Chapter Fifteen
The letter felt heavy in Clía’s hand.
In it held everything she had learned in the Ghostwood and in Caisleán. Her every theory and fear. She could only hope they would heed her warnings.
Her parents never responded to the letter she sent on her first day.
Initially, she thought there was a delay, or her mail had gotten lost. The arrival of ó Connor’s reply proved her theories wrong.
His response was thoughtful and kind; he acknowledged her concerns and asked to stay updated on any developments.
While hearing from him was a balm to her growing loneliness, she couldn’t help but feel an ache at the thought that her mother didn’t care enough to respond on her own.
“I suppose there’s no use in worrying over things that will never change,” she said to Murphy as he watched her carefully from his corner.
The scarlet wax she dripped over the envelope pooled like the blood she was so desperately avoiding. She sealed it and put it aside. Her parents may not read her letter, but ó Connor would. Someone in her kingdom would know to prepare.
Murphy’s claws clicked against the stone as he trotted over to her, rubbing his cold nose against her shin in an attempt at affection.
“You’re right,” she said, scooping him into her arms as she narrowed her gaze on the collection of dresses that sat on the edge of her bed. “We mustn’t fret. There are other things to focus on.”
Celebrations, Clía understood. The arena she was entering was one she knew all too well.
Thumbing through the fabrics, she was grateful that she’d thought to pack some of her more elaborate dresses.
In álainndore, the clothing at banquets was an event to behold: gowns shimmered with crystals and fabrics were woven with gold and silver thread.
Tonight, she could have that piece of home with her.
Her eyes landed on a dress the color of emeralds. The color of álainndore.
She pulled it on, careful not to disturb her hair too much.
She and Sárait had left her gently flowing curls down, with four loose braids that wove together before meeting at the back of her head.
After lacing the dress, she examined her work.
The skirt fell straight down from her hips in a modest slope before lightly caressing the floor.
Elegant gold embroidery swirled down the curve of her back and flowed down the train of the gown.
Perfect.
When she made her way to the mess hall, everyone was already sitting down to enjoy the food.
The rich smell of roasted meat and vegetables and freshly baked bread filled the air.
Inside was decorated for the holy day. Maroon banners lined the walls and hung from the rafters, and the tables had been pushed into a wide circle, all facing an empty dance floor in the center.
A group of musicians played softly, and directly across from the entrance, a large table for the guest of honor, Chief Lyons, was centered against the back wall.
Before she could find a seat, Kordislaen summoned her from his place beside the chief.
Caisleán’s other high-ranking officials were seated with them.
She recognized Commander ó Dálaigh talking with Captain Duinn, an intimidating woman with deep wrinkles in her white skin, and Head Commander Brecc, a rigid-looking man whose dark braids contrasted with his shining silver armor.
When Clía reached their table, she offered them all a polite nod.
The chief appeared to be Kordislaen’s opposite in every way. Where Kordislaen was tall, with cropped, gray-streaked dark hair and his brow permanently creased in disappointment, Lyons was short and golden, his blond hair tied back from his tan face.
“Princess Clía, a pleasure to meet you,” Lyons said, greeting her.
“The pleasure is mine, Chief,” she replied automatically.
Kordislaen watched their exchange with keen eyes.
If Lyons noticed, he didn’t reveal it. “Kordislaen was telling me about you—your group’s adventure in the Ghostwood.
Surviving both an onchú and the Sluagh is a notable feat.
Very impressive for someone with so little training.
I look forward to seeing your potential growth at Caisleán. ”
“I’m very grateful for the chance to be here. I’ve already learned so much, and I look forward to discovering how I can utilize this new knowledge to help our kingdoms,” she said.
The smile never left Lyons’s face, but there was an indecipherable shift. Clía forced herself to hold his gaze, fighting the urge to look anywhere else. He was testing her, and she would not be found lacking. “Is that so?”
She scrambled to find the right words, but she was out of practice. “Yes. In fact, my friend and I were discussing the Ionróirans that were spotted by the Whispering Cliffs, and what it could mean for Caisleán and Scáilca. I had some ideas for—”
“You had ideas?” Lyons said, interrupting her.
A coldness seeped into her skin. “Yes—that is—” She took a breath, trying to dispel the thoughts racing in her mind.
Lyons cut her off before she could continue. “Come now, Princess. It’s commendable you want to train here. But it doesn’t give you license to involve yourself in affairs that have nothing to do with you.”
She was speaking before she could stop herself. “Don’t involve me? I’m the princess of álainndore. It’s my duty to do all I can to protect my kingdom.”
He bristled, as if the mere act of defending herself was an insult to him. “And what protection will you be? A child who can barely wield her own sword?” His voice was empty of all its previous warmth.
Clía stood frozen. She couldn’t think—didn’t know how to resolve the situation before her. In álainndore, she would never face such open disdain.
“I’ll leave you, then.” She nodded, backing away from the table before he could see the cracks in her mask.
She took the first empty seat she could find—which happened to be beside Niamh and Domhnall. The dalta tables were far enough away from Lyons and Kordislaen that there was hope the two had not heard the exchange over the music.
Offering a small greeting to those around her, she tried to ignore her racing heart. Suddenly, the smells and noise were too much. Everything was too much. Her senses were overflowing. The draft was like daggers against her skin and her ribs felt tight in her chest—
Falling apart would help no one, and it certainly wouldn’t save her reputation.
Inhaling, she closed her eyes and recalled what Ronan told her that day on the hill.
What do you hear?
Voices. Chairs dragged on the stone. Knives scraping against plates.
What do you see?
Slowly, she let her eyes drift open. She focused solely on what was right in front of her. The table was decorated with a thin navy cloth and covered with endless plates of food: meats, breads, soups—anything she could want.
She took another breath, noting the way it filled her lungs. The world felt a little quieter now, its sharp edges dulled just enough.
She filled a plate for herself before noticing Niamh’s lips coiled into a smirk beside her.
She wore her armor from training, iron freshly shined, and hair braided in a long rope down her back.
Domhnall also wore his best armor, fit for a warrior prince.
Looking around, Clía realized she was the only one in a gown.
“You look . . . interesting,” said Niamh. Her cold voice seemed to ring in Clía’s ears.
“Thank you,” Clía replied calmly. “You look great as well.”
Niamh gave her a tight smile before excusing herself to go talk to a dalta at another table.
Domhnall’s gaze followed her. Once she was far enough away, he turned back to Clía. “You do realize we are not in court?”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” she deadpanned, lowering her napkin to her lap and playing with the corners of the fabric under the table.
His eyes shut as a frustrated sigh fell from his lips, and his fingers flexed around his drink. “I don’t mean to be rude. You look beautiful.”
Clía’s heart betrayed her, warming at the compliment. “Thank you. I thought it would be nice to wear something as tribute to my kingdom and court. I’m sure you remember what our banquets are like.”
“I remember very clearly.” Domhnall laughed. The act seemed to remove some of his newfound gravity, and for a moment it was like they were back in álainndore. “I also remember us constantly causing trouble. Remember when you nearly pushed Draoi Ruairc into the lake?”
The eyes that were watching her faded into nothing as she fell into memories with him. “It’s not my fault! You were such a terrible dancer, you knocked me into her.”
“Sure, and was it my terrible dancing that caught Lady Brigid’s dress on fire?”
His laugh was contagious; she found herself giggling with him.
“In my defense, my gown was so long, I was doomed to trip eventually. But—might I remind you of the time you almost walked right off the cliffside? You were too distracted by your admirers—all those lords, ladies, and lísoirs clamoring for your attention.”
“All right, perhaps we both were clumsy as children.” Their laughter faded along with the memories. “I sometimes forget how much fun we used to have,” he admitted, and her heart skipped a beat.
“We’re both here now. I see no reason why we can’t be as we were before,” she replied, carefully measuring each word, hiding her hopes in a casual tone.
“You really expect to stay here?” Reality snuck into the space between them, through the skepticism and doubt in Domhnall’s words.
“Of course I do.”
“Clía, you must realize this isn’t your place.”
The words pierced her. That brief peace she had bought for herself broke.
“My place?”
He leaned forward. “You know you would be much happier at court, enjoying álainndoran feasts and banquets, gossiping with nobles and getting yourself into trouble. Do you really wish to waste your time here playing soldier?”
“I think I can decide for myself where I would be happiest.” Her voice was stiff as stone.
“I don’t mean that—” he began, but she cut him off. She had given him enough of her patience.
“You seem to have a bad habit of saying things you don’t mean.”
A nervous breath escaped him. “I’m sorry.” His face was resigned. “I fear I can never say the right thing around you.”
On any other day, she might have turned that into a compliment. She could have joked about how she had that effect on people. It would have been a subtle forgiveness, and Domhnall would have relaxed.
But she was tired of protecting his feelings.
When she didn’t speak, he scrambled to fill the silence.
“I don’t intend to be hurtful. I only mean—you can’t be happy here.
Always on edge, trying to become something you were never meant to be.
Kordislaen is relentless, and you’re not exactly the warrior type.
” He was earnest, which somehow made everything worse.
“It’s funny how you insist you don’t intend to be hurtful, but you clearly have no understanding of language and its implications,” she threw back. “Dare I ask—if I’m not the warrior type, what type do you think I am?”
Domhnall looked properly rattled. He was cornered, and there was no right answer he could give. She wanted to revel in the win, but his words continued echoing in her head. Looking up, she could see the gazes of the other daltas occasionally falling on her, their eyes judgmental and cruel.
Niamh’s return to their table saved Domhnall from having to reply.
Her gaze seemed to dart between the two royals, clearly sensing the newfound tension and analyzing her approach.
“Domhnall, Clía, I’m glad you two talked.
I know Domhnall here has been brooding about how everything ended between the two of you. Did you have a nice conversation?”
Clía stayed silent as Domhnall stuttered out an answer. “Ah, we—we were discussing the feasts in álainndore.”
“Isn’t that charming. Domhnall, when will you begin inviting me to the royal events? I am eager to experience them myself. The two of you make them out to be so much fun.” Her voice was cutting.
There was a message in that statement—one Clía couldn’t read, but Domhnall seemed to understand all too well. He sat frozen, like a thief caught in the act. For a moment, Clía thought he might run. Then he cleared his throat. “Whenever you would like, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you two were so close. You know each other well, then?” Clía interjected, holding on to propriety with a clenched fist.
Niamh stared down at her like she was a clueless child. “I would hope. We’re to be married, after all.”
Glass shards pierced the place where her heart once beat.
A broken sound escaped her tongue. “Oh.”
He was marrying Niamh.
Now that she said it, she felt so foolish. He was around her so often. How had she not realized why?
“You really didn’t tell her?” Niamh said to Domhnall, frustrated.
He winced, but when he spoke, it was to Clía. “I’m sorry, I was planning to say something. We’re still waiting for the final approval of my parents,” he stated, as if that wiped away the pain lurking beneath her skin. As if those words could repair the damage between them.
“You make a lovely pair. I wish you all the best.” She rose from her chair, ignoring the napkin tumbling from her lap onto the ground. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve grown rather fatigued. I think it’d be best if I retired to my room. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She felt the weight of the warriors’ curious looks following her as she left. For the first time, she wished she had worn something unassuming. Her dress was designed to capture the attention of those around her, and it had succeeded.