Chapter Seven
Wind brushed against Caisleán Cósta’s walls like the howling echoes of the warriors who had fought there in the past.
As Ronan walked through the halls of the ancient castle, he couldn’t help but think of everyone who had been here before him. Rulers, dignitaries, and heroes of legend. At some point, this castle had held them all.
And now it held him.
He waited for something in him to change. Some newfound confidence discovered, an end to the clawing ambition in him. Something.
But he felt no different from the day before.
All he could think of was what to do next. That need to prove himself at Caisleán.
Rumors of the unrelenting and unforgiving nature of Caisleán Cósta filled every training ground he’d walked on.
But he didn’t care. It wouldn’t matter if every night he found himself crashing into bed, desperate for sleep.
If he woke up with crushing pain in his limbs.
All that mattered was that he’d made it.
He might never be rid of the pain, the nightmares, the part of his life he desperately kept hidden from the world. Yet his soul seemed to settle in his chest at the knowledge that it didn’t and wouldn’t hold him back.
Ronan walked into the room that would become their classroom.
It was large, with enough rows of benches to seat the few dozen dalta attending this year.
He immediately spotted Princess Clíodhna, sitting in the front beside a group of warriors but remaining separate.
The dress that had torn during her trial was missing the hem, the ripped fabric now wrapped around her arm, binding her wound.
The afternoon sun cascaded through the windows, giving her hair a glowing halo, and despite the blood and dirt on her face, she was smiling as one of the warriors turned to speak to her.
Ronan found Domhnall sitting in the back next to Niamh Morrigan. He took the seat beside them, but before either of them could speak, Draoi Griffin entered the room.
“You are here to learn the way of Ríoghain. The way of war.” The room fell silent at the sound of his voice, soft but sure.
“A warrior isn’t forged through sparring alone.
In order to become a true soldier, you must study the history of warfare and battle.
You must understand the calculations that are made before a sword is even drawn. ”
The Draoi spoke for a couple of hours, laying the groundwork for the lessons to come, and Ronan listened diligently. He had studied on his own, during his time at the palace, but direct lessons from a Draoi were hard to come by. He wouldn’t waste this.
Draoi Griffin was a talented speaker, making Ronan wonder what had brought him to Caisleán Cósta.
The order of the Draoi welcomed anyone who wanted to dedicate their lives to the Treibh Anam and the continent, and as a result, there were Draoi scattered across Inismian.
Some resided in one of the five Draoi-run institutes, such as Caisleán Cósta, dedicated to preserving the path of their patron god; some stayed in court with the nobility, advising the leaders of Inismian; a few lived amid the rest of the people, caring for the land directly.
While some Draoi knew what path they wanted to follow when they joined, some went where they were needed most. Which group did Draoi Griffin belong to? Had he always dreamed of being at Caisleán Cósta, like Ronan?
“I believe that’s enough for today. I’ll give you some time to settle in. We’ll continue our discussions tomorrow.”
Dismissed, Ronan and Domhnall filtered out of the room, trailing behind the rest of the class.
“I was thinking of going to—”
“There’s something I must do. I’ll see you later?” Domhnall said, interrupting him, his gaze following Niamh as she turned down the hall.
“Of course.” Ronan shot him a questioning look, but the prince was already walking away.
Before Ronan could wonder what Domhnall was up to, a voice called out to him.
“ó Faoláin.” Kordislaen stood a few feet behind him. “Speak with me for a minute.”
After years of training, preparing, working toward this moment, Ronan found he suddenly couldn’t find words. He could only nod and wait to see what the general said.
“You’ve grown into quite the warrior, just as I predicted.” The expression that grew on Kordislaen’s face could almost be called a smile.
Ronan cleared his throat. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you, sir.”
The general nodded. “Of course, training and studying does help, but it’s your keen mind and apt instincts that have brought you the success you’ve found. I knew when I first saw you—you had potential most people couldn’t even dream of. I always had faith you would find your way here.”
Ronan’s heart raced in his chest. Kordislaen still remembered him. He still believed in him. “Thank you, sir. For everything.”
“There’s no need to thank me. I did my duty to Scáilca and to Ríoghain by encouraging you on your journey. You make a fine warrior, and I know you have already served your kingdom well. All I expect in return is that you continue down this path.”
He tried to come up with a dignified response, something other than Thank you, I will, or How could I ever repay you for this?
In the end, he simply nodded again.
“You have dealt with a lot in your life, more than most your age. Still, you rose above your peers and persevered. That takes true strength. Strength some of your fellow daltas could only dream of. However, I do worry a few may get jealous of the assistance you received.” Kordislaen’s words were careful.
“They might believe you’ll get preferential treatment as a result.
You will be treated as all the rest—you’ll face repercussions as anyone else would—but desperation spawns suspicion.
It might be best you keep your history to yourself. ”
My history. Kordislaen meant his influence on Ronan’s life.
“Yes, sir,” Ronan said at once. “Of course.”
“Good. Off, then. Try to get more studying in before the dinner tomorrow. The best way to avoid falling behind is by reaching ahead.”
***
“YOUR ROOM IS BORING.” DOMHNALL PERUSED THE SMALL space. Between the two of them, there wasn’t much room for walking around, but Domhnall tried nevertheless. “Like you,” he added, as an afterthought.
The copy of An Annotated History of Tinelann sat useless in Ronan’s hands. He should be reading it, but the prince was insisting on making that difficult.
“You should be grateful it’s large enough for your ego,” Ronan replied.
In the Suanriogh palace, guards would share rooms. He often found himself living with four other warriors. Having a space all to himself was a luxury.
The room was clean but bare. He had no use for decorations, and besides, he didn’t know how long he would be staying here.
For him, there was double the risk of being sent home—if Domhnall was dismissed, Ronan as his guard would depart with the prince.
And if Ronan himself was dismissed . . .
Well, he didn’t want to think about that.
Still, he had to be prepared to leave on a moment’s notice.
As a result, the only personal touch in his room were the books.
He was here to improve as a warrior, and there was no greater way to better oneself outside of reading.
Tomes and texts were stacked on the floor and piled neatly on every possible surface.
Domhnall was poking at the cover of a copy of The Time of the Treibh Anam when he spoke next. “I heard Kordislaen address you as I was leaving. What did he want to talk to you about?”
“Nothing important.” Ronan turned back to his book.
“Oh, so we’re being mysterious now?”
The thud of a book tumbling off the table forced Ronan to look back up at the prince, who stood beside the wreckage—a picture of innocence.
The man was worse than a cat.
After a pointed look, Domhnall handed the fallen book over to Ronan. Its spine had already been worn with age, and the fall was the final blow. The pages were loose. It would be a pain to read now.
“You broke my book.”
“You got it from my family’s library, so I believe it’s actually my book. It’s nothing special anyway—I’m sure they have a copy here at Caisleán.” Domhnall shrugged. “May we go back to the matter at hand and discuss your conversation with the general?”
Ronan sighed, running a hand through his hair. “There’s nothing to say.”
Domhnall already knew Ronan’s connection to Kordislaen and his motivation behind coming to Caisleán, but Ronan felt reluctant to remind him of it now that Kordislaen had asked him to stay quiet.
And a small voice in the back of Ronan’s mind whispered that maybe Kordislaen was right, that people wouldn’t believe Ronan had earned his place.
An even smaller voice wondered if they would be wrong to think that.
After all, would he even be here if it weren’t for Domhnall’s requesting it?
It doesn’t matter. It was your hard work that led you to become the captain of Domhnall’s guard.
Of course, you also knew growing closer to the prince would secure you a better position.
Guilt crept up Ronan’s throat. “Fine. Ask what you would like.”
Domhnall gave him a strange look. “And you’ll reply in more than one syllable?”
Ronan held back another sigh. Domhnall never made things easy. “Yes,” Ronan mumbled, but the prince tilted his head knowingly. “I promise.” He forced the extra words out.
“Thank you.” Domhnall smiled broadly—there was nothing that made Domhnall happier than winning. “I thought it would be a little harder to convince you to talk. I was deciding between torture methods.”
Ronan wasn’t convinced this wasn’t a torture method.
Domhnall tilted his head, most likely debating how to begin his inquisition. “Have you written to your father yet, since being back in Scáilca?”
He wished the prince had asked about Kordislaen.
“No,” Ronan admitted quietly.
“You promised more syllables,” Domhnall reminded him.