Chapter Twenty-One #2
Domhnall’s mouth fell open, and she could see him searching to find a way to twist this. To turn her words against her or convince her she was overreacting. She didn’t give him the chance. With a final nod to Ronan, she walked past the rest of the celebrating daltas and left the study.
She only stopped when she was safely in her room, where she let out the squeal of joy she’d been keeping trapped in her chest.
***
CLíA WAS CONVINCED SáRAIT WAS SECRETLY TRYING TO kill her.
That was the only logical reason why she was leading her down hidden stairs, into the depths of the castle.
“After you murder me in cold blood, would you mind pretending I said something wise and serene when facing death?” Clía asked, trying not to focus on the stone walls of the hallway that were definitely closing in on them. Oh gods.
Sárait sighed, but Clía could hear a hint of amusement.
“For the last time, I’m not here to kill you.
However, I am feeling tempted.” She paused for a second, contemplating.
“No. It would be too much work. I don’t want to have to wash bloodstains out of this dress; I deal with enough from your fellow warriors.
Maybe another day.” Sárait shrugged and continued walking.
Clía followed behind in silence. After telling her the news that she would be staying, Sárait was eager to celebrate. Clía’s idea of celebration consisted of stealing some food from the kitchens and having a midnight picnic, but Sárait had different ideas.
When Sárait first led Clía to the tunnel entrance, Clía couldn’t help but notice how much emptier the whole place felt now. The dismissed daltas had left immediately after the announcement. But Clía wasn’t going to let their absence bring down her mood. She had done it.
She’d drafted a letter to her parents immediately. Would they be excited for her, or would they not care? What would ó Connor think?
She felt for his latest letter, folded up in her pocket. It was brief—an update on life in álainndore and a promise for more information later—but it was a reminder that someone in álainndore cared. It was a reminder of home.
Something woefully needed when traversing the dark tunnels under Caisleán.
A rogue cobblestone loomed up out of nowhere and tripped her.
“When did you first begin working as a tailor?” she asked, hoping a distraction would keep her from thinking too hard about getting lost in these twisting tunnels.
“Four years ago,” Sárait said.
“Four years? You had to be, what, fifteen? How did you even get your start at such a young age?”
“I always had skill with a needle. When I was younger, I would make clothes for myself and my sister. But my parents had higher aspirations for me than being a tailor. They saw their children as a means to further their reach in society. And to settle their debts. My sister married well, appeasing them for a short while, but it didn’t last.
“I didn’t want to be a means to an end. I wanted to work on my designs, but that wasn’t useful for them. So, one day, I left.”
They took another turn in the never-ending tunnel. “You ran away?”
“I had a dream, and I followed it. The life they wanted for me would never have made me happy. So I sought out that joy on my own. I took myself as far away as I could. I traveled south, working in small villages for a while until I heard about a position as a tailor at your palace. I sent my parents and my sister letters to tell them I was okay after I began my first job.”
“Have they stayed in touch?”
Clía stopped suddenly to keep herself from walking into Sárait.
“We’re here.” She led Clía down one final turn, opening a wooden door to reveal a room full of fabrics.
The room was small, not much larger than Clía’s room, but bright with vibrant colors. Swoops of fabric hung from the walls and the ceiling, soft heaps piled on tables scattered across the room.
It was like a dream.
Sárait laughed at Clía’s wondrous expression. “I had a feeling you might appreciate the fabric room as much as I do.”
Clía’s hands trailed over the rainbow array of cotton, taffeta, and silk, until a stunning magenta drew her attention. “Is this velvet?” she asked, idly running her fingers up and down the soft nap.
Sárait nodded. “That color would look amazing on you.”
But Clía’s eyes had already drifted to a shining silver fabric, tucked away in the far corner. It sparkled in the lantern light, the gray shifting from glistening white to a captivating charcoal. The material was cool to the touch, and it clung to the tips of her fingers. “This is beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? I picked it up at the market a few seasons ago. A sweet woman was selling it. She said it was woven by Draoi, infused with iron to strengthen it. She definitely undersold how strong it was; I broke several needles when I tried to sew with it.”
Clía stopped fondling the fabric to look at Sárait. “Infused with iron? How did they do that?”
“Apparently, the Draoi who wove it studied the path of Orlaith, the Stormweaver. She channeled the energy of the Otherworld to fuse the threads with iron shavings. Admittedly, I was more taken by the iridescence than anything else. I thought it might make a lovely dress.”
“No, not a dress. This is meant for much more.” Clía ignored Sárait’s questioning look. “Why do you have all of these fabrics?”
“Kordislaen encourages me to keep this room stocked, both for my own personal uses and for whatever might be needed in Caisleán. He calls it an investment, says I would be no use to him if my skill with a needle were to grow dull. As long as I keep up with my work, I’m free to do with the leftover fabrics as I please. ”
Clía looked back at the stunning iron-woven textile. “Have you considered trying anything else with this?”
“Not if I can’t get a needle into it.”
Leaning closer to the fabric, Clía examined the weave.
“I might have a solution to that problem. I have more than my fair share of specialty needles at home, and I think I know just the one that could work on this fabric. I picked it up on a trip to Oileánster a few years ago—it should be thin enough, and it was blessed by a Draoi. A Stormweaver fabric requires a Stormweaver needle. I’ll write and ask for it to be sent here. ”
“I know the fabric is unique—it’s why I bought it. But why go to all this effort for it?” Sárait asked.
Clía pulled her dagger from its sheath. Holding the fabric in place with one hand, she swung with the other.
“What are you doing?” Sárait exclaimed, grabbing the dagger from her hand. “I swear, one day I’m going to hide all of your knives.”
Clía held the fabric up, letting the light reflect off it. Where the dagger had struck, it was perfectly intact. Not a single mark marred it.
“I might have a use for this.”
***
CLíA SPENT THE LITTLE FREE TIME SHE HAD WITH SáRAIT planning and designing. Ronan had clearly been curious about what she was up to, but she refused to elaborate, not wanting to ruin the surprise. Thankfully, he didn’t press her.
He did, however, still wake her before dawn to continue their training regimen.
Despite earning her spot, he had made her promise to continue to meet with him in their spare time, so they could be better prepared for what Kordislaen threw at them.
Sárait often joined them, still trying to catch Kían’s eye, as the dalta had also resumed their training with MacCraith.
And they didn’t stop on the field. Clía and Ronan spent hours in the library furthering their studies.
It was during one of those evenings, five days after Kordislaen dismissed the other warriors, that Domhnall walked into the room.
Clía was lying on the couch with a history book open beside her, her feet resting on Ronan’s lap. He didn’t object when she placed them there, claiming a chill. Instead, he tossed a soft blanket over her without a word.
“I’m glad I found you here, Clíodhna,” Domhnall began. “I have some news, and I wished to speak with you.”
She didn’t bother to get up. “Then tell me.”
Domhnall approached, exchanging a meaningful look with Ronan. If he was requesting a moment alone, Ronan didn’t seem to care. He leaned back in his seat, lifting a brow. Domhnall’s eyes traveled to Clía, caught for an extra second on where Ronan’s fingers rested against her ankle.
Whether Domhnall wanted to be alone for her sake or his, she wasn’t sure, but she didn’t have the patience for his games. “Well? From your tone, it sounded rather exciting. Do share.”
He took a deep breath, letting his princely facade fall over him. “I received a letter from my father. He is approving my betrothal with Niamh.”
Clía held her breath, waiting for the pain to rupture in her chest. Her fingers clutched her book tightly—but the stabbing hurt never came. A dull ache did burn in her, but as she remembered to let the air out of her lungs, she realized that was more likely the culprit than any heartbreak.
Domhnall’s engagement was official. She wouldn’t win him over. She would never marry him.
And she felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true.
There was no pang of sadness, or fear or stress. She wasn’t wallowing in self-pity or letting self-doubt eat away at the joy in her heart, as it had been doing since he first left her. No, that joy seemed to glow brighter now than it had months ago.
She was okay.
She was more than okay. She was content.
Her parents would be disappointed, and while that thought did set her heart racing, it didn’t knock away her breath. She would survive it.
She gave Domhnall her princess smile, the one she used on any other noble or high-ranking member of her court whom she wished to befriend. She didn’t move from her relaxed position—she was far too comfortable for that—but over her comfort, she wore the charisma of a royal.
“I’m immensely happy for you both. Congratulations.”
Domhnall nodded, and she watched him try to mask his confusion.
Despite everything, she meant it. Perhaps not immensely—that would require her to care a little more than she did—but she was happy.
A future with Domhnall was out of the question.
She didn’t have to fight for it anymore.
She didn’t need to pretend to be someone she wasn’t in order to secure a dream she wasn’t sure was hers to begin with.
There would be repercussions, eventually.
However, her parents had already resigned themselves to finding another way to earn the favor of the Draoi before she’d left for Caisleán Cósta.
They had been considering different potential marriage alliances when she met them in the garrán.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be horrible, returning empty-handed.
She had traveled to Caisleán, fought monsters and men—she would find a way to protect her kingdom.
Ronan’s hands softly caressed the small patch of skin on her ankle that peeked out from beneath the blanket. His callouses were rough, but she didn’t mind. It reminded her of the mornings they spent earning them.
For the first time in her life, when she thought of her future, there was no plan in place. No clear picture.
And for the first time in her life, she was okay with that.