Chapter Twenty-Six
There was a tense hush throughout the castle in the days following Sarait’s poisoning. Ronan barely saw Clía. She hid in the fabric room, coming out only for mandatory training and food. He wanted to be there for her, support her—but he also wanted her to have space if she needed it.
So he turned his focus to his own work.
He ran laps. He drilled himself on maneuvers ranging from basic to expert. He ignored the pain that burned in his muscles and joints.
None of it could stop that small voice in his head from worrying over her.
That worry only grew as Ronan sat with Niamh and Domhnall in the meeting room, while the seat beside him—Clía’s—remained notably empty.
This would be the first meeting since Sárait’s poisoning that Kordislaen would also be attending.
Conversations overlapped as the other warriors awaited the general, but there was a pocket of silence on Ronan’s side of the table.
Clía arrived a moment before the briefing was scheduled to begin.
“I almost didn’t expect you to come,” he confessed in a whisper.
“I didn’t want to,” she whispered back.
His hand moved of its own volition. It wrapped around hers where she was resting it on her knee. He let his fingers curl into her palm, the rough feel of her new calluses brushed against his. Her eyes closed, and he felt a surge of pride at being the one to make her feel relaxed and safe.
He’d worried that when she avoided him after their kiss, he would lose this. The subtle comfort of each other’s presence.
When she opened her eyes again, it was with a question. “Where’s Kían?”
Ronan wondered the same thing. They may be reckless at times, but they never missed a meeting. “I don’t know. My guess—this is their way of proving a point to Kordislaen.”
“Are they a fool? Kordislaen won’t take kindly to this.” Clía sighed, but he caught the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
“Then let’s hope they come to their senses before he arrives.”
“Maybe he does need to be knocked down a peg or two,” Clía grumbled. Ronan turned to look at her. Her face was set, chin raised high.
Clía didn’t need to make an enemy out of Kordislaen. She deserved her spot here, and one wrong move in the general’s eyes would see her gone.
Kordislaen was looking for disloyalty in Caisleán, and he expected Ronan to report it.
He couldn’t lose her.
“Kordislaen is not at fault for what happened to Sárait,” Ronan reminded her, his voice falling to a whisper.
“I don’t care if he wasn’t the one who poured the poison down her throat,” Clía hissed. “He was willing to let her die. Until I have someone else to blame, it will fall on him.”
“He was focused on Caisleán, as is his job,” he argued.
Clía pulled her hand back, causing Ronan’s to fall. “She was suffering for gods knows how long before Kían found her, and he was content to let her die. How could you defend that?”
All arguments died on Ronan’s tongue. She was right, and her anger was deserved. His own mixed emotions burned in him as well. He didn’t know how the general who was willing to watch Sárait die could be the same man he’d known. The one who’d saved him, who had given him everything.
“He was wrong in doing that,” Ronan admitted. “But maybe a room full of his most trusted and loyal warriors isn’t the best place to discuss this. Not to mention—we need him if there’s a war against Tinelann. Scáilca can’t risk losing his talent, and we can’t risk being chosen as his next targets.”
Ronan offered her his hand once more, desperate to close this gap between them. “I know this situation isn’t great, but we need to prioritize. If we make an enemy of Kordislaen, we risk losing not only all we’ve worked for, but the winning edge in this political disaster.”
He prayed to the gods that she understood. That she would stop her line of questioning before it got dangerous. Her response was cut off by Kordislaen opening the door. Chief ó Connor followed closely behind.
A hush fell over the warriors as they watched the general approach his spot at the head of the table.
“Before I begin, there is something I must address.” He faced their side of the room, no hint of surprise on his face at Kían’s absence.
“As some of you may know, our tailor Sárait Gráinne has fallen ill.” Fallen ill.
As if it were a mere cold. “She is stable, and under the best care we can offer given the circumstances. I’m sure we will have a full understanding of how this came to be soon.
“I would also like to state that while I understand why some reacted the way you did, you will not show such disrespect to me again. Remaining at Caisleán is an honor I can easily revoke. Do you understand?”
Kordislaen’s gaze landed on Clía. She didn’t blink but nodded silently. Ronan hoped that was enough of an answer. Clía would not bow before the general anytime soon.
The general turned to the rest of the group.
“Chief ó Connor of álainndore traveled here to offer his kingdom’s aid in our struggles.
Recently, we received information from Chief Lyons about a scouting party he sent to the Tinelann border.
It’s been a month, and they have yet to send word.
We’re assuming they were either killed in battle or captured by Tinelann. ”
“Has he sent any warriors to follow?” Niamh asked.
“Yes, two. One claimed to have found tracks indicating troop movement coming west from the coast. Possibly a hundred men.”
Domhnall leaned forward over the table. “How could so many have crossed into our lands undetected?”
ó Connor spoke from his place beside Kordislaen. “Weren’t you preaching about how no kingdom was safe this past summer? You of all people should know that Scáilca is far from infallible.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed, and Kordislaen raised a hand to silence Domhnall before he could argue.
“He’s right. There are weak spots in Scáilca’s patrols near the coast. Long stretches of land that go unchecked, sometimes for days at a time.
We change the patrolling schedule weekly to remain unpredictable, but if someone leaked the information to Tinelann, it would be easy for them to cross. ”
Domhnall scoffed. “Are you implying we have a spy in our forces?”
“ó Connor’s right,” Clía chimed in. “Scáilca is not immune to betrayal.”
“I sent a letter back to Chief Lyons with my concerns,” Kordislaen said.
“However, while I await further word from him, I have a new mission. We must gather our own intel. Track the troop movements—if they indeed are there—and find out the whereabouts of our warriors. Lyons sent more than a dozen people in that mission, and they were overtaken. I can only spare half that. If Tinelann troops are indeed moving southeast, then we may have to hold down the front until help arrives. We’ll need all the warriors we have in the keep.
“For the mission, I’ve chosen to send ó Dálaigh, Dornáin, MacCraith, Morrigan, Fionnáin, and ó Faoláin.”
Emotion warred in Ronan. Pride. Exhilaration. Anxiety.
He was finally going in the field again. Clía straightened beside him, no doubt enticed by the opportunity to prove her skills on a real mission.
But they were being sent into dangerous territory, where warriors had been lost before. The odds were against them.
Commander ó Dálaigh spoke from the opposite end of the table. “Sir, you’re sending multiple warriors who have only barely finished their training on a crucial mission.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am aware of whom I chose, Commander. I have faith they are well equipped for this journey.”
***
THEY WERE TO BE READY TO DEPART AT DAWN TOMORROW. There was no time to waste.
Niamh, Domhnall, Clía, and Ronan all walked together without saying a word. There had seemed to be a fragile rope tying them together since that morning. Ronan didn’t want to test its strength.
He packed his travel bag quickly, with only the necessities, before making his way to Clía’s room.
His knock was soft against the door. When Clía opened it, he first noticed her hair, flowing around her in a halo of gold. Her eyes were wide—he could practically see the thoughts racing behind them.
Behind her, her room was a mess. Normally, that wouldn’t surprise him, but this chaos had to stem from something. Clothes covered every surface. A travel bag lay in the middle of the floor, half filled with clothes.
Clía let him pass, and he silently got to work helping her organize everything.
“I can do this on my own,” she insisted, as he helped secure her bedroll.
“That doesn’t mean you have to.” As he spoke, he didn’t think about the words he was saying, and how badly he knew he needed to hear them himself.
Together, they finished packing. Durable and comfortable clothes, leather straps and pins to hold her hair out of her face, gloves and a warm cloak, and of course some powder and lotion.
Ronan knew better than to question those additions.
He could almost hear her voice in his head: “I’m already risking my life; if I don’t pamper myself a little, then I would just be miserable and in danger. ”
Murphy snored in the corner of her room.
He eyed the beast warily, but when he tucked his nose under his paw, Ronan couldn’t deny it was cute.
He hoped the creature would be okay while they were gone; Clía had mentioned he could handle himself, but Ronan doubted how independent the pup could be when he rested on a pile of pillows and blankets.
Between Murphy and Clía’s lumpy mattress, Camhaoir leaned against the wall.
It had been a week since Ronan gave it to her, and he’d yet to see her use it.
The blade was exceptional, the edge sharper than anything in the armory.
The hilt was a thing of beauty, something he thought she might admire.
As fine as the art of álainndore. The Diamhair crystal glimmered in its gold bed.
Clía reached forward to grab the sword, resting it beside her pack.