lifted his head, licking a bulbous eye with his tongue.

“You won’t overhear anything from me,” Aemyra said, pocketing the gemstone.

Salamanders were sleekit creatures. Prone to eavesdropping, they were the favored beathaichean of Dùileach nobles. Their ability to detect poison from an impressive distance of four feet was not to be sneered at either.

Aemyra liked their padded toes. The noise they made pattering across the damp rock combined with the thick heat of the lagoon soothed her turbulent thoughts. Until a chatter of firebirds burst over the tops of the trees, splitting the tranquility.

They flew in the direction of their breeding grounds on the southern peninsula. As she watched their flaming tails illuminate the overcast sky, Aemyra thought of Solas. She had always wanted to visit the firebird groves with Orlagh but had never made the time to make the journey across the island before they had moved away.

Cliodna, deliver them safely across your seas to us. Keep my family safe.

Aemyra dipped her fingers into the lagoon, certain the water Goddess would hear her.

Orlagh would come back to the Sunset Isle and resume her position as Healer on High, Aemyra told herself. Pàdraig would fashion armor and arrowheads for her army and Lachlann would frolic like she and Adarian had once done, surrounded by plentiful magic.

With a weight on her shoulders that had nothing to do with the golden cloak she wore, Aemyra rose reluctantly to her feet.

Despite the winter season the air was warm. Another blessing from the mountain.

Turning away from the lagoon, she walked the familiar path back to Caisteal Eilean. Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, Aemyra stopped upon the heather-strewn hill overlooking the town, enjoying the bite of the sea breeze.

Four large temples marked the borders of Penryth, but many homesteads dotted the hills that sat in the shadow of the mountain. Neat stone houses with thatched roofs hugged the coastline around the busy harbor, and Aemyra could hear fishermen hauling in their catch. Seagulls begged loudly for a mouthful, while ospreys perched observantly on the steep cliffs.

Caisteal Eilean was surrounded by the sea, nestled on a spit of land barely large enough to contain the structure. Less than half the size of Caisteal Lasair, it loomed on the other side of the bridge that connected it to Penryth.

Within those walls, Aemyra had been molded into a queen. From her father’s study she had gazed out of the window at the peak of Beinn Deataiche and watched Gealach soar into the snow.

Skirting the edge of town, Aemyra hoped the walk would ease her troubled thoughts.

Even in midwinter, some of the brambles had begun to bloom thanks to the heat of the mountain. Aemyra skimmed her hands across the budding bushels, wiping her stained fingers on her skirts hastily when she realized they were bitterberry hedges.

A potent poison, and one Orlagh had ensured her children could identify from early childhood.

With a smile, Aemyra meandered down the path. Remembering how she and Adarian used to gallivant through these lush fields, chins sticky with blackberry juice. Solas clicking his beak furiously above them when they refused to return home until they had gorged themselves on the tart fruit.

Hopping over the fence and almost snagging her cloak, Aemyra took the familiar shortcut toward the caisteal. Oil lamps burned in every window she passed, a permanent offering to Brigid.

Spotting the tree where she had shared her first kiss with a shy stable boy, Aemyra had to fight an outright blush by the time she made it to the north of the village and heard the clacking of a loom. Wondering if Glennis the weaver still lived there, Aemyra hurried her footsteps before the woman who had taught her everything she knew in the bedroom spotted her.

As she left the wilds of the island behind, the flapping of kites and ribbons tied to posts assaulted her senses. The sea breeze had worked itself into a stiff wind and the residents’ offerings to Beira were being readily accepted. After a decade in àird Lasair, Aemyra had been forced to realize how far those on the mainland had slipped away from the Goddesses.

Here, groves were positioned in the four corners of every village and hamlet. Runes were etched into doorposts and window frames. Cloidna’s blessed water was used every time someone entered or left a home, and temples had been occupied since the ship had docked with families mourning the loss of those who had perished in the escape from àird Lasair.

Grief lay heavy on the town, smothering their hope until it choked Aemyra to hear the silence.

She had left this island as a girl with a headful of dreams and returned a woman who understood the cost.

The smell of salt filled her nose as she crossed the bridge into her father’s caisteal.

As she strode up the drafty steps toward the great hall, torches illuminated the heavy tapestries and bookcases that concealed secret passageways she no longer had to use. The thick wool of her red tartan dress was finer than anything she had worn in these gloomy halls as a child.

The stone walls blocked what little sunlight there was, but Aemyra could hear Adarian’s voice rising above the clamor coming from inside the hall.

“We cannot rule out stragglers making it ashore.”

Summoning her strength, Aemyra pushed open the heavy wooden door and entered the hall where her father had been holding council for three days straight.

“Swyfts have been sent to Balnain. My brother is readying his fleet as we speak and soon we will have ships posted at the three tributaries of the Forc. Uisge invaders are unimportant now,” Laoise, Draevan’s cousin by marriage, reported.

The sound of chairs scraping back assaulted Aemyra’s ears as everyone seated around the large wooden table rose to their feet and bowed.

“Your Majesty” chorused throughout the room.

Draevan looked up from where he was standing in front of the enormous fireplace but remained silent.

Aemyra resisted rolling her eyes. When only ten people viewed her as queen, it quite took the shine off of it.

“Please, be seated,” she replied softly. “Are we discussing our allies? Have we received word on how quickly we might mobilize?”

She strode through the room to take her seat at the head of the table. Conveniently, it was also the closest chair to the platter of steaming pies.

“Not yet, Majesty. We expect to receive a reply within the week. Swyfts may fly quickly, but they cannot reach the mainland in a matter of hours,” Maeve replied.

The tough woman had made it out of àird Lasair with two cracked ribs, a broken finger, and a sizeable gash across her upper arm. Despite Maeve’s frosty demeanor, Aemyra was glad to have her on the council. Maeve’s insight into strategy was invaluable.

“I am pleased to hear that Laird Edouard is amenable to our plans,” Aemyra said to Laoise. “If your brother succeeds in holding the river, he will be handsomely rewarded.”

Laoise’s tawny eyes gave nothing away. Possessing the gift of fire, Draevan’s cousin completed the queen’s guard. Nell, Clea, and Iona were also granted a council chair, both as queen’s guards and representatives of the territories they hailed from.

“If we could recruit a few more water Dùileach for my brother’s fleet…” Laoise began.

Iona was already shaking her head. “The Dùileach of Uisge are far north in Pavykan, behind shields of ice. Queen Siv and her family have not been seen in years. Even the un-Bonded are fleeing from persecution at the hands of the Chosen and I doubt whichever landing party made it to Ballan serves the Goddesses.”

Maeve smirked in Iona’s direction. “I spared you when you snuck onto this island without invitation. You don’t wish to extend the same courtesy to your Uisge brothers and sisters who have so recently breached our borders?”

The two women began bickering and Aemyra exchanged a look with Adarian. War was indeed upon them on all fronts.

“We should not expect help from Tìr Adhair either—by all accounts another civil war has broken out among the griffin clans,” Clea said, clearly worried for her home territory. “King Virean is more territorial than the chimeras of Clan Leòmhann. He will not send aid.”

Suddenly the smell of the pies turned her stomach and Aemyra pushed the platter farther down the table.

“Fear not, Majesty,” Laoise said, throwing her braids over one shoulder. “My people are fierce warriors, even shepherds will face down a pack of wolves to save one lamb.”

Aemyra fixed her with a look. “We are not fighting wolves…”

Draevan looked up as if his daughter’s words had jerked him out of deep thought. The shadows under his eyes were deep purple, his face pale. They were all exhausted from the five days’ hard sail, and she was certain her father hadn’t slept since they had arrived in Penryth.

“It has been over a week since Haedren’s death,” Draevan said from his position in front of the fire. “The mourning period for the late king will be over, and Katherine will no doubt crown Evander at the earliest opportunity.”

Adarian shifted uncomfortably and Draevan took a swig of wine, draining the goblet he held.

“She needs to make a proclamation as queen,” Maeve said, looking pointedly in Aemyra’s direction.

Eyes widening, Aemyra glanced between the faces gathered. “We agreed it would be too presumptuous. Without the backing of the royal family and the security of the priestesses, anything I say will be too easy to dismiss.”

Draevan leaned over the back of the nearest chair, knuckles straining against the wood. “If we do not challenge Evander’s rule, everyone will assume that you have yielded the throne to him. We will send swyfts with a signed declaration this evening.”

“Once you officially declare yourself queen, you can start making alliances,” Maeve said, voice steady. “And we desperately need alliances.”

Aemyra’s stomach twisted, and she felt Adarian’s eyes fall on her. She knew that one of the best ways to make alliances as a queen was to marry.

Maeve noticed her apprehension. “One step at a time, Your Majesty.”

Draevan was still staring at the map, rolling the stem of his empty goblet between a thumb and forefinger. “We can assume that since Clan Leuthanach has already sided with the Chosen, they will support Evander. We need to secure our alliances with Clans Iolairean and Leòmhann quickly.”

Aemyra let out a tense breath, at least her father hadn’t mentioned marriage. Yet.

Plucking an apple from the basket in front of her, Aemyra picked up a knife and began peeling it. More for something to do with her hands than hunger. These council meetings made her unbearably anxious.

Greer’s eyes followed her hands and Aemyra felt her stomach turn again. Kenna was supposed to be the high priestess serving on her council, not this stone-faced old woman. Discarding the peel, the priestess narrowed her eyes at it and Aemyra quickly swept it off the table before she could divine any meaning from the shape it had taken.

“I need you to ride to Ballan, Adarian,” Draevan said, looking up from the maps. “The village has been put to the torch by the Uisge raiding party and I have reports of several dead and injured. I suspect Covenanters from Dagát were among them.”

Aemyra fiddled with the knife. She might not have a dragon, but she wasn’t useless.

“Of course, Father,” Adarian said, standing. Then, almost as an afterthought, he remembered to bow to Aemyra. Laoise followed him from the room, already buttoning her wine-colored cloak under her chin.

Feeling as though everyone in this room had a purpose but her, Aemyra glared at her father and addressed the table.

“Leave us.”

The wooden floorboards creaked as seven pairs of boots filed out of the room, the worn rugs thrown across the floors muffling their steps.

Left alone with her father, Aemyra fisted her hand around the gemstone in her pocket.

“You wish for me to make an official declaration to the Teine clans and yet you advise me to remain passive here in Penryth. I have made offerings in every temple and sat around this table planning a war that my people may never forgive.”

Draevan’s face shuttered. “Securing alliances farther afield is just as important as remaining in the Goddesses’ favor. These things take time, and careful planning.”

“I am a queen, not a priestess,” Aemyra snapped. “My people are grieving because of a mistake we made. I need to show them that I am a queen worth following, that the cost of claiming the throne will be worth it for the future I can give Tìr Teine.”

Her father gave her a piercing glare. “Forgive me if I wish to handle this delicately. Your ascension to the throne has not exactly gone as planned.”

“And whose fault is that?” Aemyra asked through gritted teeth, refusing to let her father place the blame squarely on her shoulders.

His forest green eyes were fathomless. “Perhaps if you had claimed a dragon when you were supposed to, we wouldn’t have been forced to flee.”

If her father had run her through with his sword it would have hurt less.

“Your brother will handle Ballan. Now, the tailor is waiting in your chambers with some more appropriate dresses for you,” Draevan said, dismissive.

Clenching her jaw, unable to summon the courage to remind him that she was the queen, Aemyra strode from the hall. Tears were burning at the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

She would be a strong leader, and a good queen to her people. She would not sit in this caisteal and let other people plan her war. The time for being passive was over.

Sprinting up the stairs, tartan skirts bunched in her hands, she headed for her chambers. Bursting through the door, she saw that the withered tailor was indeed perched on a stool, holding a fistful of pins.

“My sincerest apologies,” Aemyra panted, completely winded from running up the stairs. “But I will not be needing your services today,” she said, pulling at the laces of her corset. The dress came off over her head in a swift movement, followed by her shift, until she was completely naked save for her boots.

The old woman didn’t bat an eye.

Aemyra cursed as she rifled through her wardrobe and found nothing save for dresses that grew progressively fuller and frillier. She was about to give up when the old woman coughed pointedly.

Peeking her head out from the wardrobe, Aemyra saw the tailor point a gnarled finger in the direction of the four-poster bed. Lying on top of the quilt cover was a pair of riding leathers.

Jaw dropping, Aemyra hurried to the bed and grabbed them. They were made from the supplest of dark brown leather, and thick enough to withstand dragon scales.

The tailor chuckled. “Your father asked for fighting leathers.”

The woman gave her a sly smile, but Aemyra failed to return it.

Her childhood dream of Bonding to a dragon was over, but she was still queen. It was her responsibility to act like one. Aemyra would not stand idly by while her people were suffering. She fisted the leather breeches in her hands until the material creaked.

“I believe it is time for Tìr Teine to return to the matriarchy once more.”