Page 4

The rain was still pissing down come nightfall as the twins trudged through the soaked streets.

“Fire Dùileach weren’t built for the cold,” Aemyra grumbled.

“You shouldn’t begrudge any Dùileach their season of power. Winter solstice was only last week,” Adarian replied.

Narrowly avoiding a young pickpocket, Aemyra made for the tavern. “I passed Brenna’s temple to give my menstrual offering last week and the altar was practically buried underneath gifts for the Goddess.”

Adarian flexed his fingers, no doubt stiff from clutching his tools all day. “The earth Dùileach who have sought refuge here are glad of the freedom to worship. Spare a thought for those who are stuck in Tìr ùir, cowering in the Eternal Forest with their beathaichean.”

Aemyra clutched her cloak more tightly around herself as the warm glow from the tavern windows illuminated the rain pattering down in front of them.

Tìr ùir was reachable in just five days by ship, or two weeks via the Blackridge Mountains, and yet could not be more different from Tìr Teine. Magic had been outlawed there for decades, and with magical creatures confined to their territories by the treaty, Bonded Dùileach had nowhere else to go.

“Let’s raise a glass to those poor sods tonight, then,” Aemyra muttered, eagerly reaching for the chipped door as her brother turned back to the small pickpocket.

The child grinned as Adarian tossed him a copar, displaying several missing teeth as he snatched the coin and scampered off.

“I’m happy to wait another few months for Beltane, you’re even more insufferable then,” Adarian said, stamping his boots on the stoop to get some feeling back into his feet.

Her twin was right, Aemyra usually spent the summer feeling like she had an itch she couldn’t scratch. Sweating through her sheets, and with a tendency to set chimneys alight, it took consistent effort for her to control her power during the three months of the year when the fire Goddess was the strongest.

“You’re my twin, Adarian. You’re stuck with my insufferable presence for life,” Aemyra said as she pushed open the door to Sorcha’s tavern. Inhaling the ale and grease smell of the place, she felt her stomach rumble.

“Should have eaten you in the womb, then,” Adarian answered, letting the door swing closed behind them.

“Missed your chance there, I’m afraid. But if you’re hungry…” she teased, weaving her way through the crowded tables toward the bar. “Sorcha said she made a fresh stew.”

Adarian trailed her without complaint, no doubt starving after the long day.

The tavern was full of the regular patrons. A fisherman and his husband lounged comfortably by the fire after a day on the loch, and a group of women were engaged in a fierce card game. The fire was dancing merrily in the hearth, and the many candles perched on shelves and window ledges gave the whole place a rosy glow.

Flexing her fingers as they began to warm up, Aemyra spotted the priests from halfway across the room, her steps faltering.

Three men. Their black robes making them look like the very demons they preached to purge from the hearts of Dùileach. Their iron pendants looked heavy around their necks. She hoped someone would strangle them with the chains one day.

Adarian followed her gaze and stiffened as he too noticed the priests of the True Religion, the Chosen, as they called themselves.

Soggy pamphlets were strewn across their table, black books neatly stacked against the wall. Judging by their soaked robes, they had been preaching in the square again.

For men who campaigned about selflessness, they were about the most self-obsessed people Aemyra had ever had the misfortune to meet.

“How can men without magic have overthrown an entire territory? Tìr ùir is bigger than Tìr Teine,” Aemyra whispered to her brother as they reached the bar.

“There are a lot more priests than there are Dùileach,” Adarian said quietly out of the corner of his mouth. “And the ùir wulvern are far easier to kill than dragons.”

Tying her headscarf a little tighter, Aemyra let her hand rest on the dagger belted at her hip and craned her neck to see where Sorcha had gotten to.

Impatient, she reached behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of Sorcha’s best òmar. The amber liquid sloshed around as she poured herself two fingers’ worth into a cup and inhaled the intoxicating scent.

“I’ll charge you for that.”

Lifting her eyes from the drink, Aemyra smiled as Sorcha appeared, carrying a barrel of ale on one shoulder. “I could always pay you in other ways?”

With a snort, Sorcha dumped the barrel underneath the bar with a thud that shook the stool Aemyra was sitting on.

Turning, the barkeep spooned generous measures of stew into two bowls. Steam curled deliciously off of the gravy and Aemyra wasn’t sure if it was the sight of Sorcha’s curves or the food that made her mouth water.

Adarian could barely wait for Sorcha to tear off a hunk of hard bread before he was shoveling carrots, onions, and gravy into his mouth.

Aemyra took the bread from Sorcha, letting her fingertips gently brush the woman’s wrist, her bottom lip snagging between her teeth.

She was rewarded as Sorcha’s gaze darkened, but Aemyra busied herself with her lamb stew as the barkeep sped off to tend to her patrons.

“Be careful in front of those priests,” Adarian said, surfacing from his supper. “Sorcha won’t want you making a scene.”

His words made Aemyra’s temper spike as she dipped her bread into the gravy. “They can preach twisted morality from that boring book of theirs all they want, doesn’t mean I’m going to listen.”

A slurp and a glug of ale from her brother before he replied, “I’m serious. You need to pick your battles, it isn’t only magic that is outlawed in ùir—”

Before her brother could finish, Aemyra had spun her fork in her hand and plunged it down into the wood between his fingers.

Adarian’s only outward response was the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

She leaned in close to her brother.

“They won’t be outlawing anything here. Besides, have you heard of me lying with a man in years?” she whispered fiercely.

He shook his head.

She smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “It isn’t because I don’t like cock, Brother.”

“Who likes cock?” came Sorcha’s breezy voice from behind them as she clicked her fingers to draw a barmaid’s attention to several dirty tables.

Aemyra popped the bread into her mouth and lounged back in the rickety stool, balancing it on one leg.

“One would think my brother does, given the number of marriage proposals he has rejected now,” she taunted. “What’s the latest count? Three?”

Adarian blushed again and she chuckled. Goddess, making her brother squirm was practically her favorite pastime.

“Four,” he ground out, if only for politeness’ sake, since Sorcha was clearly waiting for an answer.

To Aemyra’s delight, Sorcha gasped. “Oh dear. It’s a pity the Goddesses require women to propose, soon there won’t be a woman in àird Lasair who hasn’t been heartbroken by our blacksmith.”

He cleared his throat. “Apprentice blacksmith.”

Aemyra removed the fork, the wood splintering slightly. “Apprentice, my left tit. You’ve been running the forge together with Pàdraig for years now. Keeping royal commissions from both of us, apparently.”

Adarian began protesting as Sorcha sat another mug of watered-down ale in front of him.

Sorcha bent toward Aemyra, distracting her with those spectacular breasts. Before she could get the chance to take a closer look, the barkeep had a cheese knife underneath Aemyra’s chin.

Sorcha tapped the splinters in the wood with a finger. “You damage my bar again and I don’t care how good you are with your tongue. I’ll throw you into the gutter with the rest of the rats.”

Aemyra grinned savagely and pointed toward the three priests with her spoon.

“You mean those rats?” she asked, loudly enough for the whole tavern to hear.

A few muffled snickers met her ears, and she watched as the Chosen puffed up with indignation, their faces flushing.

Aemyra ignored them and leaned farther into the blunt point of the cheese knife with a grin. “So, you think I’m good with my tongue?”

Not bothering to blush, Sorcha leaned over the bar and pressed her lips to Aemyra’s, making Adarian mutter a stream of curses and focus more intently on his dinner.

Unfortunately, Aemyra didn’t get the chance to deepen the kiss as a male voice cut across the room.

“You have no respect for the ways of the Savior,” a young priest exclaimed, his words clipped with outrage.

Aemyra broke away from Sorcha, relinquishing her full lips with reluctance.

The animated chatter that had filled the tavern a moment ago died to a nervous whisper as Aemyra picked up her glass.

“The Savior can cleanse your soul if you relinquish your heathen ways,” the priest continued.

Aemyra froze with the drink she had been looking forward to all day against her bottom lip. Instantly furious as the priest’s eyes darted between Sorcha and Aemyra.

The whispers turned into outraged muttering.

Trying to keep her temper, Aemyra laughed.

“You are aware of which city you are in? Perhaps you mistook the five temples for something else, but I would encourage you to give your preaching a rest—we have no need of the Savior here.”

A few patrons banged their mugs on tables in support of Aemyra’s words.

But the priest was evidently looking to prove himself in some way. His older companions were acting as if he were well within his rights to accost someone like this.

“You should focus on the duty you were born to as a wife and mother. A woman’s true calling lies in her womb,” he said, looking pointedly at Sorcha.

Aemyra heard several chairs scrape back as the tavern regulars stood, ready to defend Sorcha. His words stung, but the most terrifying thing was the way he said them—as though he believed them wholeheartedly. Not wanting this to descend into a brawl, Aemyra lifted one finger off her cup and the regulars halted.

Clearly this little priest had underestimated how strongly most in Tìr Teine still clung to the matriarchy. Even after a century waiting for a true queen to rule them.

Meeting the eyes of the young priest over the rim of her cup, Aemyra took a long, slow sip of òmar. She watched his eyes widen at her audacity as the liquid burned pleasantly. The fact that this boy thought she owed him even an ounce of respect was laughable.

No wonder so many like him, mostly men with no magic of their own, had eagerly converted to the True Religion. It was the only way they could exact control over others, and it was no secret they despised powerful women.

“Why should my womb be any concern of yours when that pendant around your neck has clearly replaced your cock?” Aemyra asked calmly.

A flush crept up the priest’s neck as she pushed Sorcha back behind the safety of the bar and unsheathed her dagger. The Chosen were famously celibate, and they even encouraged people to wait until marriage to explore their own bodies. No doubt this boy had never even touched a woman.

After the way he had spoken to her, Aemyra sincerely hoped he never would.

“I would think very carefully about your next words,” Aemyra said in a measured tone, eyeing the priest over her extended arm, which now ended in steel. “Insult me all you want, but insult the working women of this city—the ones made in the image of our Goddess—and I will gut you where you stand.”

The young priest’s mouth was flapping open and closed like he was a fish caught out of Loch Lorna. His gaze flickered to where Adarian was sitting.

“Don’t look at him,” she said, without turning around. “He isn’t the one you should be worried about. Apologize to Sorcha. Now,” Aemyra ordered, close enough to be pressing the point of the dagger against the priest’s sternum. She felt the fabric give and knew that she had pricked his skin, but he didn’t back away.

She cocked her head, letting him know that he would have one chance to apologize for his words.

But it wasn’t the young acolyte who finally answered. It was the graying priest behind him who stood on his chair and addressed the room while waving one of his pamphlets.

“Embrace the ways of the Savior and set your souls free from the demonic magic possessing you. Look at how the evil flame has corrupted this young woman. Those without magic are already close to salvation. Cleanse yourselves and come into the light,” he said emphatically, his rotund chest thrust forward.

Clearly the priest had been expecting a cheer, or at the very least lackluster applause, because he looked marginally disappointed when his words failed to rouse the patrons of the tavern.

Giving the three priests a smile, Aemyra allowed just enough of her magic to race out of her until the flames of every candle, torch, and brazier flared brighter.

“We are the light,” she said, her voice carrying throughout the room.

It had been the encouragement everyone else had been waiting for. The fishermen suddenly held glinting orbs of water in their palms and the women threw down their cards with a whistle of conjured wind. Chairs scraped against the stone floor as everyone scrambled toward the priests.

Aemyra got there first.

She relished the way the young priest’s eyes widened in fear as he attempted to flee, even more so when he tripped on his own robes and went sprawling to the floor.

Feeling the third priest attempt to restrain her, Aemyra thrust her head back and heard the satisfying crunch of his nose breaking. Thanking Brigid for her tightly tied headscarf, she swept the man’s legs out from under him and bared her teeth.

If they saw her as a demon, then she would gladly become one.

Adarian drained the last of his ale and slammed his mug on the countertop in front of Sorcha. “She’ll pay for mine,” he said, jerking his thumb in Aemyra’s direction before rolling up his sleeves and joining the fray.

As the young priest finally found his courage and swung for Aemyra, she gave a feral grin before she began to solve Sorcha’s rodent problem for her.