Chapter Seven #2
Ronan glared. “Fine. No, I haven’t sent him a letter yet, because I don’t want to feel bad about finally reaching my goal.”
His friend’s face softened into something more understanding. “Your father worries about you; you can’t hold that against him.”
Ronan knew Domhnall was right. While Ronan’s nightmares were of his mother, his father’s were of Ronan. He’d lost his wife to the path of the warrior, and then Ronan had willfully chosen the same path. The man saw Ronan’s attending Caisleán Cósta as Ronan committing himself to an inevitable death.
“I’ll write to him tonight,” he promised. “Now answer a question of mine: Where did you go off to after class?”
“I had a question for Draoi Griffin.” Domhnall leaned back, hands resting on Ronan’s travel chest. The response wouldn’t seem unusual for Domhnall, except Draoi Griffin had still been in the classroom when they left.
Which meant Domhnall was keeping something from him. Again.
“I can’t believe Clía is here,” Domhnall continued. “Surely to remind me of all my mistakes.” Ronan would think this abrupt change in subject were a diversion if the prince’s expression wasn’t so surprisingly sincere. “I did the right thing, stopping the betrothal. Didn’t I?”
There was doubt in Domhnall’s eyes. Ronan had seen the prince proud, afraid, stubborn, and determined—but doubt was new.
“You said King Cathal didn’t approve,” Ronan replied. “It would be foolish to go against his will. And the princess clearly isn’t a warrior—that much was made clear today.”
“You’re right, of course.” Domhnall nodded, but the doubt in his expression didn’t vanish. Before Ronan could question it, the prince picked up Ronan’s copy of An Annotated History of Tinelann and scanned it. “Anything good in this one?”
“Very little that could help the effort against Tinelann. Nor much in the way of motivation, outside agricultural struggles that might make them turn south for new land.”
“No historic ties to Ionróir we might have missed?” As the Scáilcan prince, Domhnall had access to all Inismian’s knowledge, but he still supported Ronan’s research.
“None that I can find. Tinelann always had strong naval influence; it wouldn’t surprise me if they sailed to Ionróir themselves to plan these attacks. But there’s nothing here that would help us guess at what they promised the Ionróiran court or predict what their next move will be.”
Domhnall nodded. “Tinelann’s new king has lost Draoi support, and we’ve yet to discover why.
Every time we press the Draoi for more information, they shut us down with their vow of neutrality.
Hypocritical bastards. They’re fine with playing politics when it comes to making the kingdoms bow to them . . .”
This was not a new rant from Domhnall. Ronan gave him a look—they needed to be careful speaking ill of the Draoi in the castle—and the prince rolled his eyes.
Once Domhnall had left, Ronan looked back at the book.
His efforts thus far had yielded no new information. Perhaps it was time to look elsewhere.
***
THE DALTAS’ LIbrARY WAS EMPTY EXCEPT FOR ONE OTHER person.
Princess Clíodhna sat in front of the fire, hair falling in a curtain around her face as she glared at the book in her lap as if it had personally wronged her.
Beside her, propped on a cushion and sound asleep, was the small beast Ronan had seen her with in álainndore.
Ronan let the door shut behind him loudly, so the princess knew she was no longer alone. She jumped at the noise, closing her book.
“My apologies, your highness.” His voice was soft.
She brushed her hair back and gave him a smile. It was the same polite one he had seen in the courtyard. “Captain ó Faoláin. A pleasure to see you again.”
He doubted that. “You as well, Princess.”
“Please, call me Clía. We’re all to be equals here, right?” She stood, and Ronan saw she had changed—this dress’s hem was intact. But the ripped fabric from her first dress was still secured around the wound on her arm.
“Have you gotten that treated yet?” he asked.
She looked down at her arm in surprise. “I, uh, I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance.”
“Stay here for one second.” He didn’t wait for her answer before hurrying back to his room.
When he returned, Clíodhna was sitting with her book open once more. She only looked up after he came to stand in front of her.
He shook the small bag in his hand. “Bandages. Supplies. We should clean up that cut before it festers.”
“Maybe I should visit the healer,” she said doubtfully.
“They would offer the same as I am, except I’m much closer.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you don’t think I’m capable? I can assure you, while my bedside manner may not be perfect, I’ve had plenty of practice at this.”
She blushed slightly. “I believe it. Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. She offered Ronan her arm, and he began to work.
It was a routine he was familiar with, no different from when he patched up fellow warriors after a long training session.
Except her skin was softer than any warrior’s he had sparred with before.
“This might sting,” he said, before gently cleaning the wound.
He felt the princess’s muscles tighten, but she didn’t make a noise. The dobhar-chú, however, noticed her slight flinch. For an animal so small, its glare felt threatening.
“He’s not going to bite me, is he?” It was half a joke.
Clíodhna laughed; the sound was light, almost musical. “Not unless you give him a reason to.”
He eyed the beast carefully as Murphy settled back onto his pillow. “Good to know.”
As he turned back to the wound, Ronan let himself ask the question he had been wondering since he first saw her here. “Caisleán Cósta hasn’t seen an álainndoran royal in generations. What made you want to train here? I’m sure this isn’t your idea of fun.”
She froze, and he wondered what he’d said wrong. “I know everyone thinks our conception of being royal is all feasts and celebrations,” she said. “But my family is aware of the war that’s brewing. And it’s my duty to my people to better myself so I can properly lead them in times of crisis.”
“How many times did you practice that?” he asked, not unkindly.
Her smile was iron sharp. “Not everyone has the luxury of not having their every word analyzed, their inflection and diction discussed at dinner right in front of their face.”
Ronan knew the intricacies of court politics—he had witnessed Domhnall navigate them all firsthand.
And he knew he had no taste for them. He shrugged.
“You don’t need to watch your words with me.
I promise you, I have no use for gossip and am in no place to judge.
So, tell me, what’s the real reason you’re here? ”
“I guess you could say I have something to prove.”
That, he understood.
“You’ll find that’s something we both have in common.” He smiled as he secured a fresh bandage.
She examined his work. “You’re good at this. Have you considered being a healer?”
“My talents lie in inflicting wounds, not patching them up, but I appreciate it.” His gaze fell onto the book she was reading. “Catching up on your history lessons?”
She leaned back, pulling the book closer to her chest. “I admit, my military training was lacking as a child. My parents always encouraged me to focus on other things, different battles. But that mindset doesn’t serve me anymore. I need to make up for lost time.”
Her resolve was admirable, but he couldn’t help but notice the flaw in her plan.
“A book won’t help you hold a blade.”
“Sitting around and doing nothing won’t help me either,” she retorted. “Your instinct might be to pick up a sword—mine’s a book.”
Ronan reached for the dagger he kept at his side.
“May I?” he asked. When she nodded, he took her hand, gently, and curled his palm around hers, placing her delicate fingers around the pommel.
“That is how you hold it. The key is to keep your grip strong, but not stiff. You want to be able to control it, not let it move you.” As he spoke, he moved her arm with his, guiding her through a few basic positions.
“A sword will be different, but the principle is the same.”
She looked down for a moment, then handed the dagger back to him.
“What did you come in here for?”
Ronan blinked at her question. He had almost forgotten. “I was planning to do more research into the Diamhair Mountains. Contrary to what you seem to think, my instinct is also to pick up a book.”
She didn’t seem embarrassed by his calling out her assumptions. Instead, there was curiosity in her eyes.
“You’re worried about why Tinelann might be breaking the treaty,” she said. “I questioned the same thing myself. After the meeting, I found myself wondering if travel wasn’t the only reason they might be using the mountains.”
“The seas are calm enough for them to sail. If they needed access to the rest of Inismian, there are less risky routes,” he said.
Clíodhna’s smile now was different from the ones he’d seen before—sincere rather than painted on. “Which means there’s another motive.”
Ronan nodded. “There’s the obvious reason: using the mountain pass, they could send men into our kingdoms discreetly.
If they’re careful, they could even establish bases in the cliffs for further military movement.
” He walked to one of the bookshelves, searching.
“With the Diamhairs’ strategic location, and the treaty ensuring they won’t be disturbed, it’s a smart plan.
So long as they don’t get caught.” After finding what he was looking for, he brought the book to Clíodhna.
“I agree. But what if there’s more?” She glanced down at what he held: The Time of the Treibh Anam. When she looked up, her eyes were sparkling. “I’m glad I’m not the only one thinking it! They could be looking for Ríoghain’s Jewel.”
Everyone had heard the stories of the Gifts of the Treibh Anam.
The flower, the tree, the harp, the net, and the jewel.
They were history and myth, the treasures of the gods.
Magical items that shaped Inismian’s past and helped the kingdoms survive.
Ríoghain’s Jewel had always been the most desired gift—coveted by those who deserved it the least, as power often is. But it had been lost for centuries.
“Some Draoi believe it’s been hidden in the mountains since Ríoghain came back to Inismian to take it from High King Mael.” Ronan flipped through the pages until he found the chapter.
Clíodhna traced the illustrations on the page. There was the high king of centuries ago, standing proudly on the Hill of Tiarnas. At the center of his crown was a stunning bloodred crystal.
“I remember him from my lessons as a child,” she said. “The gem granted him strength that matched his will, its energy channeled directly from Tír Síoraí. But it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted all the gifts of the Treibh Anam and planned to conquer Inismian to get them.”
“Which is when Ríoghain stepped in,” Ronan finished.
“The text says Ríoghain returned the jewel to ‘the heart of Inismian.’ The Diamhair Mountains. Mael began to search but was killed in an avalanche—most likely Ríoghain’s doing, if I had to guess,” Clíodhna said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ronan replied, smiling.
“If the jewel is there, it makes sense that someone seeking power would hunt for it. And think, it could be tied to the Ionróiran attacks as well. They would only be bold enough to attack Domhnall if they have support from an Inismian kingdom—and King Ardal might be desperate enough to offer it to them in exchange for a distraction.”
“And assistance in getting land and resources from the south.”
“Scáilca would be too strong of a force to take on his own—”
“Which is why he would gladly work with the Ionróirans. He sends them to continue their attacks, potentially robbing the kingdom of an heir and creating instability in Scáilca. Meanwhile, Tinelannians search the mountains for the jewel, and King Ardal plans an attack on Scáilca once it’s deemed weak enough.
” The words flowed out of him, their ideas bouncing off each other to reveal the bigger picture.
Clíodhna paused. “álainndore hasn’t been attacked, but I believe we might have been targeted. Supplies were stolen in our northern villages neighboring the Diamhairs. They may already see us as weak enough to take advantage of.” Her voice was steady, but Ronan could hear the fear behind it.
He chose his words carefully. “They could be preparing for a larger-scale attack and planning to use the Diamhairs to do it. There was a reason, back in álainndore, that Domhnall wanted to investigate Redhallow. It would be a good village to take if Tinelann was looking to begin expanding past the mountains. It’s less connected to the rest of álainndore, but close to both Tinelann and the Scáilcan border. ”
“So álainndore is their focus.” She spoke quietly, but it might as well have been a shout.
álainndore hadn’t seen war for decades, since long before the reign of the current king and queen.
Ronan didn’t even know the size of their army.
While he had critiqued Domhnall for how he handled the situation with Clíodhna, his perception of her kingdom wasn’t wrong. They were woefully unprepared for war.
“I need to go,” Clíodhna said. She moved for the door with Murphy on her heels, but Ronan caught her wrist.
For a moment, her hazel eyes met his—almost golden in this light—and he didn’t see Domhnall’s almost-betrothed or the careless royal he’d heard stories about. She was just a girl, concerned for her home.
The space where his fingers touched her skin was warm, and he wanted to pull her closer. To offer some sort of comfort.
He let go immediately as if burned. “My apologies. I just—are you all right?”
Her face was once again that of a dignified princess. Shuttered. “Of course. Our conversation has given me much to think about. Thank you for that. If you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to write.”