Chapter Seventeen
I hate you so much.” Ronan smiled as Clía groaned behind him. Between classes and dalta training, the early morning was the only consistent time they could fit in additional training, much to Clía’s dismay.
He handed her a sword from the armory.
“Say that again after you win your first duel.” He expected her complaints, almost welcomed them. Their conversations reminded him of his and Domhnall’s early training sessions in Suanriogh.
He hadn’t sought out Domhnall since Clía told him about the prince’s new engagement—they had never kept secrets from each other before, and he didn’t know what to make of this change in his friend. If Domhnall didn’t want Ronan to know, then he wouldn’t bring it up, with Domhnall or with Clía.
The princess stood before Ronan in the shadows of the early morning, glaring straight into the wind as she attempted to match his position.
Knees bent, feet apart, and eyes focused.
He gently lifted her fingers from the sword’s hilt and readjusted her grip, so her hand didn’t choke the blade. “Better?”
She nodded.
“During your trial, you chose a two-handed longsword,” he explained. “They can be hard to manage as a beginner, and that was probably what led to you losing your grip while fighting.”
Clía twirled the sword around, and Ronan stepped back so he didn’t get caught in the arc. “In my defense,” she said, “they’re both sharp blades that can hurt people.”
Looking to the stars, Ronan prayed for the strength of the gods.
“A longsword will also slow you down,” he continued. “When we were fighting in the Ghostwood, I saw you cross the clearing to save Niamh. It was dangerous, brave, and most importantly, fast. Your speed can be your greatest asset, if you know how to use it. A lighter sword will help you with that.”
Ronan began leading her through defensive maneuvers. After an hour of him lunging at her, she was getting nowhere with her blocking. Each time he leaped, she would falter. Instead of raising her sword, she would duck out of the way. It was as if she had retained nothing from their quest.
Ronan dropped his sword and tried to hide his frustration. “Clía, I can’t teach you if you don’t try.”
“I am trying,” she growled, her knuckles white around her sword.
“Really?” He shrugged. “Because you seem more interested in running circles around the arena than defending yourself.”
The wind whipped her hair around her head. She looked as wrathful as one of Orlaith’s storms. “Sorry, we can’t all be gods-blessed like you.”
“Where did you hear that?” He had hoped to escape those whispers after leaving Suanriogh.
“People talk. I may not necessarily believe it, but the point remains. This is all new to me. You were trained since you were a child—you don’t understand what it’s like to learn from the beginning. You were practically born a warrior.”
“I learned young, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you’re holding yourself back. You’re not the first person I’ve trained, and I know you’re not incompetent. You excelled when we trained during the quest.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can tell you’re afraid of something. Whatever that something may be, know this: you are more capable than you know. You don’t need to let go of what’s holding you back—take control of it.” His words hung in the air between them.
She turned, locking herself away. “It’s the Ghostwood.”
“What?”
“Each time you strike, I think of the Ghostwood. The onchú and the Sluagh. I just—panic.” The word tumbled out of her in a hasty breath.
He thought of Calafort. Of the images that can linger in the dark.
“Do you remember those grounding techniques I showed you?” He caught her curious glance and continued.
“Those first years at the palace, I would see my village. I saw the Ionróirans attack, and I saw my mother’s death.
Some days I still see it. One of my commanders taught me those techniques to quiet my mind.
It isn’t perfect—some days the memories are stronger than I can handle.
But other days, I’m able to keep moving. ”
Her head hung low as she whispered, “I shouldn’t be letting something so small—so trivial—bother me like this.”
“You’ve spent your life sheltered from blood and death; it only makes sense that your first brush with it might be startling. But that’s why we’re here. To learn. Now close your eyes, and remember: the thoughts that haunt you are mere specks of dust. The wind will carry them from you.”
When she closed her eyes, it wasn’t to shield herself from the world but instead to filter it.
He watched as the rise and fall of her chest began to even out with her breath.
He picked his sword up from the dirt, ignoring the mud clinging to the grip.
Slowly, her lashes lifted, and he was looking into the mossy expanse of her eyes.
He could never seem to figure out their color, the exact shade of hazel changing with the slightest shift in light.
Why was he getting distracted by such things? Mentally shaking himself, Ronan stepped back into a ready position and lifted a brow. She stared straight at him—a challenge.
He lunged, and she lifted her blade.
Her sword met his with a satisfying clang. The noise rang through the late summer air. The vibrations shuddered down his arm; energy coursed through him. He looked and saw her triumphant grin.
“Now we can get to work.”
***
WHEN THEY ARRIVED TO THEIR LECTURE WITH DRAOI Griffin, a thin layer of dirt, sweat, and weariness hung off them. Most of the class was already seated, looking freshly rested. Ronan and Clía filed quickly into the room, claiming two seats in the back of the class.
Draoi Griffin pulled out a book and addressed them all. “You’re here to learn about warfare. But today, I wish for us to take a step back and look at something else: the gods, and what they’ve left behind.”
Some of the daltas relaxed, no longer interested in whatever Draoi Griffin would preach, but Ronan leaned forward. It was the Draoi’s responsibility to keep and pass down the myths, the stories that made up their land. The five Draoi-run institutes held knowledge that many kingdoms had forgotten.
Ronan and Clía already suspected Tinelann was searching for Ríoghain’s Jewel, but there was only so much information available about the gem. What if Griffin knew more?
“Remnants of the gods remain with us today. The Torthúil, Orlaith’s net of plenty, has been kept safe for years in Oileánster.
Tinelann maintains the Eagna Tree for any wisdom seeker to visit, and the petals of the cneasú flower have saved countless lives.
Then, of course, there are the missing gifts.
” He looked to the class expectantly, waiting for someone to name them.
“The Gráceol and Ríoghain’s Jewel,” Niamh supplied from the front of the room. Ronan noticed Domhnall sitting beside her.
Draoi Griffin smiled. “Yes. The Gráceol, Tadhg’s harp, said to win over hearts. And Ríoghain’s Jewel, a gem of light that empowers its wearer.”
“But they’re just bedtime stories,” Domhnall said, and sighed. “Those two gifts haven’t been seen in centuries, if they even existed.”
Kían sent him a look. “The Gifts of the Treibh Anam are plenty real. The Torthúil saved countless Oileánstran villages during that horrible storm season thirty years ago.”
“And then was promptly never seen again,” Domhnall pointed out, and Niamh rolled her eyes.
“If you don’t learn to be quiet, you might never be seen again,” Ronan heard her mutter.
Thankfully, Draoi Griffin either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore the noblewoman.
When he continued, he spoke louder, for the whole class to hear.
“The existence of the gifts aren’t up for debate.
There are records of them throughout our history. ”
“He’s right—there’s no denying they exist, but their divine origin is questionable,” said a new voice—a redheaded dalta whom Ronan vaguely recognized as Niall MacCraith.
Ronan had seen him around Kían during classes and training.
“The Draoi can channel the energy of Tír Síoraí into the land. Who’s to say a powerful Draoi didn’t channel it into these objects, centuries ago?
Although, the harp and the jewel are more likely the result of centuries of exaggeration. ”
“There are Draoi-blessed items already in existence—they’re rare, but they exist—and none of them have reached the reported power of the gods’ gifts,” Ronan interjected.
He didn’t want to be debating anything related to divinity, but knowledge existed to be shared.
“The gods must have played a role in creating them.”
“Ah, yes, do tell us about the gods, Ríoghain-blessed,” Kían replied.
Now he knew how Clía found out. This was why he avoided discussions of the Treibh Anam. That foolish rumor would never die.
Ronan glared, but Clía spoke up from next to him. “Are you jealous you don’t have divine skills with a sword, Kían?”
Kían laughed, Clía’s words cutting through any tension. In that moment, Ronan could see the version of Clía he’d had a brief glimpse of in the álainndore court—confident in an almost calculated way. Defusing tension with ease.
“All right, this was not intended to be an open discussion,” Draoi Griffin said, silencing them. “If any of you wish to continue arguing, save that for Kordislaen’s lessons. Then maybe you can wound with something sharper than your wit, which is duller than you realize. Now, let’s continue.”
***
“THE KEY TO DISARMING IS NOT STRENGTH, BUT PRECISION and speed. Don’t waste effort overpowering their defenses—be fast enough that they don’t see it coming.” Kordislaen’s sword fell swiftly, in a graceful arc. “Practice it among yourselves. I’ll be observing.”