Page 28

Fiorean’s revelation had been too much for both of them.

Three days had passed since Orlagh’s death, and they had barely exchanged two words with each other. Instead, a silent sort of alliance had struck up between them. Aemyra hadn’t actively tried to kill him, and Fiorean had left her largely alone.

Sleep had not come easily since the events at the lochside, and her days were spent under Maggie’s watchful eye. With her food and water still laced with the binding agent, Aemyra clung to the hope of being summoned to the kitchens to escape the caisteal.

Her wounds were painful, but they were far easier to bear than the weight of her grief and guilt. It was only the thought of rescuing Sorcha from the dungeons and getting back to her army that kept her going.

Slumping huffily onto a stone bench, Aemyra ignored the book she had been trying to read for the last hour. “Surely you’ve finished the thistle by now?”

Maggie looked up from her needlepoint.

Aemyra groaned. “Some conversation wouldn’t go amiss. This book is frightfully dull.”

“Quiet contemplation is good for the soul,” Maggie said, deftly swiping her needle upward.

Aemyra rolled her eyes. “Or a good way to go as mad as the late king.”

The needle stilled.

Noticing the stiff way Maggie was sitting, the skirts of her dark green dress hiding her small bump, Aemyra softened her tone.

“I would very much like to find a friend at this court,” she said, biting her lip and hoping that the younger woman wouldn’t snub her.

After a moment, Maggie set her embroidery on her lap.

“Then you shall have one,” she replied with a quiet determination. “I remember what it was like to arrive at this court knowing no one. It was a daunting prospect.”

Maggie and the other royal wives had been shipped to Tìr Teine by their fathers. High-ranking nobles from Tìr ùir, hoping to make an auspicious match with a prince. Aemyra wondered what Maggie might have chosen to do with her life had her father not decided for her.

There was nothing wrong with embroidering thistles onto cushions, as long as it wasn’t only because embroidery was deemed an “appropriate” pursuit for a woman of Tìr ùir.

“Will none of your family travel to see the babe?” Aemyra asked, eyeing the small bump.

Maggie shook her head. “It is quite the journey from Ramburgh, and my mother is frail. My father would not deem the trip necessary when he has four sons of his own.”

The King of Ramburgh was a holy man, and a tyrant. Aemyra wondered if he had even blinked before selling his youngest daughter into marriage to a Teine prince.

Aemyra noted the bitterness with which Maggie spoke of her parents. “Do you miss your home?”

Even before the words were out of Aemyra’s mouth, Maggie was shaking her head, her fingers pulling at a loose thread.

“No. I have found my home here,” Maggie said. “Although I do miss my dearest friend, Florence.” Aemyra stayed quiet, leaving an opening for the woman to elaborate should she wish to.

“Our mothers were close, and we grew up together. Her father is the Viscount Sevred, quite the formidable man, and we often hid ourselves away in the kitchens while our fathers spoke of business and our mothers held court,” Maggie said, a wistfulness in her voice. “Florence married three months before I sailed for Tìr Teine, to the Duke of Rodover, if you would believe it. She’s a duchess now.”

Aemyra felt guilty for bringing on such melancholy. “And you are a Teine princess.”

“Sometimes I wish we were just little girls kneading dough and helping decorate cakes in the kitchens again. No titles, no lands. Just us.”

Something in Maggie’s tone struck a chord with Aemyra and she felt tears prick at the corner of her eyes. Thinking of evenings spent drying herbs with Orlagh and the simple comfort of proximity and companionable silence.

Maggie was right, that was worth more than any title.

Perhaps even that of queen.

“I know what you must think of us,” Maggie began, brown eyes downcast. “But Fiorean is unfailingly kind. He ensured I felt welcome in this territory.”

“Then you must be acquainted with a different Fiorean than I am.”

The words were barely out of Aemyra’s mouth before she was remembering the gentle way he had stitched her wounds. She watched the way Maggie caressed her stomach between pulls with the needle.

“How do you stand it?” she asked.

When Maggie frowned in confusion, Aemyra elaborated. “Being married to a Dùileach, bearing children blessed by the Goddess, when it goes against your beliefs?”

Maggie’s features softened at the mention of Nael. “The Savior believes every soul can be saved. Nael is a good person and he possesses only a drop of fire compared to Fiorean, or you.”

Aemyra was certain that wasn’t intended as a compliment.

“Were you not afraid to marry a Dùileach prince?” Aemyra asked.

Maggie straightened. “I am not as fragile as some may think.”

Appraising the princess, Aemyra cocked an eyebrow. “No, I don’t suppose you are.” Aemyra took a deep breath and leaned against the back of the stone bench.

A pretty blush was darkening Maggie’s brown cheeks, and Aemyra found herself smiling in response.

Until a scream sounded from the corridor.

One hand pressed to her bosom, Maggie strode in the direction of the noise.

“Since you have not been trained with a weapon and are currently with child, I would not advise rushing toward the sound of screaming,” Aemyra drawled, fanning out her skirts as she stood.

With a quick swipe, Aemyra shoved Maggie’s discarded needle into the pocket of her dress and looked through the open archway to where the raised voices were growing louder.

“She killed my son!”

Elizabeth rounded the corner, followed by Katherine and two priests. Elizabeth’s cream dress was stained and her golden hair unkempt as she cast her wild eyes around the shadowy garden. Spotting Aemyra in front of a large potted fern, Elizabeth screamed ferally as she advanced with her long nails brandished like claws.

With a bored expression, Aemyra expertly intercepted the attack, wrapping her hands around Elizabeth’s narrow wrists and trapping her arms down by her sides.

“Let me go!” Elizabeth shrieked.

Flexing her jaw as her ears popped at the shrill sound, Aemyra looked up to find Fiorean, Nael, and Elear advancing from the opposite direction and almost barreling into the priests.

“Well, now that we have established you can communicate with the caisteal hounds, perhaps Nael should take you out on his next hunt?” Aemyra asked, catching a glancing blow on her cheek from Elizabeth’s thrashing head.

Elear looked ready to duel Aemyra in the garden, but Fiorean quickly stepped in.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Elizabeth’s wails of grief were hard to misinterpret, and Aemyra held her as gently as she could without her skin being scratched to ribbons by those perfectly manicured nails.

“Hamysh is dead!” Elear shouted, causing his wife’s screams to turn into hysterical sobs.

The shadows of Aemyra’s nightmares washed through her mind with a jolt of grief, news of another dead child triggering some greater despair. Elizabeth went limp in her hold, and Aemyra thrust the woman toward the dowager queen, who she noticed had red-rimmed eyes.

The priests looked to be eagerly awaiting Katherine’s order to restrain Aemyra for more cleansing prayers.

She wondered briefly if Fiorean, the most powerful Dùileach in the royal family, had ever been restrained and prayed over by Athair Alfred. Aemyra wouldn’t put it past the priest.

“My wife has been recently wounded. The past three days she has either been recovering in our chambers or Maggie has been accompanying her,” Fiorean said firmly.

Maggie nodded her head as Nael’s arms came protectively around her. “It is true. We have shared quiet company for the past several hours.”

Elear did not look convinced. “Hamysh is dead, Brother. I will have the culprit executed.”

Aemyra refused to shrink away from Elear’s hateful glare, her hand dipping into her pocket and curling around the needle.

“If your son is dead, then it is by someone else’s hand,” Aemyra said. “I am a good deal less violent than you all seem to think I am.”

Fiorean shot her a look that screamed “doubtful.”

Elizabeth was shaking and Katherine was stroking her blond hair like she actually cared.

“Take her to the dungeons,” Elizabeth sobbed. “Mother, speak on behalf of the king, command it.”

Katherine hesitated and Elear threw his weight into Fiorean. “Since that woman has been within these walls, our boys have only grown weaker. Restrain her!”

As the two brothers grappled with each other, Aemyra kept the needle held tightly in her fist as the two priests hovered eagerly beside the archway.

“It seems as though your anger should be directed more toward the healers you mistakenly trusted than me,” Aemyra said.

Her tone enraging him further, Elear scrabbled against Fiorean’s hold, and for a brief moment she thought he might overpower his elder brother. Fiorean gained the upper hand by landing a spectacular right hook to Elear’s jaw and emerged victorious.

His tunic rumpled and his usually smooth hair tousled, Fiorean pointed a finger at each of his relatives.

“You will do as I say and remain calm until the true murderer is brought to justice,” he spat through gritted teeth at Elear. “Comfort your grieving wife and stop bullying mine.”

The smirk was wiped off Aemyra’s face when Fiorean rounded on her. His boots were loud on the damp stones underfoot, and he only stopped when his nose was an inch from her own.

“That includes you. If I find out you had anything to do with this, I will swing the axe myself.”

She could feel his warm breath on her lips, his heaving chest pressed up against her corset.

Not waiting for his mother to order Aemyra’s arrest, Fiorean hauled her bodily from the walled garden.

When they had rounded the corner, he gripped her right wrist and pried her fingers apart.

“I’ll be sure to tell Maggie not to embroider in your presence next time,” he grunted, flinging the needle aside.

Aemyra glowered but refrained from tormenting him further as Fiorean shoved her into the tightly winding staircase that led to their chambers. He had lost two nephews in the space of a fortnight.

Aemyra clicked her tongue. “They should have listened to me.”

“They did.”

Whirling around, Fiorean walked straight into her heavy woolen skirts and extracted himself with some difficulty.

“What?” she asked.

Fiorean glared up at her. “I administered the charcoal myself. All of the children who became ill upon your arrival recovered.”

Aemyra’s blood ran cold. “Then they were poisoned on two separate instances.”

Sharing a grim look with her, Fiorean replied, “Someone within these walls is killing my nephews.”

Climbing the stairs, her feet moved woodenly and for the briefest moment, her traitorous heart thought of her father. If Draevan’s spies were attempting to break the royal family from within…

Aemyra recoiled in horror, placing one hand to the boning of her corset, suddenly feeling light-headed. That was not how she wanted to win her throne. She never would have wished such grief on anyone—even her enemies.

Evidently, Fiorean was already on the same page. “If I find out that your father had a hand in this…”

His spiteful tone irked her instantly.

Whirling to face him as they crested the stairs, Aemyra shoved him bodily away. She was allowed to think the worst of Draevan Daercathian, no one else.

“My father would never do such a thing,” she hissed. “But your mother has made no secret of her hate for Goddess magic.”

Fire sparked behind Fiorean’s eyes, and he advanced toward her, backing her against the stone wall until she was forced to look up at him.

She attempted to drive her knee into his crotch, but her skirts got in the way and Fiorean shoved his thigh between her legs.

“Really, Princess? Do I need to take my shirt off again to remind you which of my parents was the violent one?”

Aemyra’s chest was heaving with his proximity, and she squashed down the very small part of her that wanted to see him shirtless again.

“That won’t be necessary,” she replied with as much disdain as she could manage. “I would rather keep my breakfast down, as there is no privy on this floor.”

Fiorean’s lip curled. “You jump to Draevan’s defense and yet are so quick to condemn me.”

“My father has not killed anyone I care about,” Aemyra sneered.

“Nor have I!” Fiorean shouted.

His voice rang through the empty corridor, and Aemyra fought to collect her thoughts.

“I am certain my father had nothing to do with it. We need to focus on who has access to the royal children and I must be allowed to inspect the body.”

“Elear would never allow it,” Fiorean snarled.

“Then you do it.”

She pressed her palms flat against his sculpted chest and pushed. She hadn’t put her full force behind it, but Fiorean backed away nevertheless.

Straightening her skirts, Aemyra tried to withstand the swirling grief within her.

Three little boys dead in as many weeks. The anguish on Elizabeth’s face had been enough to crack Aemyra’s already broken heart further.

Fiorean was quiet, his eyes far away as he regained his composure.

She had to get to the kitchens. Marilde would know someone connected to Draevan’s network of allies in the capital. They would help her find out who was behind this.

On the opposite wall sat a large painting of Princess Isobeìl and her shining silver dragon, Sylthria. The artist had been given a gift from the Great Mother, the brushstrokes seemed to imbue life into the painting. Isobeìl’s unruly curls were so like Aemyra’s own.

Aemyra’s fingertips stretched toward Sylthria’s silver face. The dragon had been deemed untamable until Isobeìl had proven her clan wrong, naming her beathach after the mist that clung to the mountains she loved so dearly.

“You miss your dragon,” Fiorean said softly.

Aemyra snatched her hand away, her emotions uncomfortably close to the surface. “I miss a lot of things.”

As Fiorean held the door to their chambers open, Aemyra’s thoughts turned to Lachlann. If there was any way to bring him back, she would do it. She would barter with Hela herself to give her brother a second chance at life.

Elear’s pride was preventing him from granting his sons the same.

Aemyra set her own aside as she rounded on Fiorean.

“You will need wild garlic and willow bark,” she said, thoughts whirring. “Honey for the open sores, and warm compresses—be sure to boil the fabric first.”

Fiorean frowned, struggling to follow her rapid instructions.

“Do you even know what the herbs look like?” Aemyra asked despairingly.

“We do have a royal apothecary. I’m fully capable of reading labels,” Fiorean quipped.

Ignoring him, Aemyra crossed to the small desk and flipped open the inkwell. Nearly breaking the quill in her haste to write the list, she pressed the parchment into Fiorean’s hands, fingers now smudged with ink.

“And here I thought both of us were literate,” he said, struggling to decipher her scrawl.

She threw the quill at him, point-first, as he tucked the list into the pocket of his tunic.

“I will retrieve the necessary items and take them to the nursery, although I will need to be quick about it,” he said.

“Somewhere to be, Prince?” she asked.

Fiorean scratched his nose with one finger, something he did only when he was nervous. “Today is my breithday. There is to be a cèilidh dance held this evening. Or there was.”

Aemyra arched one brow. “A cèilidh?”

“Indeed.”

“I assume this was planned before Hamysh’s death?”

Fiorean nodded solemnly.

“Isn’t Evander aware that there is a war going on?” she asked drolly. “My father has marched my army from Atholl, and the Balnain fleet is burning Leuthanach fields of wheat as they advance up the river.”

Fiorean cracked a slight smile. “I see you have been reading my correspondence.”

Aemyra refused to look ashamed.

“I would agree that now is not the time for celebration; however, my mother did not want my breithday to pass without event, and people have traveled for it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.

Fiorean looked confused.

“That today is your breithday,” Aemyra clarified.

“I have been a little preoccupied with the war we have going on,” Fiorean replied sardonically.

Aemyra bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

“Do not leave this room,” he said, departing swiftly, the list in his hand, and closed the door with a gentle thud.

With him gone, Aemyra felt like she could finally breathe again.

As she unlaced the back of her dress with deft fingers, she let the smothering grief wrap around her like a mourning veil.

She could only hope that when she finally won her throne, some of this unbearable weight would leave her. Wondering if Fiorean felt as guilty as she did, Aemyra stepped out of her dress and began thinking of how she might use tonight’s cèilidh to her advantage.

The shadow of Kolreath was visible from the window, haunting the city as if to keep Terrea at bay.

Aemyra huffed a bitter laugh that the royals would be forced to pretend all was well in front of the attending lairds.

The more time she spent in this court, the less she liked it.