Chapter Eleven
The gray mist reached out from the Ghostwood in tendrils as darkness began to creep upon them. The treetops shifted in the still air, brushing against each other in faint whispers that sounded almost like words, beckoning Clía deeper.
The trees were thick, but one stood out, larger than the rest. Its bark was dark, almost black, and an intricate symbol was carved into the trunk.
“That’s our entrance,” Ronan said, gesturing to the tree from his horse.
“Perhaps we should wait until morning light to begin our hunt,” Domhnall suggested.
After the training session that morning and a full day of riding, Clía agreed; however, she wouldn’t say that out loud. While she wanted to win him over, acknowledging he might be right about something was a line she wasn’t willing to cross at the moment.
Ronan nodded, exhaustion clearly wearing on him too. Clía could see it in the slump of his shoulders. Going in now would only get them killed.
“Whitspell should be a short trek south from here, on the other side of the hill. We can find an inn to stay in for the night, unless anyone would prefer to camp here?”
No one spoke up, so they kept moving.
Domhnall and Niamh talked quietly to each other as their horses walked together ahead of the group.
Clía couldn’t make out the words or the tone of the conversation but found herself curious.
There was a stilted familiarity between the two of them that implied more to their relationship than Clía knew.
Could Niamh be the new betrothed Domhnall was talking about?
Clía stopped herself from continuing down that line of thought. They had a mission to complete. It was strange enough to be traveling with Domhnall and Niamh. She didn’t need to make it worse for herself with unnecessary theories.
When the party approached the village, the first thing Clía noticed was its size.
Whitspell was small, its proximity to the Ghostwood sure to deter many potential residents.
They saw no one as they followed the dirt path to the inn; the only signs of life were the curtains that shifted in windows as they passed.
As they rode, Clía couldn’t help but think of the four people who had been taken by the onchú in the past week. The number had seemed small at Caisleán, but now, standing in the tiny village, it felt immense.
The inn was in the center of the town. From the outside, it didn’t look like much, but Clía was desperate to sleep in a real bed again, no matter its condition.
After leaving their horses in the inn’s stable, they filed in the entrance one by one, only to find the room as empty as the rest of Whitspell.
A few tables sat scattered in front of them, and against the far wall, stairs led to a second floor.
“Oh!” At the top of the stairs stood a woman. Her hair fell in braids down her back, and freckles dotted her light brown skin. “May I help you?”
Domhnall spoke first. “We’re looking for a place to stay the night. Do you have room for six?”
Recognition sparked in the innkeeper’s eyes. She fell into a curtsey. “Your Highness, I wasn’t expecting royal guests. We have more than enough beds for you—please take whatever rooms you would like. It is an honor to have you here.”
Domhnall offered his thanks, placing a generous number of coins on the table for their stay before moving up the stairs. Everyone else shuffled close behind him, too tired to do more than select rooms and fall into sleep.
***
CLíA WOULD HAVE RATHER FACED EVERY BEAST IN THE Ghostwood than leave the softness of the inn bed when Ronan woke her for training the next morning.
They made their way to the hills just beyond the village, the wide-open space offering plenty of room while being far enough away to not disturb anyone.
“First, some drills,” Ronan said. They traded swords again, and using her blade, he walked her through some basic guard positions.
His strong arms flowed from one position to the next easily.
Even using a lesser sword and practicing very rudimentary moves, there was a grace to him.
Clía tried to mimic his movements, pushing forward, lowering the sword from above her shoulder to her side.
But when her hands shifted around the hilt, she stumbled.
“Your footwork is good, but it might help to loosen your grip.” Ronan wrapped his calloused fingers around hers, adjusting them. His arm brushed hers as he backed away. “Try again.”
She did as he said, and while her shift between positions wasn’t perfect, she didn’t drop the sword and she didn’t lose her balance.
Her arms might ache, her face hot as the sun rose higher, but her grip was getting strong, her stance felt more natural, and her confidence was growing.
“Good.” He nodded. “I think you’re ready to deflect some actual blows.”
Clía’s eyes widened. “Now?”
“There’s no better way to learn.” He picked up his sword and motioned for her to do the same.
When he lunged, Clía stumbled into position, and was rewarded with the thud of his blade meeting hers. It was far from a perfect block—her sword nearly fell back with the force of his—but she had done it.
A smile crept onto her face, and only then did she notice a similar one on his.
She was doing something right.
They repeated the drill again and again, but while she could block him, it never came easy. She was too aware of her body, thinking too much, and she couldn’t seem to stop.
Ronan struck again, and his blade stopped inches from her skin.
“You need to turn off your brain,” he said to her, pulling back. “You’re too anxious. Let your instincts take over.”
“I don’t think I have those,” she replied, her breath coming in harsh pants.
He only laughed. “Of course you do. You just haven’t had the need to use them before. Here.” He took the sword from her hands, placing it on the ground. “Whenever I need to get out of my head, I try to ground myself in my body and my surroundings. Close your eyes.”
Clía did as she was told.
“Tell me what you hear.” His voice was quiet.
“Your annoying voice.”
His laugh was a deep, rich sound, sending a rush of warmth through her core. “Other than that.”
She was quiet for a moment. Listening. “Birds singing. The wind in the grasses.” She focused even more. “A stream, not far away from us. To the east.”
“Good, now tell me what you smell.”
“Dirt. Earth.”
“Okay, and what do you feel?”
“The breeze. I feel the seam of my bodice. It’s itchy and rather annoying. I’m going to burn it.” He coughed, and she tried to focus again. “I feel my heart racing.”
“Don’t let that affect you,” he whispered. “Just notice it, like you notice everything else around you. And open your eyes.”
She did. He stood right in front of her, his face inches from hers.
She’d never noticed before the streaks of gold in his amber eyes. In the morning light, they glowed like flames.
He blinked and stepped back, separating them. “Is your mind quieter now? If not, sometimes I start to list the things I see, and that helps.”
The expectations placed on her that always followed her, the ones coming from others and the ones coming from herself, seemed farther away.
They had buried themselves into her heart and mind and often made it impossible for her to think about anything else, but in that moment, she felt like she could breathe again.
“Why do you need to get out of your head?” she asked, her voice soft.
What thoughts did he want to avoid?
“I have some memories that used to be . . . persistent.” Ronan shook his head. “It’s not important. Now, let’s go through those moves again.”
***
THE GHOSTWOOD WAS QUIET.
Only the faint rustling of the leaves greeted them as they entered the forest. Clía thought she knew quiet—she often preferred it. But this silence was different.
The hair on the back of her neck rose.
They kept moving.
They had left their horses behind at the inn in favor of walking—Ronan had insisted it would be safer.
As they traversed deeper into the trees, they abandoned the soft light of morning behind them.
Footsteps crunched against the ground as they made their way through fog and mist, under the shadows of the thick branches above.
Only the faintest glimmers of sunbeams could find their way to them.
No one spoke. Clía kept her place in the middle of the group, Domhnall beside her. Ronan and Niamh were at the lead, while Kían and ó Dálaigh took the rear. Despite being surrounded by well-trained warriors, she kept her hand on the sword at her hip.
There were no maps of the Ghostwood. No trails to follow or markers to find. They traveled blindly, on instinct alone.
Clía eyed the moss-covered trunks around her, waiting for something. She wasn’t alone in anticipation. Everyone seemed more guarded. On edge.
It wasn’t until the dim light faded, and the realization that dusk was falling hit her, that a piercing noise broke through the trees. A wail in the woods.
Everyone froze.
She heard a whisper. Kían. “A bean sídhe?” Their voice was unusually serious.
“It could be some kind of animal,” Niamh replied.
But they heard it again. A high-pitched, keening wail. Clía shivered as the noise ran through her body. She could hear the despair in it. The warning.
She had heard stories of the bean sídhe her whole life. One of the many types of sídhe, creatures from the Otherworld. They would appear before unsuspecting people as women dressed in cloaks of white or gray. They would find you in forests, on the shore, or even in your own home.
If you saw one—or if you heard their lamenting screams—it meant someone would die.
A loved one. A family member.
Someone you would mourn.
A third wail cut through them.
If this was truly a bean sídhe, then someone here would lose someone they loved. Soon.
“Let’s keep moving,” Ronan said, urging them all out of their thoughts. “The next clearing we find, we make camp for the night.”
No one argued with him.
***