Chapter Thirty-Three
Ronan’s feet pounded against the dirt, the sunrise at his back. His knees ached and his calves felt as if they were on fire, but he pushed himself further.
Logically, he knew he should stop. Take a break, give his muscles a chance to relax. But the second his body idled, his mind would start back up again.
His thoughts had gotten the better of him all last night. He could barely focus on his patrol shift, thinking only of MacCraith’s warning. And of Clía.
He couldn’t get the image of her tearstained face out of his mind. His heart lurched at the memory.
He didn’t know what hurt worse—that after everything they’d been through, after everything she’d accomplished, she still didn’t see herself as good enough.
Or that he wasn’t enough for her. It was only a few nights ago when he’d kissed her under the stars.
The feel of her lips, his arms around her—it was the closest he would ever get to paradise.
He thought she was as lost in him as he was in her. Seeing her put up walls between them, watching the tears roll down her face as she doubted him and herself—he felt like he’d been stabbed. Why was one man’s opinion enough to make her question so much?
And how selfish could he be, that he thought he alone could be motivation for her to stay?
She was a princess, born to lead a kingdom. He was a warrior who had come from nothing. The greatest thing he had ever imagined achieving was a noble death in battle.
Hope could be a fatal strike.
As the pain in his legs flared, his muscles stiffened and his steps faltered.
He caught himself on the branch of a nearby tree before he could hit the ground.
Slowly, he lowered himself, his back against the trunk.
He had been running for longer than he should.
He knew his limits, and now he was paying the price of attempting to defy them.
His head fell back against the tree. The ground was hard and cold, and the gray sky peeked out from behind dead branches above him. This morning, a light run around Caisleán’s grounds had sounded like a great idea.
But now, stuck on the forest floor with no company but the ache in his bones, there was no hope for escaping what was haunting him.
His thoughts turned from Clía to Kordislaen.
After his conversation with MacCraith and Domhnall, there were facts he couldn’t deny. Their capture was suspicious. Kordislaen was one of the smartest generals in Inismian. Everything he did was careful and calculated. What were the odds that he would make a fatal mistake?
The general had called a meeting last night—making Ronan abandon his vigil at Clía’s door—and Niamh’s sharp words and looks were the only things that kept him from losing control.
He knew Kordislaen was blunt and rude—he’d witnessed it many times—but he had always looked past it.
Kordislaen was the Sword of Scáilca. The man had saved lives and protected their kingdom. His personality could be overlooked.
But Clía’s stricken expression had carved itself into Ronan’s heart. Kordislaen managed to carefully knock down every piece of confidence she had built up.
Why? What was the point? What was the general doing?
He couldn’t think about all the ways his conversation with Clía had gone wrong. He couldn’t think about how she was leaving.
But those questions? They needed answers. And he could help find them.
***
DOMHNALL’S DOOR OPENED WITH A SOFT CREAK. THE PRINCE stood there, hair combed back, with purple bags marring the skin under his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Ronan faltered.
For years, it had been him and Domhnall against the world. They fought together, trained together, studied together. They had been brothers.
And despite the distance that had grown between them, Ronan missed him.
“I wanted to see you,” Ronan admitted. “We need to talk.”
The door opened wide, and Domhnall stepped to the side. “Come in,” he said, his voice falling softly in the chilly air.
To an outsider, the room would look messy. Clothes and books piled on the floor and the bed. Weapons scattered throughout. But Ronan knew Domhnall, and he knew that it was an organized chaos. Every pile fell into a category, and the placement of each item had a purpose.
Domhnall lifted a hand, encouraging Ronan to take a seat on the bed. He stood by the door as he closed it.
“You look terrible.” Ronan stretched his legs.
Domhnall reached down to grab the nearest object—a thick yet slightly torn book—and threw it at Ronan.
It was a light throw, but Ronan still ducked out of the way before it could make contact.
“Is that any way to treat your prince? I’m sorry if I’ve lost sleep over the revelation that one of my most trusted generals might not deserve said trust. If I’ve been worried that my closest friend, my betrothed, and my former .
. . Clía were on a deadly mission—that I had to learn about from Kordislaen, mind you—and that you came back barely in one piece.
And then Kían tells me the reason you could hardly keep yourself on a horse was because you were taken prisoner by Tinelann. ”
Ronan tried to rise, but Domhnall was suddenly in front of him, pushing him back down. “I’m not done. I couldn’t yell at you yesterday, in front of MacCraith, but I can here. You could have gotten yourself killed. You nearly did. I could hate you for that.”
“You couldn’t.” Domhnall might rage at Ronan; Ronan had done the same to him. But Domhnall would never hate Ronan, just as Ronan could never find the strength to hate him.
Domhnall’s sigh was heavy with exhaustion. “I wish I could. It might be easier with the way you always seem to find trouble. Alas, I’m stuck caring about you.”
Ronan let out a surprised laugh, but it quickly died. “I suppose we should discuss the . . . other trouble: Kordislaen. I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to travel with MacCraith.”
After their conversation yesterday, Ronan didn’t get the chance to talk again with the prince. He wanted to know Domhnall’s thoughts. While Ronan was quick on his feet, and a good student, his friend had an eye for things he couldn’t understand.
“I gave him a letter for my father. I want to observe the general for myself, and, if MacCraith’s suspicions are correct, there’s more I can do here than in Suanriogh.” Ronan nodded, and Domhnall narrowed his eyes. “You seem more open to the idea of your precious general being a traitor.”
“He spoke with Clía and had some unnecessarily harsh remarks,” Ronan replied, staying silent when Domhnall seemed to wait for more information. That was Clía’s story to share at her discretion.
“We all knew Kordislaen was heartless—that’s not a surprise.
” Domhnall took one look at Ronan’s face and amended his statement.
“Many people thought well of him, but Kordislaen is an acquired taste. It was only his talents and history that forced people to tolerate him. That’s also what makes me inclined to think MacCraith may be right.
He’s too skilled for what happened during your mission to be an accident.
Which means he sent you there on purpose. He let you be captured.”
Ronan nodded. While he’d struggled to entertain the thought before, knowing how the general treated Clía, and hearing his trusted friend repeat the facts in such a blatant matter, Ronan couldn’t argue. It was truth, ugly yet undeniable. It sunk into his lungs and his chest with a crushing force.
“Why would he do that?” he asked, frustration growing with every syllable. “He risked everything. His position, Caisleán, the kingdom.” Me, he wanted to say. The word wouldn’t leave his throat. “What could he possibly have to gain?”
“You know the man better than I do,” Domhnall said.
He was right.
Kordislaen once said they were one and the same. He had seen himself in a young Ronan—it was why he’d encouraged Ronan’s training. Mentored him and supported him.
He could think like Kordislaen.
A skill he had once prided himself on now doused him in shame. But it was useful all the same.
Why would Kordislaen sabotage the mission?
There was no possible way for Scáilca to benefit from the mission failing. If it wasn’t for Clía, Niamh, and Dornáin, Ronan and MacCraith would be dead. It was a miracle they hadn’t all died on the mission.
Unless that had been Kordislaen’s goal.
He didn’t want Clía at Caisleán, that was clear.
But what if MacCraith was right? What if he thought the six of them were no longer useful to him? If he wanted them gone, he could have sent them on a suicide mission. It would be an easy way to remove them without drawing suspicion.
It wasn’t the full explanation; too many pieces still missing. But the second Ronan thought it, the theory was impossible to ignore.
***
CAISLEáN WAS FULL OF NOISE AND MOVEMENT. THE Tinelannian and Ionróiran troops outnumbered them, and they couldn’t count on waiting for reinforcements if a fight was on its way to their door. But this was Caisleán Cósta. They could hold their own.
As Ronan raised his hand to knock on Kordislaen’s door, it opened.
Despite the early hour, the general was dressed for the day. His hair was neatly combed against his head, and his clothes held not a single wrinkle. A voice in Ronan’s head, eerily similar to Clía’s, had to commend him on it.
Ronan’s chest ached. Now was not the time to think about Clía.
He straightened his shoulders. “Good morning, sir. I’ve come to see if you have a moment to speak.”
Kordislaen didn’t stop for him. “My day is scheduled to the minute, boy. If you have something to say, come with me and make it quick.”
Ronan nodded and followed him down the hallway.
“I haven’t seen Clía around. I was growing concerned.” He tested the waters. “Have you heard anything?”
Kordislaen didn’t falter. “I don’t have time for childish games. I know you spoke with her last night. If you have questions, ask them, but don’t waste energy that could be saved for more useful endeavors.”
If Kordislaen didn’t want to waste time, Ronan wouldn’t. Still, he remained careful with his words. “Why did you dismiss her? We need all the warriors we can get.”
“She’s a princess, not a warrior. Her safety was at risk if she remained here. And if she died under my watch, under the watch of the Draoi? The whole kingdom would pay for it,” Kordislaen said.
This could have almost been believable—the only other high-ranking royal left was Domhnall, who was in his home kingdom and therefore less of a political risk—if Ronan didn’t know the details of Kordislaen and Clía’s conversation.
He stopped in the middle of the hallway, grabbing Kordislaen’s arm. “Were you protecting her when you called her pitiful? When you told her how you were using her for her title?”
Before Ronan could move, a dagger was pointed at his neck. “Remember your place, Captain.” The title was poison in the general’s mouth.
Ronan didn’t shy away from Kordislaen’s blade. They faced each other in the center of the hall. People paused—curious or afraid, Ronan didn’t know. One look from Kordislaen sent them scattering.
Kordislaen’s dark eyes bore into Ronan’s.
He lowered his blade, and Ronan dropped his arm.
“I understand you feel something for this girl, and I admire your loyalty, but your attempts at nobility are misguided and futile. Remember who has really been there for you, who supported you throughout your years of training.”
Ronan’s jaw tensed.
His debt to the general suddenly felt more like a cage than the key he always used to see it as.
“While I’m sure her telling of our conversation was exaggerated, I will admit that the situation with the princess was unfortunate,” Kordislaen continued, and Ronan held back a scoff.
Unfortunate. “Her position and her title were helpful for me, yes. You can’t blame me for doing what must be done.
If that truth hurt her, that’s not my fault. Duty neglects compassion.”
Ronan’s gaze never left the general. If Kordislaen thought he could wave away Ronan’s anger with a few careful words, he didn’t deserve the respect Ronan had given him his entire life.
The man stepped back. “Come with me,” he said, leading Ronan into an empty room.
The door shut with a thud behind them, shrouding them in darkness. For a moment, Ronan wondered if he’d made a dangerous mistake.
There was a click as Kordislaen lit a lantern, illuminating them once more. Shelves of drawers lined one wall, and maps the other. Ronan drew closer, seeing the lines marking Scáilca, álainndore, and Tinelann in the north, and Liricnoc and Oileánster in the south.
“Despite that unfortunate outburst, you’ve excelled here,” Kordislaen said, his fingers trailing over one of the drawers. “You understand the obligation to do what’s best for Inismian. You share in my ambitions. It’s why I trust that what I say here won’t leave this room.”
Despite everything, Ronan’s chest still tightened at the praise.
He pressed his nails into his palms, the sharp pain pulling him back.
When Kordislaen didn’t continue, Ronan gave him a subtle nod.
The general smiled, eyes sharp in the lantern light. Calculating. “I’m leaving Caisleán, and I hope you will join me.”
It wasn’t what he expected to hear.
He didn’t know what he expected.
“Where are you going?”
“Your conversation with Princess Clíodhna didn’t go well last night, did it?
” Kordislaen’s voice was as soft as Ronan had ever heard it.
The look on his face was almost one of understanding.
“I’m sorry that happened. Perhaps it’s for the best. She didn’t realize what it meant to have your love.
Your loyalty. Not if she threw you aside so easily. ”
Ronan’s fingers yearned to curl around the hilt of his sword. He was alone with Kordislaen. No witnesses.
He stayed still. He stayed silent.
“And soon the prince will be overtaken by his engagement to Morrigan. I had already been worried with how little I saw you two interact recently—you might not have said anything to me, but I know that friendship meant a lot to you. Between the war and a royal wedding to prepare for, I imagine he will have much to do. Where will that leave you?”
Alone, the shadows whispered in his ear. Again.
“Brushed aside like you don’t matter.” Kordislaen shook his head.
“I’ve never left you alone. I know I wasn’t there, necessarily, but I was always watching, so proud of what you were becoming.
Now, I could offer you riches. Glory. And I’m sure for others, that might entice.
But you’re a good man—such superficial things would mean nothing to you.
And so, I offer this instead: a chance to show them how wrong they were.
A chance to prove me right for saving you that day. ”
Ronan met the general’s hardened gaze. The light flickered over his face, casting him half in shadow, half in flame.
“I’ll go with you.”