Page 24

An hour later, Maggie was helping to button the back of her dress when Fiorean returned.

Given its high neck and long sleeves, Aemyra had a feeling the gown had come from Katherine herself and she scratched uncomfortably at the lace.

Fiorean’s gaze swept over the empty breakfast tray. Maggie smiled warmly and departed with a musical “Good day.”

When they were alone, he stood between the settee and the bed, hands clasped behind his back, observing Aemyra critically.

“This won’t do,” he said quietly. “Change.”

Aemyra’s temper flared. While the cream dress was modest, it was clearly expensive, with heavy skirts and lace filigree.

“Am I not to your tastes, Prince?” she seethed.

Fiorean picked some imaginary dirt from under his fingernails. “I have no intention of dressing my bride like my mother. You are a Daercathian and I desire you to appear as such. Now change.”

His tone left no room for argument and Aemyra sighed. “Then I will need help with the infernal number of buttons.”

Against her better judgment, she turned her back to Fiorean and waited for him to assist her. After a moment of hesitation, she heard him approach. When his fingers made contact with the nape of her neck, she shivered even though the room was warm.

His fingers were swift, methodically popping the buttons that trailed down her spine until Aemyra was holding the bodice of the dress against her chest.

He cleared his throat.

“I believe that should be—”

“Yes.”

Fighting a nonsensical blush, Aemyra ducked behind the dressing screen to select another dress. Preferably one she could get into without assistance.

There were no gold dresses to choose from, and Aemyra knew it was no simple oversight. Brushing the smooth velvet and scratchy lace, she selected a deep red gown. She struggled a little with the laces but managed to secure it only a little lopsidedly.

With an impatient sigh, Aemyra swept back into the bedroom.

Fiorean looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Well?” Aemyra asked, holding her arms out.

His eyes skimmed over the straight cut across her shoulders and the sleeves that dropped to the floor. It snagged on the corset that cinched in her waist, but having expected a snappy retort or scathing comment, Aemyra was almost disappointed when he said nothing and strode from the room.

With an eye roll, she followed.

“Where are we expected to go?” Aemyra asked as they reached the large, open corridors where parties of the nobility were milling about.

Heads turned as they passed, some bowing, others smirking at Fiorean.

She felt his hand on her elbow, and she automatically tried to jerk it back. His grip held fast.

“Come now, Wife,” Fiorean said in a low voice, “surely you are pleased to share a leisurely walk with your husband?”

Aemyra understood his meaning and even though her stomach rolled when he said the word wife, she allowed him to tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow and slow their pace.

“Perhaps you could show me the kitchens,” Aemyra mused, craning her neck around corners.

Fiorean pulled her more tightly against him. “Looking for a rat hole to scurry out of? You cannot possibly be hungry after such a large breakfast.”

Aemyra tried to school her face into an expression of neutrality.

Maggie had polished off the breakfast tray with little prompting and Aemyra couldn’t help but think Katherine had assigned her the worst guard imaginable. More than eight hours had passed since Aemyra had last eaten. The binding agent would wear off soon and then she had to find one of Draevan’s spies who would help her escape.

Wracking her brain, Aemyra marked every corridor and window as they meandered through the spacious passages. All the while ignoring how her shoulder kept brushing against Fiorean’s arm.

“Brothers!” Fiorean called out.

Dappled sunlight was streaming in through high windows as Elear and Nael strolled toward them with their wives. One was outfitted in an elegant dove gray doublet, the other in mud-splattered breeches and boots.

“Good morning,” Elear said stiffly, his hazel eyes darting to Aemyra’s face.

Elizabeth’s scowl marred her beautiful face, and Aemyra gave her a feral smile that showed all of her teeth. To her delight, the woman shrank behind her husband.

Pitiful. These women have no strength.

“How are the children?” Fiorean asked with genuine concern.

Elizabeth placed one hand on her Savior’s pendant. “Little Alistair has shown small improvement, but Edwyn is still gravely ill.”

The instincts Orlagh had instilled in her had Aemyra speaking up.

“Did the healers administer charcoal?”

Elizabeth glared as if the very suggestion offended her and Elear’s jaw was ticking.

“I swear to Brigid I did not poison your children. My mother was the best healer in àird Lasair, and while I possess but a fraction of her skill, I might be able to help you,” Aemyra said, crossing her arms over her chest. “If you would give me access to the gardens, I could find some herbs—”

Elear looked down his nose at her. “The royal healers have been with our sons night and day.”

“And yet you say they are still sick,” Aemyra replied.

Elear took one threatening step toward her; Aemyra held her ground. He was just as tall as Fiorean.

“You might be able to cure pustules and pox in the lower town, but you know nothing of complex medicine,” Elear said.

Aemyra smirked. “Disease does not differentiate between princes and peasants. Royal children die just as quickly as poor orphans.”

Elizabeth stiffened and Elear held out an arm protectively toward his wife. “Sheathe your forked tongue behind your teeth.”

Aemyra curled her upper lip and caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth, delighting in the shocked expression on Elear’s face.

“Give me a reason, Prince,” Aemyra said, curling her hands into fists. “If I had access to my gifts, you would not be so careless with your threats.”

Aemyra inclined her head toward Elizabeth. “I’m surprised your wife even conceived a child if this is how serious you are in bed. Perhaps I should show her what real pleasure feels like? There have been more than a few women in this city screaming my name into the darkness.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks flamed crimson and Elear seemed beyond speech.

Her eyes darting between the two brothers, Aemyra tried to get a sense of where their faith lay. Neither of them was able to wear the pendant, thanks to its magic-repelling properties, but their wives did.

Elizabeth finally spoke, her voice high and melodical. “A woman’s purpose is to have children. That is what our bodies were made for.”

The smile slipped from Aemyra’s face at the sincerity with which those words were spoken.

Indeed, the royals were prolific, between the three brothers, they had produced twelve little Dùileach princes.

Surely Nael and Elear had granted their wives more freedom in the years they had been living at the Teine court? Had it not broadened their minds at all?

Fiorean tilted his head to the side as if waiting for Aemyra’s answer.

She took a deep breath. “A woman’s purpose can be found in having children. However, a woman is so much more than just a mother. She is an individual with her own passions and desires far beyond those of her husband. Just because we possess a womb doesn’t mean that we don’t also have a brain.”

Elear looked one step away from summoning a priest, but it was the interest in Elizabeth’s eyes that had Aemyra continuing.

“Women have the power to create life. To sustain it, nurture it. Regardless of magical affinity, the Chosen have forgotten that a woman’s base power lies in her womb. Therefore the choice to use that power lies with them. And them alone.”

Maggie stroked her bump reverently, and Elizabeth’s beautiful face was creased in a frown.

Aemyra looked pointedly at Fiorean. “I would like to make an offering at the temple for Fergys and speak with the priestesses. If you could escort me from the cai—”

Elear interrupted. “We have no need of your offerings. The Savior cleanses all sins.”

Before their argument could escalate, Fiorean’s strong hand clapped around her upper arm.

“That’s quite enough, Wife,” he muttered. “We are running late.”

“For what?” Aemyra spat.

With guards and Covenanters walking the halls, Aemyra had no choice but to remain with the group.

“Where are we go—”

Aemyra’s question died on her lips as they emerged on the western side of the caisteal. The portcullis was open and a line of exhausted-looking people stood patiently waiting before a cauldron brimming with stew. Priests were stationed around the walls, some conversing with the commoners.

The breath caught in Aemyra’s lungs as she looked upon her people. They were thin, with deep circles under their eyes.

“The Balnain fleet has cut off a large portion of our trade from Tìr ùir, and your father has set fire to Uisge ships with his dragon. We must make do with what little we can grow ourselves or what we have in our stores,” Fiorean said quietly.

Elizabeth and Maggie were already rolling up their sleeves, holding their skirts out of the puddles of rainwater that had collected on the uneven ground.

“This is the cost of your war, Princess,” Fiorean said.

The words were whispered spitefully into her ear, the quiet syllables hitting Aemyra hard as a physical blow. Steeling herself, she rounded on Fiorean, thinking of the lavish breakfast tray.

“Perhaps you should ration your own meals. One of us managed well enough on a diet of porridge, bannocks, and mutton for years.”

Without giving him time to answer, she filled the space next to Maggie.

Hoping Fiorean would think she was just doing her charitable duty, Aemyra ladled stew into wooden bowls and tried not to shrink away from the looks her people were giving her.

Like she had betrayed them.

“They’re accepting food from the enemy too.”

The low voice made Aemrya jump, and she narrowly avoided sloshing stew all down the front of her dress. Looking up into the familiar face of Marilde the cook, a good friend of Orlagh’s, Aemrya felt herself breathe a little easier.

“They are starving and have no other choice,” Aemyra muttered back.

Marilde threw a few sprigs of rosemary into the stew. “Should we have expected you to choose death?”

Woodenly handing another bowl to the next pair of grasping hands, Aemyra frowned. When Maggie stepped away to coo over a toddler with skinned knees, she faced the cook.

Aemyra had frequently been drunk under the table by Marilde in Sorcha’s tavern but would have never suspected her to be a spy. The woman was the very opposite of inconspicuous.

“The kitchens. I’ll send for you when it’s time,” Marilde said quietly.

Aemyra’s heart leaped. Had one of Draevan’s spies really been known to her all along? When Marilde’s eyes crinkled at the corners and she was afforded a glimpse of the slice across the cook’s palm, Aemyra knew for certain.

The scar was too deliberate-looking to be from a cooking incident, and Aemyra felt her heart swell at the small rebellion of an offering made to the Goddess on her behalf.

With so many eyes upon her, Aemyra was unable to give the cook more than a subtle nod. Despite her own rumbling stomach, she ladled out food until steaming bowls were cradled between chilled hands.

Task finished, she rounded the table, not bothering that the hem of her dress dragged through the mud. Fiorean was right, this was the cost of war, but it wouldn’t last forever. When she sat the throne, her people would prosper.

“Trudging through mud is unbecoming of a princess,” Athair Alfred said piously, stepping into her path.

Aemyra peered over his shoulder, noticing the way her people were observing them.

She smirked defiantly when she saw Alfred’s hand twitch. “By all means, hit me. Show my people how the Chosen treat women. I was not particularly keen on the way I was dragged from the hall last night.”

Her voice carried, and a few hushed whispers began spreading around the courtyard. Alfred’s eyes narrowed, but he dropped his hand.

“Come away, Aemyra,” Fiorean said, stepping in.

Before he could grab her again, she took a healthy step back. The skirts of her dress were heavy, and she almost unbalanced herself.

People were beginning to stare, and Aemyra wondered how long it would take to get them on her side. Elear, Nael, and Fiorean were all Dùileach, and there were at least twenty priests present, but there had to be over a hundred common folk crammed into the square.

Athair Alfred seemed to realize this and held up his hands for quiet.

“We shall raise our voices in prayer to give thanks for the food we have been given by His Grace, the king,” he said virtuously.

Aemyra’s last hope of a sudden rebellion died when she heard heavy footfalls on the steps behind her. Evander had made a late appearance.

The whispering quieted as the people bowed, and Aemyra felt Fiorean step closer to her.

“May the Savior keep and bless you,” Evander shouted, his voice ringing through the courtyard before Alfred began a droning prayer.

Aemyra narrowed her eyes at the people slurping from bowls, suddenly understanding what this was. They had been promised a meal in return for their devotion to the Savior.

“How many were forced to convert before being allowed to fill their bellies?” Aemyra asked, rounding on Fiorean.

It was Evander who answered.

“All of them. It was the Athair’s idea, and rather a good one, don’t you think?” he asked, slurring his words slightly.

Aemyra wrinkled her nose at the sour smell lifting from his clothes.

“That is despicable. Forcing starving people to worship a God they do not believe in so you can feel more secure in your rule?”

Evander’s lip curled and he leaned toward her. “How do you know they don’t believe in the Savior already, eh? I am the king, what truly matters is that these people obey my command.”

His voice had taken on a nasty edge, the whites of his eyes bloodshot.

Fiorean placed a firm hand on Evander’s dirty tunic. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked.

Evander pushed Fiorean away, stumbling into Aemyra in the process.

“Do not speak to me like I am a child. I may be your brother, but I am also the king. Am I not allowed to numb this grief how I see fit?” Evander asked, lips thinning.

Lowering his voice so only his brother could hear him, Fiorean whispered, “You would be better served by setting your mind to stabilizing your rule. We have already suffered under the rulings of one mad king, do not make us suffer another.”

With a petulant scowl, Evander shoved him away again. “I’m not mad.”

“Then prove it,” Fiorean growled.

Pushing Evander toward Elear, Fiorean looked pointedly at his younger brother. “See to it he has a bath?”

Elear nodded and ushered Evander away willingly enough, Elizabeth gathering her skirts and following closely behind.

Every commoner assembled in the courtyard had their eyes closed in prayer. Only Marilde remained rebelliously alert. The cook gave the barest nod and Aemyra felt her fingers begin to tingle with returning magic.

Athair Alfred continued his chanting as Fiorean’s emerald eyes roved over Aemyra’s face, his brow furrowed.

She averted her gaze and resolved to endure Alfred’s self-righteous preaching for as long as it took. Her magic would return and she had found her way out.

All was not lost.