Guilt stirs within me.
Mathilda had handled Tane with such care. Tane, who is back in the capital after almost dying, and who is depending on us to fix magic.
This is not the time for us.
I pull away, and Lachlan eases his grip. His breath comes out in rapid pants, and he presses his forehead against mine, closing his eyes.
“Too soon?”
I nod, my nose skimming his. “I just … feel guilty with everything going on right now. Maybe we shouldn’t?—”
“I ken what you’re saying.” Lachlan smiles, placing a brief kiss onto my forehead. “I can wait.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, leaning back into his arms. “It’ll be easier when all of this is over.”
The sky is a hazy black, the perfect canvas for the aurora borealis as it paints its colors in idle, twirling strokes. Clouds blot out the stars, but don’t come close to dimming the ribbons of light dancing lazily in the sky. It casts the dock and small city in vibrant greens and pinks.
It’s my first time on this island, and much like Olundy, it feels like I’m coming home. There’s a nip in the air, but also the savory smells of roasted pork and something … sweet. My stomach growls, and I press a hand to the hollowness. I devoured the measly supplies Lach had packed for our trip hours ago.
Faint, tranquil music is audible above the lapping waves as our boat glides to the dock. Lachlan grabs the black pelt cloak and drapes it over me, tying it under my chin, before placing a brief kiss onto my lips.
“This is one of the colder islands,” he murmurs, before hopping over the side of the boat with ease and holding out a hand for me. “Dinna want ye catching a cold.”
The music, coupled with the smell of food, tugs me off the boat and down the dock. Lachlan barely has time to tie up our boat before he’s jogging after me.
Dim light from the iron street lanterns illuminates gray stone buildings. The stones shimmer with pinkish hues from the northern lights still rolling above. Clouds part and blankets of stars become visible, glittering in the inky sky. Buildings flanking either side of the street are similar to the ones in Orkney, but … older. Large leaded glass windows give glimpses into stores or dining rooms and remind me of old postcards from Edinburgh.
I see why the island is called Scota.
It’s like I stepped into the past, an ancient one. It’s rustic here. The city is no more than a large village, really. But I love it.
Lachlan’s hand wraps around mine, and he leads me farther along, closer to the music I heard when we landed. A single-story stone building with a thatched roof has its doors thrown wide open, allowing the music to spill out into the deserted street. We walk across the threshold, and I inhale deeply, savoring the aroma of the delicious food on the long wooden tables placed around the dining area. I clench my jaw to keep from drooling. The food smells incredible.
A flash of silver-blonde hair gleams from underneath one of the many lanterns swinging from the ceiling and draws my attention. Cynane’s silver eyes pierce me from across the room. She’s seated in the middle of one of the long tables surrounded by several fur-covered warriors, like she’s holding court.
“Skål! Our queen graces our island at last!” she calls loudly from across the room. Her smile is dazzling, and a hint of mischief twinkles in her eyes.
The music cuts off, and chairs scrape across the wooden floor as people try to get a better look at who she’s talking to. I toss a hand up in greeting before striding across the room, Lachlan right on my heels.
Eyes follow me as I cross the room. They dip their heads in greeting and thump their chests with fists. I feel like I belong here. There’s a foundation of respect, a line of leadership regarded that my victory in the rebellion secured me. Several warriors murmur Lachlan’s name. Their eyes gleam with reverence when they take him in. He’s well known here and admired, if the blushing smiles from the females tell me anything.
The warriors seated at the long table beside Cynane slide down on the benches to make room, and I take a seat across from her. She takes a long pull from her mead horn. And I immediately notice the hand clasped around it. It’s swollen, the knuckles purple and blue with bruises. A few cuts spread across most of them still look to be bloody.
“Is everything ok?” I ask, eyeing her damaged hand.
Cynane follows my stare and smiles fiendishly, flexing her hand.
“Everything is as it should be. I’m thrilled to be back in the training ring, as is everyone else.” She nods at the warriors around her, and that’s when I notice their swollen black eyes and split lips.
“Is that courtesy of you?”
Her eyes blaze as she bites down on her injured lip and then spits the blood onto the floor.
“A few of them might be,” she snickers, her nose wrinkling delicately.
I nod, impressed at her handiwork. Cynane knocks her mead on the wooden table top to garner the attention of the barmaid in the corner of the dining hall.
“The queen and her captain could use some food and mead, Imelda!” she calls to the barmaid, who smiles and nods in answer.
