Chapter Fourteen
Tonight brings a unique task.” Kordislaen slowly paced the center of the training arena, prowling in the gray morning light. “Chief Lyons will be arriving here at Caisleán Cósta to meet with me, and will be joining us for our banquet.”
They had arrived back from their quest late in the night, delayed by the time it took Clía, Ronan, and Domhnall to reunite with the rest of their group.
Thankfully, they were still on time to meet their deadline of the day before Taranasadh.
ó Dálaigh had promised to relate to Kordislaen their findings in the mountains, telling them to focus on their training.
Kordislaen paused. “I assume I do not need to remind you to be on your best behavior. Put aside time to clean yourselves up. How you look and act reflects on me. If you do anything to shame me, expect to be going home.”
Kían grumbled faintly beside Clía—something about “not agreeing to this”—but she ignored them, focusing on Kordislaen as he began his lesson.
Every moment in these sessions with him was laced with fear for her. She’d already made of fool of herself once. Another failure would risk her position at Caisleán and continue to prove Domhnall right.
When she decided to leave home to attend Caisleán Cósta, she hadn’t expected to be knocked on her ass in her first class in front of everyone. She hadn’t expected the bloody calluses she would find on her palms with every new day.
She hadn’t expected to find Domhnall on the way to the altar.
A few short training sessions in the stolen hours before dawn with Ronan weren’t enough to make her a warrior. Surviving Caisleán Cósta with her reputation intact—the bare minimum if she wanted Domhnall back—required a strategy.
In classes, she had focused on listening while drawing no attention to herself.
In these training sessions, she stayed in the back of the group, watching from a distance as General Kordislaen demonstrated maneuvers she could never imagine herself doing.
When her arms burned from push-ups, she didn’t complain.
Sweat poured down her brow, and tremors rocked her arms, but she gritted her teeth and lifted herself up once more.
If Kordislaen barked insults at her as she struggled, she tuned him out, listening only to the sound of the wind.
Every training session ended with laps around the arena.
Clía lagged behind but resolutely kept moving.
The other daltas smirked at her as they passed her for the third time.
She refused to acknowledge them, instead narrowing her focus onto the feeling of the hard dirt meeting her feet.
She may never be the best, but that could be forgiven as long as she didn’t stop.
As she ran, it took every bit of restraint inside her not to seek out Domhnall.
To find familiarity in the chaos. Another masochistic part of her wanted to look at Niamh.
She wanted to see if the girl was surprised by the fact that Clía was still trying.
Maybe Niamh hadn’t intended to humiliate her on that first day—Clía tried not to assume the worst of people she barely knew—but her pride and reputation hadn’t healed yet.
But as her final lap ended, and she collapsed into a seat at the edge of the arena, she found herself looking for Ronan. She was improving—she’d felt surprisingly comfortable during today’s sword drills—and she wondered if he noticed.
Except Ronan wasn’t with the mass of daltas walking out of the arena. He stayed in the back, speaking with Kordislaen.
She knew Kordislaen couldn’t be criticizing him; Ronan was one of the best warriors here. However, the idea of Kordislaen praising someone seemed equally impossible. The general didn’t know what positivity was. Clía was convinced that the cloudy weather of late was the sun hiding from him.
Ronan left their conversation standing tall; his usual serious demeanor had been replaced with the softest hint of a smile.
She met him halfway across the emptying arena.
“What did Kordislaen have to say?” Curiosity bled into her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.
After spending those early mornings training together during their quest, there was a tentative understanding growing between them.
Or maybe the training had nothing to do with it—perhaps there was just something about Ronan that made her feel at ease.
“ó Dálaigh’s review of our quest. He wanted to commend me on my leadership.
” As he spoke, Clía could see the general’s words were only just sinking in.
Ronan’s eyes widened with disbelief, and his warm smile grew larger.
Something in her chest fluttered. “General Kordislaen said he sees something in me. That I have potential.”
His joy was contagious, and she found herself matching his grin. “I could have told you that. You’re an amazing warrior. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offered you a permanent position here.”
Ronan shook his head. “Don’t even joke about that. I could only dream of that honor.”
“You were meant for this. You have a rare talent, and Kordislaen would be an idiot if he didn’t see that. There’s a reason you’re here.”
“Thank you.” The words were heavy with a meaning she couldn’t decipher.
She smiled again in response and began to lead him outside the training center—afraid he would hurt himself in his pride-induced daze—when Niamh stepped in her path.
“Clía, I had hoped to run into you,” she said, her voice nonchalant. Her gaze fell to Ronan, turning sharp with dismissal.
Ronan rested his hand on Clía’s upper arm, and her senses seemed to home in on that small point of contact. “I’ll see you at our afternoon class?” he said, staring intently at her. He was waiting to see if she wanted him to go, she realized.
She nodded, and he slowly turned back to the castle. Reluctantly, she thought.
Returning her attention to Niamh, Clía slipped her courtly mask back on. Niamh was Scáilcan nobility, after all. “It’s good to see you, Niamh. I’m sorry that we barely had time to speak during our quest to the Ghostwood. I feel as if our only real conversation has been during that first duel.”
“You’re not still upset about that, are you?” Niamh tilted her head.
“I’m not upset at all. I mean, my arm wishes you went a little easier on me”—Clía’s hand rose to touch the faint scar that Niamh had left behind—“what with all the blood and everything, but I understand.” And she did understand.
Just because Kordislaen pitted all the daltas against one another didn’t mean they couldn’t forge some type of friendship. Clía had been thrust into an environment she had no idea how to handle. She could always use another ally. A friend.
Niamh’s mouth remained a tense line. “Good, because if you were upset, I would have to urge you to remember where you are and how things work here.”
“I see.” There went Clía’s plans for them to have breakfast together tomorrow. “What was it that you wished to speak to me about?”
“I didn’t get the chance to thank you. For what you did in the Ghostwood.” Niamh looked almost pained by the statement.
“You would have done the same,” Clía replied.
“No, I wouldn’t have.” There was no guilt in her words. Instead, the warrior looked at her as if sizing up an opponent, and Clía couldn’t help but feel as if she failed to impress. “I assume I’ll see you at tonight’s banquet?” she added, and Clía’s heart leaped.
Clía wasn’t trained in swordsmanship or battle—she would sooner injure herself than someone else on a battlefield—but she was well trained in banquets.
Her hopes for success had fallen short time and time again since arriving at this castle; maybe this was a chance for her to turn the tides. Keep herself from drowning.
“You will—I look forward to it.” Clía smiled.
***
WHEN CLíA SAW SáRAIT WALKING DOWN THE HALL, SHE ran to her.
“I need your help.”
“I’m a little busy right now.” Sárait had her hair tied back in a sleek knot, a basket of clothes balanced in her arms. “I need to mend all night to keep up with you daltas.”
Of course Caisleán’s tailor would have much work to do before the banquet. Thankfully, Clía had prepared for that. “What if I did your mending while you helped me?”
“What exactly does this help entail?” The woman eyed her suspiciously.
Clía didn’t answer, grinning as she swept the basket from Sárait and led her back to her room.
In the two weeks since Clía arrived at Caisleán, she had transformed her space.
Her drab walls were covered in fabric—dresses that had gained second lives as decor—and the small storage trunk had been turned into a workspace.
A place for her to sew and continue her project, the dress pattern she had been working on in álainndore.
Murphy was curled up in the corner of the room, where she kept her fluffiest pillow for him to sleep on and a large bucket full of water for him to soak in.
But more and more, he had been ignoring the bucket in favor of Caisleán’s lake.
He had left a trail of water across her floor when he came back from his swim earlier that morning, but Clía didn’t mind.
Sárait followed her inside, a hand on her hip. “Is this when you tell me what we’re doing?”
“The banquet is tonight, and I need it to go well,” Clía explained, placing the basket on her neatly made bed. “I was wondering if you could help me get ready? I can’t get my hair to cooperate.”
She didn’t admit the real reason she wanted Sárait there.
In álainndore, Clía rarely had a moment to herself—a fact she would often resent—and always knew she could rely on ó Connor for company if needed.
In the crowded halls of Caisleán, she was faced with an unfamiliar sense of loneliness.
She needed the comfort of conversation with someone who understood her.
Thinking about how they used to sew together in álainndore—not to mention Sárait’s kindness to Clía here in the castle—Clía had felt a small flicker of hope that that person could be Sárait.
Sárait’s face softened, and she took a seat on the bed. Motioning for Clía to follow, she tossed her a shirt from the top of the basket. Clía grabbed her needle and started to mend a tear while Sárait combed through her hair.
“When I first arrived at the álainndoran palace, I hated it there,” Sárait said.
“Why?” Clía was surprised by the confession. She tried to turn her head to look at Sarait, but the tailor’s hands gently held her head in place.
“It was the farthest I’d ever been from my sister. I didn’t know what to do without her by my side.” Sárait’s hands began to work through Clía’s waves. “It took time, but I figured it out. I learned to be on my own, and whenever I felt lonely, I would send her letters.”
Clía paused in her sewing. “Did it help?”
She nodded, sliding a pin into Clía’s hair. “I still miss her, but the ache is duller. Now I’m even farther away, and while I think of her often, I feel like I could find my home here.”
Clía had only ever viewed these stone walls as a challenge for her to overcome. She wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to see them as anything else.
She never would if she didn’t try.
“You have too much hair,” Sárait grumbled, cursing as a braid fell from Clía’s head and unraveled.
The sudden change in tone pulled a laugh from Clía’s throat. The mood lightened, and they fell into a comfortable conversation as Sárait continued to try to force Clía’s hair into submission and Clía continued to make her way through the mending basket.
“I think we need to give up,” Clía said after some time, and Sárait slumped behind her.
“I promise I’ve done it before,” she said, defending herself while she toyed with the ends of Clía’s knotted hair. Their braiding attempts had left behind many casualties.
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Clía laughed. “Maybe we can do something simpler?”
Sárait nodded and picked up her comb.
Clía picked up a tunic. The feeling of a sewing needle between her fingers was a much-needed comfort. Her hands had been restless without something to stitch.
“How did they manage to rip you in so many places?” Clía whispered at the offending garment.
“You’d be surprised what a warrior can do,” Sárait scoffed. “Nothing is safe here. I’ll patch up a pair of pants only to find them torn again a day later.”
Clía completed the final stitches on the shirt. “They have no respect for a well-crafted tunic.”
“While I am tempted to agree with you, this time they had other things to worry about. Burke, the owner of the garment in question, had been sent out after Ionróirans were spotted on the Whispering Cliffs.” A shiver slid down Clía’s spine.
The Whispering Cliffs bordered the lands of Caisleán Cósta, extending south down the coast. Ionróirans were bold to get so close to the keep.
“His band of warriors came back a little worse for wear, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. ”
“Did our soldiers find out what the Ionróirans were doing?”
Sárait shook her head. “They escaped too quickly.”
Clía turned to face her fully. “What do you think was the reason?”
“I’m here to sew clothes, not speculate.” She took the tunic from Clía’s grasp, examining her work before folding it carefully.
“You’re smart—anyone who can sew a smooth and even seam in the finest silk has my respect. Besides, being overlooked often allows you to be observant,” Clía said. “You get to see what everyone else misses.”
Sárait considered her, and for a brief second Clía worried she’d said too much.
But then Sárait spoke. “The Ionróirans are working with Tinelann—that much is obvious. I’d bet they were mapping the landscape here, looking to find potential routes inland.
Everything they saw will be reported back to Tinelann, so they can decide if Caisleán is a worthy target when they plan to move in on Scáilca. ”
The connections were clear in Clía’s mind, as was the conclusion.
“Caisleán is a castle, but it also functions as a keep. It contains a large amount of the Draoi’s knowledge of all five kingdoms of Inismian and the Treibh Anam.
If taken over, it would be a perfect base of operations.
And since we didn’t stop the Ionróirans from escaping with the information they gathered, Tinelann now knows that too. ”
“But we know this,” Sárait reassured. “And more importantly, Kordislaen knows this. They won’t get the upper hand.”
Clía admired Sárait’s optimism, but dread had already taken root, seeping into her heart.
Maybe Tinelann wasn’t going after álainndore next; maybe Caisleán Cósta was their target.
If Caisleán fell, Scáilca was in danger. And if they succeed—if Scáilca was taken—álainndore wouldn’t stand a chance. None of the kingdoms would.