Chapter Twenty-Two
As the weather turned icier, the Ionróirans grew bolder.
“Another boat has been spotted from the Whispering Cliffs,” Kían whispered, taking a swig of ale from MacCraith’s mug. MacCraith, to his credit, didn’t comment—surely used to Kían’s antics by now. “I’m being sent out with a few other warriors to investigate.”
Clía sat across from them with Ronan, as they tried to enjoy Caisleán’s attempt at an Amhrána feast. She had always looked forward to the holiday.
It was the shortest day of the year, but the beginning of light’s return to the world.
In álainndore, there would be a bountiful banquet, with bonfires and storytelling keeping them up as they awaited sunrise.
While Caisleán did hold a feast—if their dinner could be called such a thing—the castle had succumbed to a somber mood.
Lukewarm barley tea was drunk instead of mulled wine, and whispered conversations took the place of music and dancing.
The mess hall was nearly empty. Caisleán’s best warriors were spread throughout the kingdom to help with the Ionróiran invasions.
Only a few were left behind with the Draoi to keep Caisleán functioning, waiting until the moment Kordislaen would deem them useful.
“Won’t it be dangerous?” she asked. Ionróiran ships could fit hundreds of invaders, all armed and prepared for battle.
“Isn’t that what we signed up for by being here?” MacCraith took his mug back from Kían before they could take another drink, sending the lísoir a pointed look when a complaint rose to their lips.
Clía was surprised to hear him speak up.
Since the numbers in the castle had dwindled, the two of them had begun to join Clía and Ronan outside of their early mornings in the arena, but Niall MacCraith was usually quiet.
The silence was never a timid one, instead it was the silence of a man who didn’t waste his words.
Kían, however, made up for the man’s reserved nature and seemed to delight in filling any pause in conversation.
“Still, I would hope Kordislaen is at least considering everyone’s safety,” Clía replied.
Kían laughed, a bitter sound. “Kordislaen sent us out to the Ghostwood with only a week of training. Do you really think that man cares about what happens to us now? If we die, he’ll say we knew the risks.
The man thinks he’s untouchable, like he’s one of the Treibh Anam.
Besides—it’s for the greater good. Protecting the land and whatnot. ”
“It is for the greater good,” Ronan said, sitting taller. “Kordislaen’s tough but not soulless. Each decision is calculated, and he wouldn’t be foolish enough to send Inismian nobility to their deaths.”
Kían fidgeted with their spoon, balancing it between their fingers.
“Right now, Kordislaen is more worried about stopping the invasion than losing a few nobles. There have been four attacks in the last week alone. One village was nearly burned to the ground. Soon, the seas will be too rough for their boats to handle, but until then”—the spoon fell from their hand with a clatter—“we’re left scrambling. ”
Clía considered this. “The Ionróirans and Tinelann won’t want to pause their attacks because of unsafe waters—it would give Scáilca time to rebuild and prepare. If they truly intend on escalating, it’ll be before storm season.”
The realization settled over them, and suddenly the soup in Clía’s bowl held no appeal.
“Kordislaen knows this,” Ronan reassured them. “I’m sure he’s prepared for whatever their next move may be.”
He was right. Scáilca would be well prepared for their enemies’ next moves, and she had been passing her intel to álainndore as well. They would be fine.
Ronan stood, offering a hand to Clía. “Let’s head back.”
She took Ronan’s hand, allowing him to pull her up. With a quick goodbye to Kían and MacCraith, they returned to the study.
As they walked through the halls, Clía could hear the echo of the Draoi’s softly uttered prayers. The smell of blessed mistletoe and holly filled the air, the familiarity almost comforting.
Ronan didn’t speak until they were before the crackling fire of the study.
She idly wondered who kept it burning. Surely there was a Draoi ensuring it would not die until sunrise—they couldn’t afford the gods’ ire.
When she was nine, she’d stayed by the fireplace the entire day in fear of a draft whisking away the holy flame and leaving her alone with the smoke.
Ronan followed her gaze to the burning log. “You miss home.”
She broke herself from the trance of flames and memory. “I won’t be subject to your boredom-induced projections.”
It was a poor attempt at dismissing his question, one he clearly saw through.
His eyebrow quirked, and she ignored the warmth that spread through her.
“As if you would ever give me the chance to relax enough to grow bored.” He paused for a moment, and she waited.
There was no need for her to try to fill the silence around him.
It was a rare feeling, that sense of ease with someone else.
“You’ve been less focused while training.
Quieter. While I thought I would appreciate the rarity of your silence, I miss you. ”
She wanted to fight him on his comment about her silence, but she was stopped by the genuine concern in his eyes. His gaze bore into hers in a way that made her feel completely exposed.
A sigh rolled out from her chest, against her volition.
“If I were home, I would be in an extravagant dining hall. I would have a grand entrance, captivating the entire room. My gown would be custom-made for the occasion and would steal everyone’s heart.
There would be embroidery, maybe a dramatic sleeve—I love a dramatic sleeve.
And the feast would be endless. We would eventually retire to my parents’ rooms, family only.
ó Connor would entertain us with stories and legends before the fire.
” She stopped herself. There were worse things than being away from family.
In the shadow of war, her concerns seemed trivial and childish.
Ronan wrapped his hand around hers, his thumb drawing patterns on her palm. In the wake of each swipe, a current seemed to rise under her skin. She felt the anxious part of her, the voice afraid of people overhearing her weakness and her sadness, fade away.
“You know it’s okay to miss álainndore. To miss your family.”
She nodded, not sure what to say. He led her to the couch. The fire warmed her face as the flames danced across blackened logs.
“My mother loved Amhrána.”
Clía shifted so she could look at Ronan. His eyes never left the fire.
“She used to make beautiful wreaths out of the plants she and my father grew. I would always get a break from training to help her make them. Mine were never as good, but she would still hang them up.” He laughed to himself. “I miss her so much sometimes.”
She shifted their hands, squeezing his. He swallowed.
“It’s my fault.” The words were so quiet, she almost didn’t hear them. “When she was killed, I should have fought back. Gotten help. I should have done something. Instead, I watched her die.”
“You were a child.”
“I was old enough.”
The guilt was a physical thing, dragging him down. She wouldn’t allow it. “You wouldn’t have been able to make much of a difference. Not then. Not against trained warriors in an invasion.”
“I did kill one of them.” The words were said in a straightforward manner, as if he were talking about the weather. “But then after—I only made it out alive because of Kordislaen. And even then, I wasn’t the same.”
She leaned her shoulder against his. “You mentioned nightmares.”
“And the pain.” He lifted their tangled hands before his face, studying them, as if he could find the source of his pain and pull it out. “My joints and muscles burn with it, all the time. Some days, it’s manageable, but some days . . . all I can do is stay in bed and endure.”
That day in the gardens, when he didn’t make it to training—she had known something was wrong but hadn’t wanted to press him. And then they had kissed . . .
Unsure what to say, she offered a simple acknowledgment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve learned to live with it. Despite it. Still, it’s always there. A reminder of how I failed.”
Clía stopped him. “I can’t say I understand what you have dealt with or the pain you live with, but I need you to understand that you didn’t fail.
You were a child, and you did all you could.
And this pain—you haven’t only lived with it.
You’ve triumphed. You have achieved more than most could ever hope for.
The pain might be a part of you, but it doesn’t define you. ”
His smile was sheepish. “I was supposed to be the one comforting you.”
“There’s still time.” She shrugged.
“I might have just the thing. Stay here—I’ll be back in a second.” And with that, he left. A moment later, he returned through the door that led to their rooms, hiding a hand behind his back. She sent him an inquisitive look from across the room.
He walked to her, his easy smile contrasting with the intensity lighting the gold flecks in his eyes. “I know you miss álainndore, and I can’t take you there to make up for it, but I hope this could help.”
He moved, revealing a sword of steel that shone in the firelight. The golden hilt was intricately carved, with vines weaving across the grip. And in the center of the cross guard, a jewel sparkled. It was a soft pink, similar to rose quartz but striking in its coloration.
And it seemed all too familiar.
“Is that—?” she asked, running her fingers across the facets. Looking closer, she had no doubt that it was the same jewel she had been using as a paperweight. Several weeks ago, she had briefly wondered where it went but figured she’d misplaced it and that it would turn up eventually.
She was technically right about one of those things.