Page 5

Hissing through her teeth as her split knuckles stung, Aemyra followed her brother through the dilapidated streets. When the first chair had been broken and its leg wielded as a club, Sorcha had thrown them all out into the damp night with more force than was strictly necessary. Granted, Aemyra was responsible for most of the blood currently covering Sorcha’s usually spotless floor.

Too wired to head home, the twins made their way into the heart of the city.

Men and women skilled in the art of pleasure beckoned from doorways into dimly lit rooms that lurked beyond. The satisfied moans coming from the open windows above were enough to have Aemyra gritting her teeth with frustration that Sorcha had kicked her out.

Rounding the corner and almost colliding with a man selling spiced apples from a steaming cart, Aemyra allowed the fragrant scent to fill her nostrils as they approached the center of the square. At least a hundred people had gathered as the playing company performed. Their crude stage had been erected with dirty strips of once vibrant fabric framing the wooden boards.

“Come, let’s watch for a bit,” Adarian said, pushing down the hood of his cloak now that the rain had stopped.

Aemyra groaned. “I don’t really fancy being told how wonderful the royals are tonight.”

But knowing Adarian enjoyed the theatrics, she followed her brother to a vacant spot against the wall. The wizened woman in the middle of the stage croaked through a story Aemyra had heard often enough that she could recite it from memory.

“Two hundred years ago Tìr Sgàile fell to the curse!” the woman shouted, the whites of her eyes shining. “The territory fell into ruin and the Spirit Dùileach of Clan Beaton, blessed by the Great Mother with the gift of foresight and healing magics, were lost.”

The rest of the crowd was enraptured as the dancers threw out long strands of black silk before falling dramatically to the ground.

“I hope they have padding on their knees,” Adarian whispered, making Aemyra snort as they leaned against the wall, half-concealed in shadows.

“The four remaining territories battled for dominance of the fallen land in the heart of Erisocia. For fifty years a brutal war raged until it almost cost us our Bonded beathaichean. A thunder of dragons a hundred strong flew to war—only three returned,” the woman continued.

A stunning actress wearing a crown of paper flames and a poorly dyed red wig appeared from within the shadow silk. “Mighty Queen Lissandrea and her formidable beast, Kolgiath, proposed a peace treaty, signed in magic and blood, confining beathaichean to the borders of their respective territories. Ensuring their lives would never again be the cost of our greed.”

A cheer rose from the crowd as the actress pretended to sign an extravagantly long piece of parchment that drooped off the stage.

The old crone grinned, showing yellowed teeth, as she leaned toward the enthralled audience.

“Tìr Uisge battled fiercely with their kelpies, as did those from Tìr Adhair, who took to the skies with their griffins and pegasi!”

Two young women danced across the stage and the one wearing blue robes threw a bucket of water over the front row. Uproarious laughter met this little stunt, and the narrator held her hands out for silence.

“I wonder if the Chosen have started preaching in Tìr Adhair too,” Adarian mused.

“I doubt the griffin clans have paused their civil wars long enough to notice,” Aemyra replied, attempting to clean the dried blood off her knuckles.

The crone waited as a dancer holding leafy branches pranced across the boards to represent Tìr ùir.

“After the war, Queen Lissandrea heralded a new age for Tìr Teine, restoring our greatest power…the dragons!” the narrator said, striding for the front of the stage dramatically, sweeping her decrepit robes around her.

Gooseflesh prickled on Aemyra’s arms. This was the one part of the performance she enjoyed.

A muscled actor was always painted gold to represent Lissandrea’s ancient dragon, Kolgiath. The crimson Rhyian and the silver Sylthria were often depicted by stunning female dancers—it was how Aemyra had met Sorcha.

The former dancer had saved up every copar, sgillinn, and òr tossed her way until she had enough to buy her tavern and turn it into a thriving business. Stroking her bruised knuckles, Aemyra wished she had hit the priest harder for belittling Sorcha’s hard work.

On the stage, the three dragon-dancers pranced to cheers and applause that seemed to shake the town square.

“The might of Clan Daercathian grew for a century after the war, and our territory flourished with prosperity. Until…”

Aemyra knew what was coming as silence descended upon the courtyard.

“Until Clan Daercathian stopped producing female heirs.” The narrator clutched her throat as if distraught and two of the dancers acted out the birthing of many sons. Each puppet thrown above the crowd had an overly large appendage between its legs.

“For as long as no female was born to the clan, First King Vander ruled the crown would pass to his son, and his sons after him.”

Aemyra stifled a yawn, knowing where this was going. After the way the priests had spoken, she didn’t particularly want to listen to the playing company list the many attributes of male rulers. Echoing her sentiments, Adarian pushed himself off the wall and made ready to leave.

“Without the strength of our ancient queens, the dragons failed to thrive.”

The twins whipped their heads up at the words.

Aemyra blinked in disbelief as one actress went from depicting childbirth to crawling across the stage toward three painted eggs. Before she could reach them, each one exploded in a small puff of smoke. Interest piqued, Aemyra had to give the playing company points for style.

Spines straightened in the crowd and a heavy silence stretched as tight as the black silks unfurled across the stage.

A sense of urgency had entered the crone’s voice and Adarian stiffened.

“As the years passed without a female heir, the dragons weakened. The bronze Neamh perished before she had grown into her fire, the pale pink Rionnag was granted only ten years with Prince Cearon before she faltered underwing and they were both lost. Even the bright blue Seoghal, the most beautiful she-dragon who’d ever lived, barely survived her two years of maturing.”

The old woman’s voice cracked with grief and Aemyra followed Adarian’s gaze to where two city guards were loitering on the corner. A third disappeared up the street.

“It’s fine. She’s just talking about the dragons,” Aemyra whispered to her twin.

Adarian’s answering look was one of warning. It was common knowledge that the dragons had begun to die when no female heir had been born to the Daercathian clan, but no one dared say it aloud.

“The ancient might of Tìr Teine remains,” the narrator intoned, her arthritic fingers clasped in front of her as three actors in green, gold, and blue robes drifted across the stage.

Gealach, Kolreath, and Aervor. The last three dragons in Erisocia.

Then a fourth actor appeared. Dressed in onyx robes clearly meant to represent the legendary wild dragon—The Terror.

By all accounts, the ancient dragon had been formidable. Never having Bonded to a Dùileach, he had nested alone on the Sunset Isle and haunted Tìr Teine with his fire. Until Kolreath and the king had chased him from the mainland almost thirty years ago and black scales had never been seen again.

Pàdraig liked to say that The Terror had to have died before Aemyra was born because Penrythians could only endure so much. Hence his favorite nickname for her.

The painted actors were circling one another dramatically, and the crowd cheered as the actor portraying the king’s dragon, Kolreath, spread his arms to riotous applause and The Terror faded into the shadows.

Aemyra caught the crone’s quick glance toward the guards, and she strained her ears to hear what the next words would be. Adarian’s hand came down on her arm as both a warning and security.

The crone took a deep breath and raised her voice from the middle of the stage.

“Our blessed matriarchy is crumbling. Chosen priests stood before us today, preaching lies and sowing discontent. On their journey into our city, they desecrated Goddess groves and I bring news that three Savior’s towers have now been erected to the east of the Deàrr Mountains.”

Frantic muttering broke out through the crowd and Adarian’s grip on her arm tightened as the guards advanced.

“People of àird Lasair, we must remain true to our Goddesses!” The crone’s words were rapid as the dancers flanked her. “In two hundred years of peace, we have known but one conflict—the failed coup of Prince Draevan Daercathian.”

Adarian made to pull Aemyra from the square, but she stood firm as the dancers smeared their hands with red paint. The crowd was enthralled, refusing to move as more guards materialized.

“The exiled prince Bonded to the dragon Gealach fought valiantly for the Goddesses. A crusade to rid Tìr Teine from the influence of a queen consort who worshipped the Savior.”

The city guards were now pushing people out of the way to get to the stage. Singular cries rose up as those gathered in the square were shoved to one side or struck for refusing to make a path. Shouting had broken out in earnest. What the crone was talking about was treason.

Mentioning the might of ancient queens was bad enough given that the king had four sons, but to talk about Draevan Daercathian in a positive light was signing her own death warrant.

The crone’s voice remained steady as the noise within the square grew. The guards were halfway to the stage and the sound of more footsteps was echoing from the northern streets.

They were visibly trembling, but the dancers stood courageously before the crowd as they smeared red paint across the puppets representing each royal prince.

Aemyra wasn’t the only one whose mouth was agape.

“We need to get home,” Adarian whispered, tugging her sleeve. “The city guards will burn them for this.”

Ignoring him, Aemyra remained rooted to the spot as the dancers let blue ribbons fall from their hands like rivers of tears. Crackling fire erupted from behind the stage and the crone raised her hands above her head.

“Do not forsake the Goddesses! One day a true queen will rise and usher in a new age of prosperity for us and for the dragons.”

Her voice rang out over the shouts and cries of the crowd as Sir Nairn arrived and began plowing through children and adults alike to get to the stage. The dancers finally scattered as the captain of the guard climbed onto the boards with his sword drawn.

“Time to go,” Adarian growled in her ear.

Wishing she could intervene, the last thing Aemyra saw before Adarian hauled her away was the faded velvet drapes being torn down as Sir Nairn backhanded the crone.

The blood from the old woman’s split lip was as bright as the captain’s cloak.

“Don’t run,” Adarian hissed as they turned a corner. “It will only make you look like you were involved.”

Keeping her thoughts to herself, Aemyra hastened after her brother. They were more deeply involved in treason than anybody in this city knew about.

They walked quickly, being overtaken by others who had scarpered when the screams began to intensify. Daring a glance over her shoulder, Aemyra breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the guards were not pursuing them.

The winding streets twisted, houses converging on one another lopsidedly in this part of town. Sneaking through the alley that was their familiar shortcut, the twins made it home without being spotted.

Adarian drew the heavy bolt across the door with finality and Aemyra tried to calm her racing heart.

“Something you both wish to share?”

Their mother’s voice came from behind them and Aemyra swore her heart strained with fright.

Orlagh was standing in the middle of the room with a blazing look in her eyes and her slender arms crossed. “What have I told you both about getting into fights?”

Aemyra jerked her thumb over her shoulder to where distant cries seeped through the wooden door. “We had nothing to do with that.”

Solas quirked his tiny head from his perch on Orlagh’s shoulder, looking directly at Aemyra’s split knuckles. She failed to hide them before her mother’s eyes narrowed.

“Heather popped in for some more salve and regaled us—in great detail I might add—of how my children were brawling in the streets.”

Adarian shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “We weren’t brawling in the streets.”

“At least not until Sorcha kicked us out,” Aemyra added helpfully.

When Orlagh’s dark eyes narrowed, Adarian made a show of hanging his cloak properly on the peg by the door so it would dry.

Aemyra dumped hers in a heap on the kitchen bench. “The priests were in Sorcha’s tavern. They insulted her, and every woman in this city. I couldn’t let it stand.”

Orlagh scoffed, “So you dragged your brother into it?”

The smoke-spice scent of the peat fire filled the room as Adarian slumped into the armchair with a groan. “She didn’t have to. You should have heard the way they were talking. As though Aemyra and Sorcha were somehow beneath them because of their sex.”

“Neither of you should be getting involved,” Orlagh said firmly, using her magic to heat a bowl of water, a practiced eye on Aemyra’s bruised knuckles. “The king should have driven those zealots out of the city the very day they entered.”

Aemyra sat on the kitchen bench and studied Orlagh’s face. The dark skin of her cheeks was illuminated by the firebird.

“Just be grateful Solas wasn’t there,” Aemyra said, looking at the beathach who was no bigger than a common starling. “Sorcha heard them preaching last week about how we steal their magic and bend the beathaichean to our will.”

Orlagh looked up, genuine fear in her eyes at her daughter’s words.

“That cannot be true,” she whispered.

Solas’s feathery head grazed Orlagh’s lower jaw. The two of them had been Bonded since Orlagh’s eighteenth breithday. The firebird had simply flown in through her window, set the curtains alight with his flaming tail, and never left.

“It’s surprising how many lies people will believe if they are said with enough conviction,” Pàdraig said, coming down the creaking stairs with a curious Lachlann clad in tartan nightclothes. Evidently the ruckus outside had woken him.

“But it’s obviously not true,” Orlagh said as Lachlann crawled sleepily into Aemyra’s lap. “Anyone who knows any beathach will understand that we could never force a Bond they didn’t also seek. It is a mutual partnership, a sharing of magic and souls—the Chosen taint it with their filthy words.”

Solas clicked his beak as if in agreement and Aemyra stroked Lachlann’s tight curls, one eye on the door.

Adarian looked up from the fire. “The True Religion is growing in popularity in other territories. If three towers have already been built here in Tìr Teine, how long will it be until more people convert?”

“The Chosen gained a strong foothold in Tìr ùir after the Fifty Year War but I never thought we would allow them inside our territory. Much less replace temples with towers,” Orlagh said.

Aemyra thought of the pendant that had been worn proudly on the captain’s chest. If the royals were no longer loyal to the Goddesses, how long would it be before the common folk turned their backs as well? Especially after the violence they had just witnessed in the square.

Pàdraig cleared his throat. “There is no Dùileach alive who would willingly turn their backs on the Goddess who blessed them. The people of Tìr Teine still await a true queen, as do we.”

Avoiding everyone’s eye, Aemyra pulled the bowl of water toward her and dabbed at her knuckles.

A loud bang came from the street, followed by distant shouting.

“Perhaps this is a problem better discussed in the morning?” Pàdraig said, glancing at Lachlann.

Orlagh’s keen eyes assessed the twins. “What happened after the tavern brawl?”

Aemyra hesitated. Lachlann was entirely too quiet for his own good as he pretended to be asleep on her knee.

“The playing company grew too bold,” Adarian said.

Aemrya whipped her head up. “Is it too bold to speak of faithfulness? Of worshipping the Goddesses?”

Her twin’s sapphire eyes were knowing. “It is when Draevan Daercathian and the true queen are mentioned in the same breath.”

Orlagh and Pàdraig exchanged knowing looks, their silence weighted. Suddenly wide-awake, Lachlann asked, “Did they tell dragon stories too?”

Aemyra nodded.

“I wish I could have an egg ceremony,” Lachlann said, sitting up.

Both Adarian and Aemyra smiled sadly as Orlagh stood from her chair and made to chivy her son back up to bed.

“Don’t we all, wee man,” Adarian said.

Lachlann looked up hopefully. “Maybe another dragon will lay some eggs and then when I’m sixteen and it’s time for my ceremony I’ll walk up to one of the pedestals, lay my hands on the biggest egg there, and I’ll have a dragon of my own to name and ride.”

Aemyra opened her mouth to explain that, since the only dragons still alive were male, more eggs hatching would be an impossibility. But as her little brother gave a jaw-cracking yawn, she decided to let him live in hope a little longer.

A clattering noise came from outside that made Orlagh flinch. Pàdraig checked that the door was bolted.

“What happens if the True Religion does take over here?” Lachlann asked, a hint of fear in his voice. “Will they stop me from Bonding?”

“Of course not, mo luaidh. If you wish to Bond and a beathach accepts it, then you will,” Orlagh said.

The little boy reached out to stroke Solas’s brown feathers. “And I’ll get more fire too!” Lachlann said, letting a small flame gather on his palm.

Orlagh reached across and curled her son’s fingers closed, extinguishing the fire.

“Yes. But that should never be the reason why you choose to Bond. Partnering with a beathach is as much a gift from the Goddess as your magic. It is a thing to be cherished, nurtured, not to be drained for its power.”

Lachlann looked crestfallen, as if he had failed some sort of test, and Aemyra relinquished him into Pàdraig’s strong arms.

“Think carefully on it,” Adarian called after their little brother as he was carried upstairs. “Once you Bond, you can’t ever leave Tìr Teine.”

From the way Orlagh brushed her cheek against Solas’s soft head, the restriction of the two-hundred-year-old treaty was a small price to pay.

“Clean those knuckles properly,” Orlagh said softly, before following her husband and son upstairs.

Once alone with her twin, Aemyra threw the cloth back into the bowl.

“The playing company will have been thrown into a cell,” Adarian said tersely. “Or worse.”

“Worshipping the Goddesses is no crime,” Aemyra said stubbornly.

Adarian’s sapphire eyes were hard. “Yet.”

Remembering the way Sir Nairn’s cloak had draped across a crimson-painted puppet, Aemyra’s stomach turned.

“Don’t say that,” Aemyra whispered.

Her brother leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m sure it started this way in Tìr ùir too. Non-Dùileach already believe half of the things those priests preach. Even if they haven’t converted yet, it’s only a matter of time.”

Aemyra dropped her voice to a hushed whisper as the shouting echoed from the street. “You know our orders. We have to wait.”

“Until our territory is overrun? Three towers in Clan Leuthanach lands, Aemyra. Less than a hundred miles from this city,” Adarian continued, struggling to keep his voice low.

Her brother didn’t often voice his frustrations and it put Aemyra on edge. Scratching underneath her headscarf, Aemyra suppressed the urge to tear it from her head. “Tìr Teine has dragons, Adarian. It will not fall to zealots.”

“Three dragons. Two of which are Bonded to members of the royal family, whom we can suspect have sympathies with the Chosen.”

There was no ignoring the fearful cries through the thin walls.

“One dragon loyal to the Goddesses won’t be enough to protect us if it comes to a fight,” Adarian warned.

As if echoing his words, a pained scream tore up the street and Aemyra plunged the room into darkness, extinguishing the candles with her magic.

“Pàdraig was right, now is not the time to talk of such things.”