Chapter Twenty
Today’s class will be different from our normal routine,” Kordislaen began.
Clía looked to Ronan beside her in the training arena’s stands, the rest of the daltas scattered around them. Ronan shrugged; he knew as little as she did. The wind bit at her skin as they waited for Kordislaen to explain.
“It is time for you to be tested once more. If you wish to stay, impress me.”
She turned to Ronan and whispered, “Is it too late to stop trying?”
He rolled his eyes. When he shifted, his arm brushed against hers, and her breath caught.
It had been almost a month since their kiss, something Clía deeply regretted and only wanted to repeat every day. She had been so relieved when Ronan continued joking with her, understanding why it could never be, without her needing to explain.
Now if only she could get her traitorous mind and body to understand as well.
She turned back to the general.
“I will also be keeping a close eye on those who remain throughout the week.” Kordislaen smiled at them, reminding Clía of a shark eyeing it’s kill.
“However, about today—you will be dueling again. I’ve given you plenty of time to practice.
Now you need to show me how much you’ve learned.
Retrieve your weapon of choice and come back ready to fight. ”
Clía walked with the rest of the daltas to the armory.
There was no mad rush and chaos like that first day.
They were no longer desperate students eager to show off and win over the general, but a troop following orders.
No one clamored for the best blade; the routine of picking weapons had been ingrained in them.
Clía grabbed her favorite broadsword, the edges slicing through the air as she lifted it from its mount on the wall, careful of other reaching hands.
Walking back to the arena, she adjusted her leather armor as it rubbed against her shoulders.
Many of the warriors had their personal armor brought from home, and it was as comfortable to them as a ball gown was to her, but Clía still hadn’t grown used to it.
She doubted she ever would—she could barely tolerate wearing wool.
She paused and considered the worn, tanned hide.
Every time she fought, it distracted her and hindered her movements.
The restrictions only added another aspect of challenge to fighting, one she couldn’t risk during a trial.
When Clía entered the arena with the rest of the warriors, she wore only her training clothes—a tight-fitting tunic and pants, sturdy boots, and a belt for her sword. She was the only warrior with no armor. If she was fast, like Ronan said she was, she wouldn’t need it.
Returning to her seat beside him, he took one look at her in her training shirt and breeches and raised a brow. She could practically hear his voice in her head calling her reckless.
“I’m feeling brave today,” she whispered.
The decision was a risk, and he had every right to chastise her for it, but he stayed silent. If she didn’t know any better, she would say he was impressed. But before he turned back to Kordislaen, she thought she caught a glint of fear in his eyes. Worry for her, and maybe for himself as well.
She would prove to him that she could handle this.
Most important, she would prove it to herself.
When everyone returned to the stands, Kordislaen walked before them once more. His dark eyes canvassed the crowd until they locked onto Clía.
“Fionnáin. Please step forward.”
She did as he said, taking her blade with her.
“A broadsword. Practical choice. Yet where is your armor?” There was a taunting edge to his voice, but she held firm.
“I chose not to wear any,” she replied, rolling her shoulders back. He didn’t need to know how her heart raced.
“And you thought that was a good idea?” he asked.
She kept her head high, refusing to let his dissatisfaction affect her. “Armor would slow me down. I want to be my best for the trial.”
“I’ll let you see how grave a mistake you made on your own.
” She felt his dismissal like a blow. A small flutter of chuckling passed through the class.
A response rose in her, but she bit it back.
“Since you are so confident in yourself, I’ll have you go first. And once you fail, you will be sent home. ”
Clía rubbed the hem of her shirt between her fingers, letting the familiar texture ground her. “I won’t fail,” she said. Not an argument. A statement of fact.
Kordislaen’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.” He turned to the rest of the warriors.
“You may choose your opponent from the class. Knowing how to fight is one thing, but it is vital to know what fights to pick.” His eyes sized her up.
“Might I recommend you choose someone who you stand a chance against?”
She ignored his jibe and faced her choices.
Ronan nodded to her when their eyes met.
Choosing him would be expected—probably smart.
She knew his moves, his ticks. It might impress Kordislaen if she won against him.
Her gaze traveled farther. She looked over various daltas: MacCraith, Kían, Teafa.
Her eyes skimmed over Niamh—this was not the time to risk a repeat of her first trial, no matter how tempted she was—and she finally settled on the light-haired prince beside her.
“I choose Domhnall,” Clía declared.
Kordislaen raised a hand, summoning the prince over. “Lochlainn, please join us.”
Domhnall walked toward them with a cocky gait. He wore shining silver armor with not a scratch on it. It was a statement, reminding everyone that he was a prince.
Clía couldn’t wait to ruin it.
“Get into ready positions. You may start when I give the word.”
She and Domhnall walked into the center of the arena as Kordislaen returned to the stands.
Clía bounced on her knees a few times, testing their looseness.
Giving one last look to the warriors, she saw Ronan watching her intently.
He raised a brow at her choice of opponent before giving her a smile.
Her hand slid up on the hilt of her blade, securing her grip.
The prince, the man she’d come here to win over, stood ten feet across from her.
He flipped his sword in the air, catching it with one hand.
From the murmuring coming from the stands, she knew his easy movements awed more than just her, but she didn’t let his posturing get in her head.
He was acting as he always did in front of those he wanted to impress. He was a peacock revealing its plumes.
“Begin,” Kordislaen’s voice called out.
Domhnall sent her a courtly smile, as if they were at a ball, about to dance like they had hundreds of times before. “So, how do you wish to do this?”
“With no talking, preferably.”
He smirked. “That might be a challenge for you.” She wanted to lunge at him if only to wipe that obnoxious look from his face.
“Let’s just get started,” she said sharply, hoping they were far enough from the crowd that their words were hidden by the wind.
“If you insist,” he said, ever the gentleman, before lunging.
He swung as if to go for her left side, but the droop in his shoulders gave him away.
He was trying to trick her. She dodged left, and thankfully avoided being impaled.
The look of surprise on his face as she deftly met his blade with her own filled her with energy.
He was still underestimating her, even after all this time. Good. She was relying on that.
The prince stumbled but regained his footing. She stood, grounding her stance.
When he lunged again, she saw it coming. As his sword turned toward her, she dodged fluidly under the blade—a move she would have stumbled through in her armor.
Domhnall waited for her this time. She leaped forward, knowing the attack would be easily defended. The grating clash of metal on metal stung in her ears.
They parried blow for blow, neither gaining the advantage, but neither losing ground.
With each impact, she felt the vibrations radiate down her arm but kept swinging.
Her hands shook. Her jaw ached against her clenched teeth.
But for each harried breath she drew, Domhnall struggled as well.
The smugness on his face faded into annoyance, then faded again into deep concentration.
His hair was a mess. Sweat blossomed on his brow.
And each time their blades crashed together, she was met with less resistance.
Finally, she jumped backward, giving them both a reprieve. She thought she could wear him down and try to win that way, but that was boring. She wanted to be exceptional.
In desperation, Domhnall rushed at her. He attacked with wide and strong swipes that she struggled, but managed, to block. And when he waited for a beat too long, she struck back.
Positioning herself just right, she faked an attack on his left. He saw through it, but when he went to block, she turned her blade and reached out to grab his arm, twisting it. His sword dropped to where she was able to kick it behind her, out of his reach.
His green eyes widened with panic. She was tempted to reach behind her and grab his sword, finishing with the two blades, but some mercy was necessary.
Before victory could be declared, a punch knocked the air from her chest. Her lungs clawed for breath as her legs wavered beneath her. She wanted to collapse to the ground. She stumbled back, and Domhnall pressed forward.
She wouldn’t lose. She couldn’t. She had to push through the burning in her chest. His next blow was meant for her face, but she raised her forearm to block it.
No one had ever mentioned how much blocking a punch hurt.
She continued to back away as sharp pain radiated down her arm. The fierce look on Domhnall’s face made it clear he wasn’t underestimating her now, which meant she needed to move to her backup plan.
Lifting her blade, she swung widely at his head. He ducked, just as she hoped. She spun with her sword, and dug into the ground with the point, spraying dirt into Domhnall’s face.
“What the—” He wiped his face, eyes red and bleary when he turned to look at her.
The next punch he threw was clumsy, making it all too easy for her to dodge it and grab his wrist. He was bigger than her, and stronger, but she used his momentum against him. Swiftly twisting his arm, she pinned it against his back. Her sword came to his neck.
“Do you yield?” she coughed out. She kept the pressure firm on his neck as pain seemed to course through every part of her body.
Domhnall’s body was rigid, a vein popping out from his neck as he looked for a way out. She tightened her grip on his arm.
“I asked you politely.” Her voice was steadier this time.
“I yield.” He slumped in defeat as she lowered her blade.
Kordislaen met them as they walked back to the stands. His face was dour as ever, but his words were not as cold. “Well done, Fionnáin. You exceeded expectations.”
Even in her pain-addled state, joy coursed through her veins. “I aim to please.” Her smile was weak, but earned.
She took her seat beside Ronan, letting her head fall on his shoulder as Kordislaen called up another victim.
Adrenaline was replaced by the heavy embrace of exhaustion, making it harder to fight how she craved his closeness.
His arm moved behind her back, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. It felt right, sitting there with him.
“Did you see what I did?”
“I did,” he said, looking down at her with pride and something else lingering in his eyes.
“You better kick ass today. I don’t want to be that much better than you.”
His laugh caused a flutter in her chest. “I’ll do the best I can, but don’t expect me to compare to your performance.”
She smiled through her fatigue.
Ronan was called up to fight after almost everyone else had gone.
The stands were full of bruised and beaten warriors—no one was allowed to leave after their fight unless immediate medical attention was required (which one dalta needed after fighting with Niamh).
Everyone had free rein to choose who they wanted to fight, even if the person had already fought—but there seemed to be an unspoken rule to not choose someone who had already gone.
For once, Clía was grateful for unspoken rules.
If she was chosen to fight again, she might collapse.
Watching Ronan fight was different from training with him.
He was a sight to behold, moving with a fluid grace and attacking with swift, deft strikes.
He was wind dancing between blades of grass, easily avoiding every strike of his opponent’s sword, and once she made one wrong step, Ronan ended the match.
The other dalta didn’t stand a chance. Clía was almost sad his fight was over so soon; he was enthralling.
She could understand why people thought he was gods-blessed.
Ronan had his sword to his opponent’s throat in under three minutes, a record for the day. Even Niamh took longer—although that was mostly due to the brutal beating she gave her opponent. That girl was forged from blades and fire.
At the end, Kordislaen dismissed them, and they returned to their rooms as walking bruises and rasping breaths. He gave them very little indication as to how well they’d done. They could only hope it was enough to secure their position at Caisleán.