Chapter Five
The dress she spent hours fixing lay in tatters on the ground in her room.
It was supposed to be her betrothal dress, but it had no use now. It felt wrong to allow it to remain perfect and untouched while her world fell apart.
After the meeting in the war room, Clía could hear the whispers follow her as she attended to her duties in the castle. It took everything she had to appear unbothered.
“Did you hear, Prince Domhnall backed out of the betrothal?”
“Apparently, Scáilca questioned her ability to rule.”
“She made the kingdom look shameful.”
“It’s pathetic, really.”
“Weak.”
At the first opportunity, Clía gave in to what she had been wanting to do ever since her conversion with Domhnall: hide in her room.
Her bed was soft as she fell atop it, pillow over her face as she contemplated every life decision that had led her to this point.
Where had she gone wrong? How did she fail? Why wasn’t she enough?
She couldn’t escape the thought. It echoed in the recesses of her mind, pounding against her skull. She threw the pillow. It landed beside the dress.
I need more than a pretty face to sit by my side.
Was that all everyone believed she was?
The evening sun rudely broke through her window and beamed down on her.
Her future had always towered before her, but with Domhnall by her side, she thought she didn’t need to be afraid of it.
Perhaps she had only been fooling herself this whole time.
A loud knock at her door broke her thoughts.
“Go away!” she groaned, not caring if the person behind the door thought it was rude. She’d had enough of what other people thought of her. Besides, she’d clearly stated she would take no visitors for the rest of the day—they were the ones being rude.
“Then who else can I bother to play fidchell with me?” The familiar voice of Chief ó Connor drifted through the door.
Of course he would ignore her desire to be alone. She quickly wiped the tears still streaming down her face; she didn’t need ó Connor worrying about her.
“Come in,” she called, rising from her bed to greet him.
ó Connor walked into her rooms with a concerned look on his face, but Clía ignored it and led him to the fidchell board in her foyer. The remains of her dress taunted her from where they lay beyond the open door to her bedroom. ó Connor’s gaze drifted to them. “A change of outfit?”
Clía brushed away the nonexistent wrinkles in her powder blue dress. It was one of her more elaborate day dresses. The elegant embroidery of the skirt calmed her as she ran her fingers along it. “Today is not a day for pink.”
“Well, that’s a rare occasion.” ó Connor placed his first piece on the board. “I was surprised to see you at the meeting.”
She placed her own piece. “Why is that such a shock? I’m the princess. I was looking after my kingdom.”
She knew ó Connor would see through her flimsy reasoning—he always did—but she hoped he wouldn’t call her on it. In truth, Domhnall’s words had made her itch to prove the prince wrong, and the meeting served as good of an opportunity as any.
“Then tell me, what were your thoughts?” he asked, and a small sense of relief broke through her melancholy.
Murphy took that moment to walk over to her and leap into her lap. She scratched his head. “I think the Scáilcans bring up valid concerns. Why didn’t you grant them the permission they sought?”
While her parents wished to keep álainndore to itself, preferring not to bother themselves with the issues of their neighbor kingdoms, she knew ó Connor could have swayed them if he desired.
“They hope to drag us in to help them fight their battles. We don’t have the time or warriors for that,” he said, his gaze scanning the game board.
Clía sat up straighter. “We might find ourselves dragged into this war either way. Is it not better to stand by our allies? At least this way, if war comes, there’s a chance we’re prepared.”
A shadow crossed ó Connor’s face. “We are prepared.”
The realization of what ó Connor wasn’t telling her hit Clía suddenly. War had come to álainndore’s shores. Chief Barra’s sudden death, the supplies missing in the north—
ó Connor looked up, his mouth set in a grim line. He spoke before she could put her thoughts into words. “What happened this afternoon that has you so upset?”
She could turn the subject back to the war, press him for answers, but if he was keeping things from her, then there had to be a reason.
He thought álainndore was prepared; she would believe him.
He’d been there for her since she was born, for every milestone, guiding her through each step she took. Trusting him had become custom.
“Why would you assume anything happened?” She placed another piece.
“You attended a meeting voluntarily, you’re not accepting visitors, and you have yet to speak the prince’s name. It’s only natural to conclude that something happened, and you’re not happy about it.”
She couldn’t argue. Instead, she settled for bluntness, as if it could dull the ache in her chest. “The prince and I will not be getting married.”
“And was this his decision or yours?”
“I think you can conclude the answer to that.” It was her turn again, and she placed her last piece, blocking him.
ó Connor let out a weary sigh. “His, then.” His next move took the piece she’d just played. She should have seen that coming. His pieces made a clean diagonal across the board, with only one small gap. He was set to win. “What’s your next move?”
He wasn’t talking about the game.
“He said I was too weak to rule. That I—” Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t make the words come out.
They were stuck, squeezing her heart and lungs.
She paused, clearing her throat before continuing.
“He made it clear he doesn’t think I’m good enough to be queen of Scáilca.
” She moved another piece in a hurry, blocking a potential win.
He looked at the board and back to her, before moving one of his pieces and connecting his line, finishing the game. “Letting your emotions rule your decisions is a guaranteed way to lose the fight. What do you want? What’s the ideal outcome of this situation?”
“I want this marriage. This alliance.” It would help her kingdom, and her parents would be happy. Not to mention, marrying Domhnall was expected, it was known, and Clía was never one for change.
From a young age, she knew better than to hope for a great romance; her marriage would only ever be a piece in a larger political plan.
Sure, she had taken interest in others before, but acting on those feelings would be a waste of her time.
Clía longed to be admired and loved as a queen, like her mother, and to be the daughter her parents wanted her to be.
A marriage with Domhnall could bring her that.
Besides, before today, she and Domhnall did have a friendship between them, which was more than most royals could ever hope for in a partnership.
She needed this betrothal.
“Then think logically. How do we accomplish that?” ó Connor deftly reset the board. “The boy will be all but unreachable, away at Caisleán Cósta for the next year, preparing for war—”
“I need to prove to Domhnall and to his parents that I’m strong. That I can be a warrior.” They started the game again, her moves blocking his, he taking pieces but she offering a strong defense.
He moved one of his pieces to take another of hers. The win was almost his. He must have seen the concern in her eyes. “It may seem like it’s over, but there is always a way out. If you only think defensively, you’ll never win. Perhaps it’s time to be on the offense.”
She looked at her pieces, seemingly scattered across the board, and then she saw it. The line. Her win. She made her move. He made his. Then the final step. She shifted her piece, winning the game.
He smiled at her, proud. “Good. Now what will you do next?”
She grinned back at him. “Caisleán, you said? I have the perfect plan.”
***
CLíA WAITED UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING TO APPROACH HER parents, running her pitch in her head several times. When she finally found them in the garrán beside the palace, they weren’t alone.
Tall trees loomed over them, draped in ivy and the remains of old fabric ribbons—the wishes and prayers from last year clinging to branches.
Behind them, the morning sun fell gently from the treetops, illuminating a small moss-covered well—the clootie well—in soft golden light.
Queen Eithne and King Tighearnán stood in the heart of the grove, surrounded by a circle of stones, as Draoi Ruairc spoke to them in hushed tones.
“. . . the Scáilcan prince has left, and your daughter is still not betrothed. People are saying he thought her unfit to rule. Is there truth to their concerns?”
Clía paused, her hand resting on the tree beside her.
“Our daughter has been taught by the best tutors and is fully prepared to take the throne when our time comes,” the queen said.
“She even supervised a meeting with Prince Domhnall and one of our chiefs during the prince’s visit.
I wouldn’t trust those rumors.” Clía would have almost felt warmed by her mother’s statements if she didn’t know the queen was only saying this to appease the Draoi.
“And I should take your word for it? I’m sure you understand the importance of the five kingdoms standing united.
” Draoi Ruairc crouched down to the grass.
A wildflower sat before her, wilted and small in the shade of the tall stones.
The Draoi stroked its pale petals, and suddenly the plant stood taller, its leaves greener.
The Draoi’s power and influence over Inismian was common knowledge, but seeing one channel the energy of Tír Síoraí was both intimidating and intriguing.
“The Treibh Anam created this land for us to care for together and entrusted we Draoi to ensure its prosperity. But we cannot do it on our own.