Page 9

“Our soldiers surround the temple,” Draevan said from his position by the singular window.

Kenna had given over her own attic chambers to hide Aemyra until they could reveal her during the presentation of King Haedren’s body. With perilously few options, the quarters were decidedly cramped.

“Hidden in plain sight, I hope? Ow.” Aemyra sucked in a breath as she was fastened into her jeweled dress by a graying priestess.

Draevan didn’t so much as look up from the swyft scroll he held, and Aemyra exchanged a nervous glance with Adarian.

Kenna had left with the sunrise to help the royal family deal with the demise of the king. The other priestesses had begun preparing the altar as though nothing was amiss. With the city guards ferrying the common folk through the streets as they jostled for the best position to watch the procession, Aemyra was safest in the lofty rooms at the top of the temple.

“The bells have quieted,” Eilidh said, hands fluttering around the golden skirts.

Aemyra held her tongue as she was laced into the elaborate dress. Eilidh, hardly able to contain her excitement, had been about as helpful as a fiddler on a deer hunt.

Feeling as though she might vomit with nerves, Aemyra stepped into a pair of heeled shoes that she knew were going to make her feet swell.

The noise from inside the temple three floors below was growing and Draevan kept a watchful eye on the caisteal bridge through the small window. All morning people had been journeying to the temple either to lay their offerings or attempt to secure a place inside for the cleansing ceremony. Little did they know they were about to bear witness to something far more momentous.

The sheer number of mourners had buoyed Draevan’s mood. The more witnesses they had to Aemyra’s claim, the harder it would be for Katherine and Evander to contest.

But not impossible.

Footsteps sounded on the rickety staircase that led to Kenna’s rooms and Aemyra turned, causing the priestess who was coiling her hair to click her tongue with impatience.

“I summoned you an hour ago,” Draevan said, leaving his post by the window as the three newcomers entered the room.

The addition of more bodies made the space even more claustrophobic. It didn’t help that Aemyra’s skirts had the circumference of a small carriage.

“Allow me to present your queen’s guard,” Draevan said, his clipped tone betraying his impatience as they sank to their knees.

Aemyra swallowed, trying to place their faces. Knowing they must have been present at the oathing ceremony, she struggled to identify them.

“Iona hails from Tìr Uisge and has fought by Maeve’s side since our first coup,” Draevan said, gesturing to a woman with ice blond hair. One side of her skull was shorn to the scalp. “She will be your water guard.”

Aemyra nodded her head, but before she could formally greet Iona, her father had moved on.

“Nell escaped Tìr ùir thanks to their expert skill in tracking and hunting and will be your earth guard.” Without pausing for breath, Draevan pointed to the brunette. “Clea will fulfill the role of air guard.”

Aemyra offered a small smile to them all in turn. “And what of my fire guard?”

Draevan touched the hilt of Dorchadas as he turned. “My cousin by marriage, Laoise, has been granted the honor. Until she arrives, your brother will bear the responsibility.”

Adarian puffed up his chest with self-importance. Her twin looked magnificent in a tunic of dark blue that brought out his eyes, the tight breeches and fluted boots accentuating his muscular legs.

“You have your orders,” Draevan barked at the three soldiers. “Your elements and your swords are sworn in service to your queen, and you relinquish your right to Bond. Should anyone protest the true succession today, you know what to do.”

Aemyra wet her dry lips as the priestess coiling her hair finished her work and ducked out of the room.

“No going back now,” Adarian whispered, appraising her queenly appearance.

“Are you sure gold is the right choice?” she asked nervously, hands fluttering over her dress. “Shouldn’t we have gone with red?”

Draevan turned from where he was conversing with Nell, eyes roving over his daughter’s elaborate gown.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly. “Red is what every ùir woman wore when they came in droves to secure a marriage to one of the princes.” Draevan sent Nell off with a message and strode over to Aemyra. Even with the heeled shoes, she had to look up into her father’s eyes. “You are not asking permission to enter the clan today. You are the clan.”

Gold was making a statement. No Daercathian had worn it since the last female monarch, Queen Earie, had died in 1793.

Steeling herself, Aemyra loosed a shaky breath, willing her nerves to dissipate.

You are descended from ancient queens. Fire runs through your veins. Embrace it.

Sparks stuttered in her palm and Draevan eyed them skeptically. “The dowager queen and crown prince will contest your claim in front of the crowd.”

“I know,” Aemyra said, blowing out a terse breath.

“They will have no choice but to respect the law of matriarchal succession. It matters not how diluted your royal blood is. When people see the depth of your power, and that you have the priestesses’ support, they won’t question it.”

“I know.”

Draevan began pacing. “The True Religion will sow seeds of dissent the moment the ceremony is over, but the damage will have been done. You must only be ready to—”

“I know, ” Aemyra replied through gritted teeth.

Their position was precarious enough. She didn’t need her father reminding her of every way this could go wrong.

Aemyra rubbed her bare arms, scrubbed free of any lingering dirt or soot from her past life by an overzealous Eilidh.

Her hair had been washed until it shone like Brigid’s fire itself. It felt strange to wear it flowing down her back instead of bound tightly and covered with the headscarf.

A pretty appearance wasn’t going to make this situation any less dangerous.

The king was dead, but the queen, the crown prince, the captain of the guard, and even the priests were all obstacles that blocked the path to Aemyra’s throne.

But looking into Eilidh’s eager face, they seemed insignificant. The priestesses were on her side, as were the Goddesses, and the people would recognize that. She had freed Eilidh from shackles a decade past, now Aemyra would ensure her right to worship Brigid for the rest of her days.

“I promise to uphold the ways of the Goddess, and to always do what is best for our people,” Aemyra said fervently.

Eilidh’s smile stumbled as Draevan snorted, arms crossed over his midnight black tunic. “An easy promise to make, a harder one to keep.”

Her father’s words fueling her nerves once again, Aemyra tried to get comfortable in the dress.

She had thought about becoming queen more times than she could count, but only now was she beginning to feel the true weight of the crown she would carry.

A deafening roar split the sky and Aemyra resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears as the window rattled and Eilidh disappeared down the stairs.

Her father, far more used to dragons than either of his children, smirked. “Kolreath has left his nest. The procession has begun crossing the bridge.”

Aemyra’s heart started to race and she lurched toward the window. Her palms were sweaty as she gripped the sill, peering through the grime to the street far below.

Haedren’s body lay upon a large litter draped in crimson and gold, borne toward the temple on the shoulders of his sons. The sun was blinding as it reflected off the waters of Loch Lorna, flowing between the caisteal and the rest of the city. Four heads of auburn hair crossed the wide bridge and, at Kenna’s side, Dowager Queen Katherine wore a dramatic black veil. Ignoring the procession, Aemyra craned her neck to catch a glimpse of Kolreath high above.

Draevan pushed her away from the window. “Later. Focus on the announcement and steady your magic.”

Biting her tongue, Aemyra forced herself not to shed the dress, grab her sword, and run outside to Bond to the golden dragon she so desired.

“One thing at a time,” Adarian whispered, stepping a little closer to her. His shiny boots were dark enough to absorb light—obsidian next to her radiance.

Several queens had ruled without being Bonded, but Aemyra desired a dragon far more than she wanted the crown. Had thought of nothing else since witnessing her father take flight with Gealach as a child.

Deep down, she knew they were right. The only other person likely to want to claim Kolreath was Evander, and he was currently carrying his father’s body across the bridge with his three younger brothers. Bonding could wait a little longer.

Nell popped their head back around the door. “We must get into position.”

The balls of her feet throbbing in the shoes, Aemyra followed her father down through the private quarters at the back of the temple.

As the royal family prepared to lay the body of the king on the altar, they had no idea someone was readying themselves to take the inheritance they thought was owed to them.

Her queen’s guard wore serious expressions and held their hands extended before them, as though poised to summon their elements at the first sign of trouble.

Priestesses lined the narrow corridors, bowing reverently as Aemyra and Adarian let their father lead them toward their destiny.

She had to admit that they looked every inch the royalty they were. Her brother stood with an almost kingly air, his immaculate posture born from years of horsemanship and intricate metalwork. Her golden dress was nothing short of queenly.

Reaching the lower level, the heat from the eternal fire seared Aemyra’s cheeks as she halted in the small antechamber usually used for preparations. The enormous fire would conceal her entrance but it was making her thighs sweat under the thick skirts.

The bodhran and pipes stirred her blood as they called the king’s soul to the Otherworld to be judged by Hela. The music swelled around them, rousing and emotional enough that Aemyra felt her throat thickening at the thought of the king she had never met. Her father had always said that Haedren would have killed her on sight if he found out about her, but she had often wondered if Draevan had been exaggerating.

Regardless, with the True Religion tightening its noose around the royal family, and the dragons almost extinct, Tìr Teine had never needed a queen more. Aemyra just hoped she could be the queen they needed.

The music faded and an expectant silence filled the cavernous room on the other side of the eternal fire. With some not-so-gentle pushing from Draevan, Aemyra made her way out from the antechamber into position behind the flames.

Thanks to her magic, the roaring fire did not harm her.

Kenna was intoning the cleansing ceremony, anointing the king’s body with oils and herbs as those gathered repeated the words and implored Hela to release Haedren’s soul to Brigid. It was but the first in five days and nights of mourning rituals.

Rituals Aemyra was about to seriously disrupt.

With her heartbeat thundering in her ears, Aemyra felt her feet growing slick inside the heeled shoes and she hoped she wouldn’t fall.

Great Mother, guide me. Brigid, give me strength. Beira, keep me steady.

With a nervous glance to her right, chest heaving, Aemyra locked eyes with her father. He could not see beyond the fire, but he was listening carefully for Kenna’s invitation.

Chest tight, Aemyra struggled to draw breath and wasn’t sure if it was due to her nerves or the stiff corset. The eternal fire filled her swimming vision and she almost missed Draevan’s sharp nod.

Giving up on the attempt to draw air into her lungs, Aemyra held her breath as she summoned more magic than she had ever been allowed to in her life.

Calling it forth from that sacred space in her chest, it raced out from her willingly. With shocking compliance, the eternal fire ripped in two.

Screams tore from throats as Aemyra walked unharmed through the flames.

Tendrils of flame snaked out from the roaring fire to cling to Aemrya as though they were reluctant to relinquish her. They attached to the gold dress, lighting her up like a living flame.

So illuminated as she emerged on the other side of the altar, Aemyra’s golden gown sparkled blindingly enough that those gathered had to shield their eyes.

She was suddenly glad for the tightly laced corset. It was keeping her heart inside of her body.

With the Daercathian clan crest embroidered into the stitching of the sleeves and scooped neckline, the full skirts made her feel more regal than she had in her life. Despite her lack of weapons, she had never looked so powerful.

The gasps finally reached her ears and Aemyra refused to lower her viridian eyes as she strode confidently around the altar toward Kenna, heels clicking on the marble floor as her father, brother, and queen’s guard followed her through the flames.

Some might have thought it disrespectful to seize power at such a moment, but they needed to strike the royal family while they were vulnerable. The truth might be on their side, but they were still at a disadvantage.

The Dowager Queen Katherine was standing at the front of the gathered crowd, Sir Nairn by her side. Her heavy gown of black was complete with a mourning veil, and a Savior’s pendant glinted on her chest. Her four sons were gathered around her, easily identifiable by their dark red hair. The three women standing in the next row must be their wives. Prince Fergys, Evander’s eldest son and heir, was the only royal child present.

Behind them, necks were craning as people tried to get a better glimpse of the woman bearing a striking resemblance to the queens of old.

Katherine’s furious eyes were darting between the twins and Draevan. Evander, who clearly didn’t recognize Aemyra, was swaying where he stood.

Fiorean, however, seemed ready to put a sword through her gut.

The muttered expletives and startled whispers ceased when Aemyra reached the high priestess and sank into the lowest curtsy she could manage. Her years of etiquette training finally paying off, it was a far cry from the purposefully inelegant bows she had given the prince.

Kenna smiled and spread her arms wide.

“People of àird Lasair, esteemed lairds and noble families, we have waited a hundred years for a queen. For a century, Clan Daercathian has been ruled by the eldest male descendant in accordance with the declaration by the first king, Vander, in 1790. He set forth a precedent that the crown would pass to his sons, and their sons after them, only so long as no female of royal blood was born.

“King Haedren is dead and the Penryth branch of the clan has brought forth a female heir at last,” Kenna called out, her voice echoing off the walls. “As such, the line of succession must now change in accordance with the will of the Goddesses.”

The tension was so thick that Aemyra could have cut it with Sir Nairn’s broadsword, and the crowd seemed to be holding its collective breath. As one, the priestesses lining the walls sank gracefully to their knees in obeisance, clearly demonstrating where their loyalty lay.

Kenna welcomed Draevan toward the altar, the reflection of the eternal fire dancing in his eyes as the exiled prince finally stepped into his power.

“I present to you now our rightful queen and heir to the throne of Tìr Teine. My daughter, Aemyra Daercathian.”

She had expected gasps or outraged yelling, and a childish part of her had always fantasized about cheers, but she hadn’t anticipated a silence so loud it hurt.

There was no time to wonder what it meant, as Kenna gripped Aemyra’s wrist and pulled a ceremonial knife from her crimson robes.

Aemyra flinched as the high priestess slashed the blade across Aemyra’s palm, reopening her wound. Then she heard the Dowager Queen Katherine’s shrill voice echo through the temple.

“This is treason!”

Not one person took up the cry as the high priestess held Aemyra’s hand over the king’s body to give the ceremonial offering of the heir.

Time seemed suspended as the first drops of blood hit the wrappings. When Brigid’s eternal fire flared in a dangerous crescendo behind the altar, swollen with Aemyra’s offering, several people gasped.

Draevan’s smile was all teeth.

“Brigid has accepted her. All hail Aemyra Daercathian, Queen of Tìr Teine!”