Chapter Nine
If you die during your quest, we will not bother to retrieve your body.
It would be an inconvenience I don’t have time for.
So I suggest instead that you stay alive.
” They had been training for a little over a week.
Kordislaen had deemed it long enough for them to be tested once more.
“I will split you into groups, and each group will be assigned one of my warriors to help lead. You’ll be conducting this mission entirely on your own; they will only be supervising.
However, I expect you to respect them as you respect me. If they give an order, you follow it.
“Each group will be given a beast they must slay; how you kill them will be up to you. Return the day before Taranasadh. Arrive any later, and it will only be to pack your trunks. Each of you will find your beast in the Ghostwood.”
Silence fell upon the gathered daltas.
The Ghostwood bordered the Scáilcan side of the Diamhair Mountains.
A forest built by monster and myth, no human dared enter it alone.
It was said that when the Treibh Anam left Inismian, their travels weakened the veil between worlds, leaving a crack that allowed the Ghostwood to grow in their wake, and the creatures of the Otherworld to crawl into their land.
Bean sídhes, kelpies, fear gortas—the beings crept through Inismian, but most made a home in the forest.
And now they each had to slay one. In five days.
Kordislaen didn’t wait for questions, calling each dalta’s name one by one for their troop assignment.
“Ronan ó Faoláin, to Commander ó Dálaigh.”
Ronan’s knees protested as he rose and walked to the commander.
ó Dálaigh stood tall in his armor, hair graying at the temples and fingers hovering over the hilt of his sword.
From their brief time at Caisleán, Ronan had learned that ó Dálaigh was third in command of the keep, behind Kordislaen and Head Commander Brecc, whom he had yet to meet.
A hand fell onto Ronan’s shoulder. He turned around to be greeted by another one of the warriors in his group. “Captain ó Faoláin? A pleasure to meet you. I’m Kían Horgan.”
Kían’s armor shone in the sunlight as they shook hands, the silver bright against their dark skin. Ronan recalled where he’d heard the name. Domhnall had spoken of them before. “Lísoir Kían, Caisleán Cósta is rather far from Oileánster.”
“Ah, you’ve heard of me.” The noble’s smile was full of charm, but Ronan knew enough from Domhnall’s recounting of court gossip to be wary of it.
“Tell me, what have you been told? If it was from Lady Léara, I swear all she speaks are lies, and in fact it was her who broke that statue. And is anything really priceless? However, if you’re referring to the tale of me single-handedly slaying an oilliphéist with no weapons and saving an entire village—that is all truth. ”
“Er. Your reputation is well known,” Ronan said, sidestepping the question.
“As it should be,” Kían said, then got distracted by the other daltas walking their way—Domhnall and Niamh. “New friends! Welcome to our little band of heroes.”
Kían swept the two of them into conversation, as the final member of their group slowly came to stand by them. Princess Clíodhna.
Her fingers fluttered along the hem of her shirt.
Ronan hadn’t spoken with her since her discussion with Domhnall after that first dinner, if one could even count that.
For the past week, she’d kept to herself, coming to training and leaving without a word.
Occasionally, he had seen her with the castle tailor in the dalta library.
His mind kept going back to their conversation after he patched her wounds and they shared their research.
He opened his mouth to greet her, but Kordislaen chose that moment to dismiss them, and she immediately turned and hurried away. As he watched her go, the general called him aside.
“You’re doing well.” Pride filled every inch of Ronan’s body at Kordislaen’s words.
“Because of that, I’m trusting you with precious cargo.
I’m sure you noticed that your group includes the two daltas with the highest titles.
If something happens to one of them, it would mean a lot of paperwork for me, not to mention the potential problems it could cause for their kingdoms. I put you in their group to keep a close eye on them. Don’t let them die.”
Ronan didn’t need to be told that, but he nodded all the same. “I’ll keep them safe.”
Kordislaen looked pleased. “The girl, Clíodhna, she isn’t of much use with a sword. It would be nice if she could learn faster, wouldn’t it?”
There was a request in the statement.
Spending more time with Domhnall’s former almost-betrothed wasn’t part of Ronan’s plan to succeed here. But Kordislaen had given him so much. If helping the princess be less hopeless with a blade would aid the school’s reputation, it was the least he could do.
And maybe it would quiet his curiosity about her.
***
RONAN HAD HIS BAGS PACKED AND HORSE READY BEFORE the sun broke the horizon, despite the all-too-familiar ache in his joints and the stiffness in his muscles.
Preparing for a quest was a routine he knew all too well. Before he had taken his position as captain of Domhnall’s guard, he had volunteered for any opportunity to fight that came his way. No matter where he was stationed, what he was doing, Ronan always sought more. To see more, do more, be more.
A part of it, he knew, was needed to work his way to Caisleán Cósta and Kordislaen, but there was another part, hidden deep within him, that was motivated by a kind of spite.
A spite against himself, against his own body, which dared to betray him and cause him such pain.
If his body told him he couldn’t—shouldn’t—do something, he would find a way to do it.
It might not have been the way originally planned, but he wouldn’t let his pain stop him.
There would be no barriers for him. Not even ones of his own making.
Domhnall had once urged him to see a palace healer, a request which Ronan obliged, but nothing came from it. He had no broken bones, no poorly healed injuries, nothing she could see wrong. But the pain persisted. So he did as well.
The rest of the group arrived at the stables at the first light of dawn, with Clíodhna being the last to appear.
“Does this count as fashionably late or rude?” Ronan smirked as the princess passed him.
She began tacking up the horse beside him, her face the mask of pleasantness she often wore. “‘Dawn’ isn’t a very precise meeting time. It could mean before daybreak, first light, or just as the sun is finished rising. The sky is still pink, so technically, I’m on time.”
“I’m not judging.” Ronan raised his palms in surrender, only lowering them when he noticed something missing. “No tiny beast today?”
“Murphy is staying back. The Ghostwood is no place for a growing dobhar-chú. Besides, I don’t take him everywhere with me. He doesn’t come to training.”
He raised a brow. “You’re leaving your man-eating dobhar-chú alone for multiple days?”
There was a thump as Clíodhna lifted her saddle onto the horse. “It’s important he learns independence as a pup. I showed him the lake on the grounds, and he’s been spending a lot of his time there.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp clap: ó Dálaigh calling everyone to attention. “Have you created a plan?” the commander asked.
Ronan was the first to respond. “It should only take two days of riding to reach the Ghostwood. There are a few good entry points that should be safe, but which one we pick would depend on what we’re hunting.” He looked to the commander.
“You’re being sent after an onchú,” ó Dálaigh said. “In the past week, four men have died in Whitspell and villagers have claimed to see one prowling the forest’s edge.”
Ronan had heard stories of the onchú. Noble beasts, as tall as a man and with claws as sharp as the daltas’ blades.
Clíodhna looked puzzled. “That can’t be right. I haven’t heard of an onchú hurting a human since I was a child.”
“This one has, and you are to dispose of it,” ó Dálaigh said. “Kordislaen has ordered its head brought back as proof of the completed quest.”
Ronan knew Clíodhna was correct in one regard: the last known onchú attack had been a decade ago, when one had left the forest and gone roaming, killing nine people.
The first two were a Liricran couple from a small village.
A group of warriors was sent to remove it.
Onchús normally preferred to avoid interaction with humans altogether, especially large groups, so everyone was surprised when it killed seven of the warriors before the rest managed to slay it.
“Whitspell is closest to the southern entrance,” Ronan said.
“I know a road that should take us most of the way. I suggest we travel in pairs; Niamh and Domhnall take the front, Clíodhna and ó Dálaigh in the middle, and Kían and I will take the rear. If there are no complaints, we should be on our way.”
Everyone nodded their agreement and mounted their horses.
***
THEY TRAVELED UNTIL THE SUN WAS AT ITS PEAK, ITS HEAT radiating through their armor and into their bones.
Domhnall and Niamh led the group together well, and Kían’s light demeanor had shifted into a keen focus.
Oddly, it was ó Dálaigh who seemed to be looking for anywhere else to go.
Ronan could hear the princess asking him questions, talking nonstop.
“The sky at this hour of morning is definitely the best shade of blue. Speaking of, do you always wear blue?” he heard her ask.
“Not always,” ó Dálaigh mumbled.
“Well, you should. It’s a great color for you. Although that fabric—”
He almost wanted to laugh, glimpsing the hunted expression on the commander’s face as he looked back. Ronan needed to put him out of his misery.
“Why don’t we switch positions for a spell,” he suggested, riding over. ó Dálaigh nodded quickly, relief evident, before falling back.
“That didn’t take long at all,” Clíodhna said.
“What didn’t take long?”
“Getting you over here. I truly thought Commander ó Dálaigh would last much longer than that. I overestimated him.”
Ronan looked at her, curious. He hadn’t realized she’d been intentionally baiting the commander. But even more than that . . . “Why did you want me here?”
“For your company, of course.” She said it like it was obvious, but for Ronan it was the most surprising answer she could give. Who would have thought that a boy from Calafort would have earned the favor of two royals? His father would be proud. Maybe.
Thinking of his father sent a wave of melancholy over him.
When Ronan last saw him, he was in his garden, hands stained with dirt as he pulled Ronan into a hug.
He didn’t wish Ronan luck on his journey back, but he didn’t ask him not to go.
It was resignation, the closest thing Ronan had glimpsed to acceptance in years.
That was weeks ago, before Ronan had become captain of the prince’s guard.
He’d waited to tell his father the news, only writing to him after that first day at Caisleán, as he promised Domhnall.
All he could hope was that the news would be well received.
Maybe one day his father might forgive him for choosing duty over family.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t—I suppose you might not have wanted my company,” Clíodhna said, filling the silence that Ronan had left. “You may rotate us again; I promise I won’t pester anyone else.”
“No, I’m sorry, Princess. I got lost in thoughts of home.”
“Where is home to you?” she ventured.
“Calafort. It’s a small village in Scáilca. I’m afraid it wouldn’t compare to your home in álainndore.”
She faced the hills ahead. “The palace exists for my parents and for the people, not me. Almost everything within it was chosen by my mother and the court; I have little say beyond my rooms.” Her tone wasn’t whiny or ungrateful, but matter-of-fact.
“I’m never alone there. I love company, but it would be nice sometimes to have a say over when I’m hosting said company.
” She stopped herself, as if realizing she was saying too much.
“All that is to say, I imagine your home is lovely.”
He followed the change in subject. “It’s quaint, but it’s special. My father’s income is modest, but combined with mine, it pays for food and a roof over his head. And it lets him grow his garden to his heart’s content.”
“Your father—is he a farmer?”
“Yes, but his true passion is his flowers. Sadly, flowers are something of a frivolity most people in our village can’t afford.
So he makes his living selling some of the herbs and vegetables he grows.
I’m trying to convince him to learn the medicinal properties of a few plants, maybe look into apprenticing at an apothecary, but he refuses.
He would have to leave the village to do that, and he—” Ronan broke off. “It’s not an option.”
“And your mother? Does she help with the farm?”
“My mother was a warrior, but she has passed over to Tír Síoraí.” He said it as though there wasn’t a hole in his chest that tore itself open every time he spoke of her.
“I’m sorry,” Clíodhna whispered, and this might have been the quietest he had ever heard her. For some reason, it made him feel even worse.
“Don’t be. It was years ago. What of your parents?” Ronan realized the stupidity of his question before he even finished speaking.
Thankfully, Clíodhna understood.
“My father is patient. He loves fidchell but can never win a game. My mother is . . . well, she’s my mother. She is perfect, and bold, and bright, and everything anyone can want to be.”
“That seems like a lot to live up to.”
“Nothing that one shouldn’t expect from a princess.”
Ronan knew better than to press her on the subject, despite an urge inside of him to ask more. “What about Chief ó Connor? I’ve seen how he interacts with you and your parents. Are you close?”
“He’s practically my father’s brother. He helped raise me. And I can safely say that I beat him in fidchell half as often as he beats me.” She smiled again, a real smile. It was so radiant, and for a moment, he felt as if the air had left his lungs. He turned away, surprised by his reaction.
They fell silent for a time after that, but he could hear her every breath and each shift of her legs against the leather of her saddle. He expected the thud of the horses’ hooves would drown her out, but he was too focused on her, whether he meant to be or not.