Chapter Twenty-Five
Clía watched from the stairs of Caisleán Cósta as the carriage arrived, her hand tapping rapidly against her leg.
It drew to a stop, and ó Connor stepped down onto the cobblestone drive.
The urge to run to him and throw her arms around him, this one piece of home she had missed too dearly, coursed through her. But she kept her feet rooted to the ground.
The corners of his eyes creased as he spotted her. “Clía. It’s good to see you again.”
She couldn’t hold back the smile that grew on her face. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” he said softly. “This place has barely changed. Now, where shall I put my bags?”
“Follow me,” Clía said, leading him into the castle. “Your letter arrived just in time, but it left out some crucial information. While I’m glad you’ve come, why are you here?”
“Is visiting my favorite princess not excuse enough?” She sent him a look. “All right, fine. I’m still acting as álainndore’s chief of war until a replacement can be found. I needed to come here to retrieve some books and maps from the Draoi.”
“Couldn’t someone else do that?” she asked. A chief didn’t run errands.
“I had hoped to speak to General Kordislaen as well. We trained together, during my time here. I want to know what his plans are, and what Scáilca’s might be. Your parents are starting to worry that war might reach our shores,” he added.
Starting to worry? Had they even read her letters since she arrived at Caisleán?
A warrior she didn’t recognize passed them in the hall. Clía kept her voice low. “They should know war isn’t some vague possibility—it’s imminent. álainndore needs to prepare.”
She should be helping them prepare.
The thought had been growing louder the past few days.
Was she neglecting her duty, staying at the castle? Her plan to win Domhnall back had failed, so what was holding her here? Was her continued training necessary or an excuse?
“You musn’t worry about álainndore. Measures are in place to prepare for whatever may come.” His attempt at reassurance didn’t quite quell her growing fear.
Before she could ask him more, there was a shout down the hall.
“Healer!”
It was Kían.
She ran toward him.
“Someone get a healer!” Kían’s voice broke. Their confidence and charm had been replaced by a desperation she had never seen in them before.
They knelt on the ground beside a crumpled form. A river of black hair that flowed onto the ground.
Clía’s ribs were a vise on her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Sárait?” Kían said, voice hoarse as they shook her shoulders. “Sárait, wake up.”
Clía’s knees hit the floor with a thud as she fell beside her friend. Sárait looked almost peaceful, lying on the stone floor with her eyes shut—except for the gray pallor of her skin and the blue hue staining her lips.
Clía’s fingers shook as they went to her neck. A pulse was faint, but there.
“She’s alive.” Clía said, doing everything she could to keep her voice even. “What happened?”
A crowd was forming around them. Clía could see Niamh’s dark hair among the warriors and Draoi. ó Connor had vanished.
Kían stared down at Sárait, their hands hovering. “I don’t know. We were supposed to have breakfast together, but when I got here”—their fingers curled into fists—“she was just like this. On the ground. Alone.”
Possibilities ran through Clía’s mind, and with no other signs of harm, only one stood out.
“I think it’s poison,” she whispered.
Their dark eyes met hers. “Then we need to know what poison was used! We need to find an antidote.”
“What’s going on here?” Kordislaen strode through the gathered crowd. “Do you all have nothing better to do? Go back to your duties.”
With a sharp look, the crowd dissolved, leaving only a few stragglers.
MacCraith waited by the wall, jaw set with grim concern.
Niamh watched everything in front of her with a careful eye.
Domhnall stood with skillfully constructed indifference.
And Ronan. Clía hadn’t even seen him join the crowd.
He stayed back, worry pooling in his eyes.
Kordislaen’s hawk eyes fell on the scene before him. “Is she dead?”
“She’s alive, but ill. It might be poison.” Clía’s shaking hand wrapped around her friend’s limp one. She squeezed it, hoping that if Sárait could feel anything, she would feel that she was not alone.
“Then she’s as good as dead,” the general proclaimed. “We don’t have the resources to spare for her, not when she might be beyond help already.”
Kían rose to their feet. “We can’t just let her die.”
“Did you not hear me? She looks to be at death’s door already.” Kordislaen’s voice was deadly.
Kían squared their shoulders. “I don’t care. She’s done nothing but help those in this castle. If there’s a chance we can save her, we must take it. I won’t let you kill her by doing nothing.” Their voice rose.
They were interrupted by ó Connor coming to Clía’s side, a woman trailing behind him. Her dark hair was in a braid, draped against her golden Draoi tunic. “I found a healer.”
Kordislaen raised a hand. “We should be saving these supplies for injured warriors, not wasting them on her.”
When the healer kept moving toward Sárait, the warriors with Kordislaen stepped into her path, swords drawn. Clía jumped to her feet. She could hear Kían’s sword being drawn behind her.
“Let the healer through.” Clía’s voice was steadier than she felt.
Kordislaen’s eyes narrowed. “Remember to whom you swore your loyalty.”
This was all a show of power to him, she realized. Practically another test. He wanted her and Kían to condemn Sárait and bow to his orders. If she continued to make a stand here, it would risk everything she’d worked for.
If she didn’t, Sárait might die.
She stared Kordislaen directly in the eyes as she spoke. “I know who I’m loyal to.”
It was a careful defiance. A subtle challenge she could deny later, one that showed she would not be moved.
He looked away, as if calculating how many allies he had in this room. And just how many he might lose if he continued pushing. He dropped his arm. His soldiers followed his lead and lowered their weapons, letting the healer rush to Sárait’s side.
The general looked between Clía and Kían. “Be careful who you choose to make an enemy of,” he said, before turning away.
The healer combed through her pouch, then removed a vial of milky white liquid.
“Cneasú extract?” Kían asked.
The healer removed the cork stopper before lowering Sárait’s chin and pouring a few drops into her mouth. “We have a small amount saved for emergencies. It’s not as potent as the flower itself, but if dosed correctly, it can keep someone alive until a more permanent solution is found.”
“Thank you.” Clía’s shoulders slumped as the urgency and panic fled her body.
Sárait was stable. It was more than she could ask for. It was less than she had hoped.
***
THE DAILY TRAINING FOR A WARRIOR OF CAISLEáN WAS NOT unlike Kordislaen’s dalta training sessions. There were basic exercises, laps, and stretches, and then warriors were left to spar for the remainder of their time.
The main difference between the two routines was Kordislaen’s absence. According to the other warriors, he made an appearance only if there was a specific drill he needed them to work on.
Clía had fought hard for this position. Yet, as she stood with the other warriors, while Sárait sat alone in the infirmary, being here felt wrong.
She ran drills while wondering what motive anyone could have in getting rid of Caisleán’s tailor.
Was it because she had come from the álainndoran court?
Was her closeness to Clía the reason she was in the infirmary now?
But then there was the conversation Clía had heard the night before, outside of the tunnel. Had that been about Sárait? If so, why?
It didn’t make sense. Nothing did.
She hadn’t even been able to get ó Connor’s take on the situation. Since finding Sárait, she hadn’t seen him—kept busy with meetings and Kordislaen, no doubt.
Clía and Ronan paired up to spar, but she was off her game.
He landed hits that she could have easily blocked.
Every so often, he would shoot her a worried look, but she ignored them.
Finally, after a particularly hard blow to her shoulder, he stopped fighting back.
She paused, and when he moved closer to her, anyone else would have seen a decent friend checking for injury.
Clía, however, saw the concern in his eyes and felt the gentle way his hand lingered over her skin.
“Clíodhna, please talk to me,” he said, voice quiet in the crowded training arena. His breath was warm on her face in the chill winter air.
There were too many other warriors nearby. And what troubled her couldn’t be explained in front of an audience. “Not here. Not now.”
“Find me, then. When you’re ready.” He pulled back ever so slightly. “And until then, try to keep your attention on the fight in front of you. You won’t be able to help her if you get yourself hurt.”
He was right, and she hated it.
When she nodded, his shoulders relaxed, and they returned to their training. She did try to focus, but despite her efforts, her mind kept drifting back to the events of that morning. When they were cleared to leave, she nearly sprinted back to the castle to see Sárait.
The infirmary was cold and quiet. Clía found Sárait in bed, tucked into the back corner. She was nearly as still as a corpse, draped in her blankets, skin a sickly pale.
But she wasn’t alone. Kían sat on the bed beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. A pile of books on poisons and healing were forgotten on the bedside table.
“What happened to your mission?” Clía asked.
They looked up, eyes bleary. “I’m not sure I’m Kordislaen’s favorite person right now. He didn’t appreciate me lecturing him.”
“What’s your punishment?”
They grimaced. “Early morning shift.”
Clía’s hand fell on their shoulder. “You made the right decision.”
Kían smiled before reaching down to take Sárait’s hand in their own. “The healer said the cneasú extract is working. If—when—they find out what type of poison runs through her veins, they should be able to treat it.”
“That’s great. She’ll be awake before we know it.” The words felt false on her tongue, but maybe if she believed it enough, it would make them true.
Clía would figure out how this happened, and she would bring Sárait back.
She left Kían to their vigil and, feeling lost, made her way down to the fabric room. Everything was as they left it last—but somehow it seemed smaller, colder.
She returned to her chair and grabbed her needle.
***
THE QUIET OF THE FAbrIC ROOM GAVE CLíA TIME TO THINK.
Sárait couldn’t have taken poison accidentally. Someone did this to her. Someone in the castle.
If she found them, they might be able to save Sárait.
“Ronan said you might be here.” Clía turned to see ó Connor standing in the doorway of the fabric room. “He’s a good kid.”
Clía put her needle down, placing her project on the table in front of her.
“Still sewing, I see.” ó Connor nodded to the fabric in front of her. “Making anything good?”
Clía smiled sadly. “Sárait and I had an idea for that pattern I was working on back in álainndore.”
“The infamous dress. I couldn’t tell if you hated or loved that design, with how much you went on about it.”
“Right now, we’re inching closer to love, but that might change tomorrow.”
ó Connor stepped into the room, leaning a hand against the table at which she sat. “How are you?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Her fingers ran across the hem of her shirt, the texture safe and soothing.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.
I saw Sárait in the infirmary and she was so still.
And there was nothing I could do. My friend is dying, war is coming, and I’m just sitting here, paralyzed. ”
A warm hand rested on her shoulder, and she found herself being pulled into ó Connor’s arms. This time, she held nothing back. She let the tears flow freely down her face and onto his shirt.
She had been on edge for so long, trying to understand a world she had no map for. It was like struggling against a never-ending current. She was tired.
He held her tightly until her eyes went dry.
“All you must do is what you can,” he said, leaning back so he could look her in the eye. “You can’t be responsible for anything else. It’s too heavy a burden to carry.”
She wiped her face, brushing away the tear tracks that burned her cheeks. “What if all I’m capable of isn’t enough?”
“It will have to be,” he replied. “Now, you need rest. Your sewing can wait until the morning.”
He was right. She needed energy if she was to keep fighting.
When she returned to the study, there was one person there. Niamh stood like a statue, eyes closed as she leaned against a bookshelf.
Her voice broke the silence. “How’s Sárait?”
Clía didn’t bother to ask how she knew it was Clía who’d entered the room. “Stable. Why do you care?”
Niamh opened her eyes, her hardened gaze falling on Clía. “You think I’m so heartless as to not care that she was poisoned? She worked here. We all knew her.”
“You’re right, my apologies.” Clía sighed. “Today has been long.”
“I think that’s something we have in common.
” Niamh pushed off from the bookshelf. “What happened this morning—it shouldn’t have gone down like that.
But you and Kían fought for her. While we stood and watched.
” Clía didn’t know what to say, but she was spared from having to speak as Niamh continued.
“That’s what we’re all training to do. To help the innocent.
You’re a good warrior, and a better person than most.”
The compliment settled in Clía’s chest. This girl who had shown her nothing but animosity was praising her.
It didn’t erase what had happened to Sárait, or Niamh’s actions over the past months. But it lit a lantern in the darkness of her thoughts.
“Thank you. That means a lot.” She forced her mouth into a smile, aiming for the polite princess she used to become so easily. Niamh’s face continued to hold the severe form it always did, but Clía saw the crack in her stone exterior.
And it gave her hope.