Chapter Eight
The mess hall was a chorus of noise, and filled with Draoi, daltas, and warriors.
After talking to Ronan in the library, Clía had rushed back to her room to write a letter to her parents.
By the time she was able to come down to eat, everyone else had already arrived.
She could smell the dirt and sweat clinging to the skin of the other daltas, almost overwhelming the scent of the food on the tables.
Her conversation with Ronan wouldn’t leave her mind. He was Domhnall’s guard, guaranteed to not have a great view of her kingdom, yet he hadn’t dismissed her. He’d listened to her concerns and met them with his own.
If only he had ignored her, then maybe she wouldn’t be filled with the dread that coiled in her now.
When they’d discussed their kingdoms and the threats they faced, Clía was reminded of her games of fidchell: predicting your opponent’s move, discovering weaknesses in their attack.
Except she had joined the game too late.
álainndore was weak. Perhaps not how Domhnall meant it when he broke off their betrothal, but her kingdom still lacked the training and dedication of Scáilcan warriors and the diligent care of the Scáilcan royals.
With Ríoghain as their patron, Scáilca had thrived, but álainndore had focused too much on superficial things—fashion, gossip, alliances, and manipulation.
All had a time and place, but her parents had let these elements consume the court, even themselves.
Her kingdom wasn’t prepared for war.
In the letter, she had explained her suspicions and her concerns for their kingdom. She also wrote a second missive to ó Connor, with the same information.
She was too far from home to make a difference on her own, and there was still another problem that demanded her attention.
Clía could almost hear her mother nagging: Focus on the task at hand.
Her parents and ó Connor would handle the kingdom.
Her best way of helping would be to fix what she had broken with Domhnall.
Today’s training may not have gone as planned—a fact that filled her with frustration—but dinner brought new opportunities.
She spotted the prince sitting in the back corner of the room, surprisingly without Captain ó Faoláin beside him. He was combing back his hair with his fingers, and his deep blue doublet was wrinkled and covered in a layer of dust—but the collar was neatly fixed against his neck.
When they were children, she always had to help him with his clothes. Domhnall would fuss and fight it, but she would see the gratitude in his eyes when he was impeccably turned out for every event. He had been hopeless back then. Perhaps not much had changed.
His attention was on the conversation he was having with the girl sitting across from him. When she turned, Clía immediately recognized the warrior.
Niamh Morrigan.
Perhaps he had felt unsettled by their duel and Niamh’s attack, and was inquiring after Clía’s well-being? Or they might know each other. Kordislaen had called Niamh’s father a lord—the Morrigans must be Scáilcan nobility. They could have grown up among the same circles.
But then why would Clía have never heard of her? For years, she and Domhnall shared their lives through letters and visits. He would certainly have mentioned someone like Niamh.
She pinned on her sunniest smile and smoothed her golden hair as she approached them. Here was a chance to win him back; she wouldn’t get distracted. This was a type of battle she understood.
“Clía!” The corners of Domhnall’s mouth tightened when he noticed her. “I must say, I was surprised to see you today.”
“Why?” she replied innocently.
“Well, I—uh—I never thought battle was something you cared for.” He sent a glance she couldn’t read to Niamh before standing. “May we speak in private for a moment?”
Her brow arched. “Whatever for?”
“There are some things I wish to tell you.”
He saw the error in his ways. He regrets leaving me. He wants to be married by sunrise.
She shook the ridiculous notions out of her head.
“Of course. Lead the way.” She gestured toward the door, and he gently took her arm in his as they exited the hall.
Once in the relative quiet of the corridor, Domhnall dropped her arm. She stood back and looked him over once more. His lean arms, chiseled jaw, and familiar, piercing eyes. The sight of him was a comfort, despite everything.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured, at the same time he stated: “What are you doing here?”
His tone was jarring. She straightened her back and met his gaze head-on. He seemed impatient for an answer, impatient in general. “I’m here to learn.”
“Clía, you never cared for battle and war games. You would barely listen when I talked about my training.” He smiled lightly, a gentle reminder.
Scáilca needs a strong queen and that’s not you.
“Maybe that’s because you were boring.” She mimicked his expression, and suddenly his smile dropped.
“This isn’t you. You prefer . . . dresses and . . . I don’t know, jewels and gossip.”
I need more than a pretty face to sit by my side.
“Am I not capable of enjoying more than that?” She crossed her arms in front of her.
His mouth dropped and words started tumbling out. “That’s not what I meant. Clía—I’m sorry. This is coming out wrong.”
“Finally, something you’re right about.” Her tone was sharp. A hurt look crossed his face, and she remembered why she was here. To earn his admiration, not antagonize him. She sighed. “No, I’m sorry. I’m being rude.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “No, you’re being entirely fair. I’m the rude one.”
In that moment, she lost herself in the memory of what it was like to laugh with him, in how they used to be.
Except, that was the very problem. How they used to be didn’t work. A new start was needed. But maybe they could find that here.
Domhnall broke the silence first. “I wanted to talk to you, to tell you first that . . .” He took a breath. “I’m to be married.”
Clía felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t have possibly heard him right. The expectations of her parents, the responsibility of her position pressed against her lungs, making it hard to breathe. “Excuse me?” The whisper was pained, scratching as it clawed its way out.
Domhnall winced. “I’m engaged. It isn’t official yet, but it will be very soon. It’ll earn my family the favor of some of the more vocal dissenting nobles and strengthen Scáilca.”
Red-hot anger burned in her chest but caught in her throat. Her eyes stung. She wasn’t sure if the anger was more at herself or at Domhnall. Shaking her head, she tried to steady herself and her mind. “I—I can’t believe . . .”
“Is everything okay?” a familiar voice called. Ronan walked over, coming to stand between them.
“It’s nothing, Ronan. This is between me and Clía.” The prince spoke while she did her best to fight back an onslaught of tears. She didn’t need witnesses to her weakness.
Ronan’s gaze fell on her, and she felt as if he could see everything she was trying to hide, the tenuous hold she had over herself, and how, no matter how tightly she gripped, it was failing.
“Perhaps we should go eat.” He phrased it to Domhnall as a suggestion, but his tone implied otherwise. Domhnall paused for a second, as if calculating the best move, before nodding. He bowed to Clía, then turned back to the mess hall and vanished.
With a deep breath, Clía let her anger and misery sink inside her, deep into her core, to be addressed later. On her own.
She had thought Ronan would follow Domhnall, but instead he remained where he stood, a questioning look in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
It was the second time he had asked her that today.
“I’m fine. Truly.” She called on all of her princess training to straighten her shoulders and smooth her voice. “I should return to my room; I find I’m not hungry and it’s been a long day. I’ll see you in the morning.” She tried her hand at a smile, but it was all broken glass and empty hearts.
***
THE SUN DIDN’T WAKE HER ON HER SECOND MORNING AT Caisleán. Its light couldn’t reach through the stone walls to her bedroom, and neither could its warmth.
Instead, Clía woke from a fitful doze to a quiet rapping on her door. Murphy stayed sound asleep on the makeshift nest of blankets and pillows he had built for himself, unfazed by the noise. She had never been more jealous of another creature.
Forcing herself out of bed, she ran a hand through her hair, as if that could tame the tangle of waves. Opening the door slowly, she peeked out.
Then she blinked in astonishment. “Sárait?”
Sárait smiled. “Hello again.” Her voice was sweet and awake, despite how early it felt.
Clía didn’t know what to make of the álainndoran tailor in front of her, with her familiar sheet of straight hair catching the reflection of her candle, her petite frame barely grazing Clía’s shoulder.
“How—why?”
“Apparently General Kordislaen was not thrilled with your request to train this year after you had declined your previous invitation. Chief ó Connor needed a way to convince him to accept you, and it turns out Kordislaen needed another tailor. ó Connor offered to send one, salary to be paid by álainndore of course.” She shrugged.
“I always wanted to travel, so I was quick to volunteer.”
ó Connor arranged this. He must have known Clía would long to see a familiar face—he was still looking out for her.
Sárait scanned Clía from head to toe as she spoke; her nest of hair, rumpled nightgown, and eyes that were probably still red from crying the night before.
The girl’s face softened, and that made Clía want to start crying all over again.
She was supposed to be impressing Domhnall with her strength, and here she was, a mess to be pitied.