Chapter Three
He’s late.”
Her mother’s tone was casual, but Clía could hear the frustration lurking underneath. She kept staring across the throne room at the doors Domhnall would soon walk through. “He’ll be here.”
“Well, when he does arrive, be sure to not let the train of your gown drag across the dirt of the courtyard,” Queen Eithne reminded her. “You will not get betrothed in a stained gown.”
“I’ll be careful to stick to the paths.” This was her mother’s second reminder, but at least that meant Clía knew what she wanted to hear.
“The betrothal is all but finalized,” her father interjected, eyes trained on the nobles below them, a smile on his face. “A stained dress won’t ruin this alliance.”
Clía stood beside her parents on the raised dais, looking over the crowd of nobility milling about the throne room.
The king and queen sat on twin thrones, the wood intricately carved with vines and stories: legends of the gods and the treasures they left behind.
The queen’s arm rested on the carved petals of a cneasú, a flower that could save one from death but that bloomed only in spilled blood.
It was said to be the gift from her kingdom’s patron god, Tara.
A reminder that great joy must come from great sacrifice.
As a child, Clía had never understood why the god would demand such a condition.
The cneasú wasn’t alone on the throne. Each member of the Treibh Anam—the gods who lived in Inismian long before the kingdoms—had a gift.
A symbol. Clía had spent countless hours of her youth searching for them in the woods.
She would trace the strings of Tadhg’s harp with her fingers, feel the harsh edges of Ríoghain’s jewel under her palm, all the while recounting the stories under her breath.
It drew her away from the noise and expectations of the throne room.
That noise. It was always the first thing she noticed when she walked inside that room.
Musicians played behind a cacophony of chatter and gossip, rings clinked against glasses, heels clicked on the marble floor.
Then came the smells. The most luxurious perfumes melded together to form a bitter scent that clung to the back of her throat.
“Clíodhna, are you paying attention?” Queen Eithne’s sharp voice disrupted her thoughts. “Too much is at stake for you to lose yourself in thought.”
“My apologies.” Clía tilted her head in deference. “Tonight will go well, I promise. After all, you’ve worked so hard on this partnership.”
The queen scrutinized her, calculating. “I have. Now it’s up to you. But of course, I believe you when you say you have this under control. In fact . . .”
The queen rose from her chair. Her sparkling sapphire gown cascaded down like waves crashing onto the shore, and a hush fell over the room.
It wasn’t the jewels that demanded the respect people showed her.
Eithne glowed with a grace that commanded attention.
Her every movement captivated, and when she rose, people couldn’t help but look to see what she did next.
It was a trait Clía hoped eventually to possess. Admiration was a jewel rarer than any diamond, and a weapon sharper than any sword.
“As we await our guests, I would like to offer a toast. Tonight, we celebrate my daughter.” Queen Eithne’s voice filled the throne room.
Her eyes warmed with a maternal softness Clía had only seen in front of an audience.
Clía lifted her chin, staring over the crowd of nobles.
“I know you have all been eager for news of a betrothal between Princess Clíodhna and Prince Domhnall of Scáilca. As have I. Our patience will soon be rewarded. My daughter’s love for her home is endless, and she has sworn to me she will ensure we see the heirs of Tara and Ríoghain’s respective kingdoms joined. To Princess Clíodhna!”
“To Princess Clíodhna!” The court echoed the cry, and Clía tried not to flinch.
She knew better than to feel any comfort from her mother’s speech. It was all part of the act, the role they had to play. And Eithne played it well. Now if her mother’s plans fell apart, the blame would land solely on Clía.
Hand to her heart, Clía offered a humble smile, as if her mother hadn’t just thrown her to the wolves. The conversations and gaiety began again, merriment ringing out from the crowd.
She took the opportunity to scan the room.
This was supposed to be a small celebration, but an extravagant selection of food and drinks was spread across multiple tables on the perimeter, more food than was needed for several dozen of the highest-ranking members of the álainndoran nobility.
Clía tried to avoid thinking of the piles of leftover food that would be discarded in the morning, all in the name of appearances and luxury.
As she glanced around, a stray noble’s gaze would occasionally meet hers before falling to the floor. As princess, she was to never look away first, no matter how much she wanted to. Her fingers rubbed against the fabric of her flowing sleeve, seeking the comfort of the rough texture of the lace.
It wasn’t the attention she dreaded, but the scrutiny that came with it.
The judgment and questions. How easy it was to become the topic of tomorrow’s whispers.
Say the wrong phrase, wear the wrong accessory, and you became the subject of scorn.
Luckily, being princess offered her some protection.
If she made a mistake, people would have to whisper about her a little quieter. A little softer.
“Draoi Ruairc is coming this way.” Queen Eithne nodded her head toward the dark-haired woman approaching the dais. “Go fetch ó Connor for me—I think I saw him by Lady Brigid. There is much to discuss.”
“Domhnall hasn’t proposed yet,” Clía reminded her mother quietly. “I appreciate your speech, but no papers have been signed.”
The queen looked down at her daughter. “I know, but it is as you said. He will. Now go on your way, and be quick about it.”
Clía did as she was told.
Nobles paraded about the throne room, their jewels glittering, gleaming gowns flowing to the floor, and jackets embroidered with rich gold thread winking in the light.
Hands brushed against her arms, urging her to pause and talk with them for just a moment.
The conversations were always had with smiles, but ambition curled around every word.
She could never trust that someone wanted to get to know her, rather than simply wanted to get ahead.
Everything was too loud. Too harsh. Too much.
She longed for an escape she knew she could never have.
Her every step on the marble floor rang in her ears.
The nobles would hear those steps. She evened out her pace, straightened her back, and transformed herself into a picture of confidence as she navigated the floor with calculated grace.
“Did you see what Chief MacSeáin wore—”
“I heard Lady Kallista was seen—”
“Chief Barra still hasn’t responded—”
Clashing conversations bounced off the walls. She urged herself to focus. People revealed surprising things when they believed no one was listening.
She had secrets of her own, wrapped tightly around her heart, protected by silk gowns and diamond necklaces. She wore beauty like armor. Shielding her from the verbal arrows thrown across ballrooms and guiding glances to where she wanted them to land.
“The flautist is so talented.” Lady Brigid’s voice came from a few feet away, where she stood smiling at Chief ó Connor. “Please ask the queen who they are. I must have them perform at my next ball.”
“Of course.” He gave her a tight smile in return, and Clía stepped in to rescue him.
“Hello, Chief. Lady Brigid.” She nodded to them both.
“Your Highness, it is an honor.” The lady lowered herself into a quick curtsey. “I was just telling Chief ó Connor how wonderful this party is. Tell me, you must be so excited about Prince Domhnall’s visit.”
“I am. I have been looking forward to today for so long.” People often preferred a lie as long as it was the right lie.
Society was full of unspoken, often contradictory rules that changed with the weather.
She had never understood it, but she’d learned to pretend.
She taught herself to look for when her words pleased and when they upset.
After years of practice, she knew how to be exactly what they wanted her to be, and she was excellent at donning the mask.
Lady Brigid’s smile grew wider, and Clía knew she’d said the right thing. There was almost a sense of pride at picking the right words and knowing she was playing the role well.
“If you don’t mind, the queen wishes to speak with Chief ó Connor for a moment.
” Clía offered her an apologetic look. Growing up in court, Clía had the benefit of frequent exposure to the álainndoran nobility, allowing her to learn each individual lord’s, lady’s, and lísoir’s preferences and quirks.
Lady Brigid responded best to polite confidence, and she was always quick to bow to the whims of the queen.
“Of course.” The noblewoman nodded. “However, before I go—your gown is beautiful; may I ask who made it?”
“Thank you. It was a combined effort of two of the palace tailors, Maura and Sárait.” It pained Clía to give Maura credit when she and Sárait had nearly remade the dress from scratch, but she knew better than to reveal her interest in dressmaking with the nobility.
It was below her, as her mother so often reminded her.
“Well, they are incredibly skilled. If only I could get my tailor to make such stunning dresses.” Lady Brigid sighed longingly before leaving after one final curtsey.
“Thank you for the rescue,” ó Connor said. “Before you interrupted, she had been discussing the wall sconces for over ten minutes.”