Chapter Thirty-Five
Ronan sat in front of Kordislaen, legs aching as the carriage jolted to a stop.
Kordislaen looked out the window before opening the door. “We go on foot from here.”
They walked through frost-covered fields until the sun was high in the sky, only stopping at the base of a towering hill.
Kordislaen let out a whistle. Three simple notes.
They were echoed back at him. Satisfied, he continued up the incline.
A code. So that they wouldn’t be shot with an arrow by scouts on their approach.
Ronan’s knees screamed as he climbed.
When they reached the crest, a vast valley spread below them. Hundreds of tents rose from the grounds, and warriors walked among them. Warriors in Tinelannian white. This was the invasion force.
Kordislaen entered the camp to a hero’s greeting. Warriors came up to him and clapped him on his back. Welcomed him. Thanked him. His mouth stayed in a tight line, but his eyes held a glimmer of pride, and a joy Ronan didn’t recognize.
A woman approached Kordislaen. “It’s good to see you again.” Her white cape trailed behind her, as pale as her skin. With her broad shoulders, she stood tall in silver armor. She held her head high, and the warriors around them watched her with respect.
She was a leader, even if Ronan couldn’t tell her rank.
Kordislaen gripped her arm in greeting. “Cuilinn, I hope you are doing well.”
“As well as we can. The gods must favor us—no man or weather tried to stop our advance into Scáilca,” Cuilinn said.
“If the gods truly favored us, then Tinelann would have no need for invasion,” Kordislaen countered.
Cuilinn’s laugh was deep and warm. “Or they know us well, and the invasion, this excuse to fight, is our blessing.”
It was one thing for Ronan to think that Kordislaen might be a traitor. To consider that his mistakes were purposeful. But seeing him banter with a Tinelannian warlord and laugh about invading his home country?
Ronan’s stomach turned.
“Who’s this you have with you?” Cuilinn asked. She looked Ronan up and down.
Kordislaen’s shoulders rolled back. “Captain Ronan ó Faoláin. I had him placed as the captain of Prince Domhnall’s guard. He knows the palace—and the Scáilcan royals—well. I imagine he will be of great service in our next steps.”
Ronan’s head turned sharply toward the general.
I had him placed as the captain of Prince Domhnall’s guard.
“We already have plenty of informants in the palace,” Cuilinn said.
Kordislaen’s chin tilted up. “Have they earned the trust of the Scáilcan prince and the álainndoran princess?”
Cuilinn’s eyes lit up and her hand stretched toward Ronan. “Welcome, ó Faoláin. I’m Chief Cuilinn of Tinelann. It’s an honor to have you among our ranks.”
Ronan tried to keep his hand from trembling as he shook the Tinelannian chief’s.
***
THE SUN WAS BEGINNING TO FALL WHEN RONAN FOUND himself in a tent, alone with Cuilinn and Kordislaen. The Scáilcan general sat at a table, penning a letter in the dying light, as Cuilinn studied papers Kordislaen had brought her.
Ronan stared at the dirt below him. Thoughts raced through his head, loud and unending.
He couldn’t voice them. Not yet. Possibly not ever. He kept them locked away, alongside all the emotions that had been warring in him since he decided to confront Kordislaen at Caisleán.
“I expect we’ll be moving on Caisleán Cósta soon?” he asked instead.
The scratching of Kordislaen’s pen stopped. A beat. Ronan sent a silent prayer to the gods that Kordislaen wouldn’t sniff out his true intentions.
“A day from tomorrow,” Kordislaen said, looking up at him.
There was a lump in Ronan’s throat. He had never been a good liar.
“Good,” he said.
“Speaking of which,” Cuilinn began, “we must discuss the plans. King Ardal was insistent you lead this invasion while I meet with our allies, and I defer to his decisions, but do you really believe we should keep so many numbers to the east? If we divide—”
“We need to keep a central focus. Sending a few troops to the southern entrance, a few rounding the back up north, we can focus our energy on the west while also spreading their defense thin.”
“What about—” she hesitated, her eyes sliding to Ronan.
“My knowledge of Caisleán Cósta is unrivaled,” Kordislaen said confidently. “I am the one who built it up. I know how to tear it down.”
Her ice-blue eyes narrowed. “Be sure it does fall, or it will be on your head.”
Kordislaen returned to his letter, not bothering to give her the dignity of looking at her as he spoke. “If that’s all, I think it’s time we rest.”
Cuilinn crossed her arms as she considered Kordislaen. Without a word, she left the tent.
“You dismissed a Tinelannian chief,” Ronan said.
Kordislaen continued to write. “I would dismiss a king if he dared doubt me.”
The general dropped his quill, folding the paper neatly before sealing it with wax. When he was done, he turned back to Ronan. “Tell me, are you prepared to take your blade against Prince Domhnall? Against Princess Clíodhna?”
Ronan’s back straightened.
“I’ll do as I must.” His answer was carefully crafted. “It’s as you said—I’d be alone either way.”
The chair scraped against the cold dirt as Kordislaen rose.
“I understand it will be hard. Ambition can never stop your heart from feeling. I know the guilt that eats at you, and the memories that feed it. I have my own that used to keep me up at night. However, I’m sure you’ve learned, as I have, that battle is the only thing that can offer true clarity.
True peace. Morality and doubt all fall away when a sword is coming for your neck. ”
Ronan nodded, focusing hard on keeping his breathing even. His face straight. Another second in this tent, and Kordislaen would see right through him.
“If it’s all right with you, I think I should take some rest. Where’s my tent?”
“You’ll be staying here, with me.” Kordislaen pointed to a bedroll in the corner, and Ronan’s heart dropped. “It’s the easiest way for me to guarantee your safety.”
It was interesting how easy it was to spot Kordislaen’s lies now that he knew the general’s true intentions. This wasn’t an attempt to protect Ronan—for all of Kordislaen’s talk of belief and pride, he still didn’t trust Ronan. Not entirely.
Knowing Kordislaen was watching, Ronan prepared for bed and then closed his eyes to feign sleep.
***
IT TOOK HOURS. BUT ONCE RONAN WAS SURE THE GENERAL was asleep, he rose silently from his bedroll.
It was strange, seeing Kordislaen so vulnerable. The legendary general. His stories made him sound more fable than man. Could he even bleed?
One swipe of his blade, and Ronan would find out.
The metal of his sword was cool under his fingers.
He could do it. He could end him, and maybe end the doubt and questions that had taken root in him.
His hand fell.
Coward, he thought as he left the tent, and Kordislaen, behind.
The camp was entrenched in the darkness of winter night. Ronan walked through the lines of tents carefully, breath catching at every rustle of fabric in the wind, every creak of a tree branch. Enemies surrounded him on all sides; he couldn’t be caught unawares.
He needed to get out of here. To return to his friends.
It was at the bottom of the hill that he realized his mistake. Scouts paced the hillside, ready to take out any threat.
Which meant he needed to be seen as an ally.
Ronan took a few steps forward into the open. He whistled three notes, praying to the gods that he remembered them right. He could barely hear the scout’s whistle back over his heart pounding in his ears.
Ronan made it to the top of the hill before a scout approached him. He couldn’t see the warrior clearly in the dark, except for the moonlight that illuminated their drawn bow.
“No one had orders to leave tonight,” the scout said, their voice low and rough.
Ronan’s hand inched upward, closer to his sword. “My orders are new, from General Kordislaen.”
“And it couldn’t wait until morning?”
Ronan sighed, hoping he played the part of the inconvenienced messenger well. “Have you ever tried to tell General Kordislaen to wait?”
The Tinelannian warrior loosened their grip on their weapon. “Go on, then.”
Ronan didn’t look back as he walked down the hill. He would risk no cause for suspicion.
When Kordislaen had brought him to the camp, Ronan paid close attention to each landscape and landmark they passed. But in the dead of night, everything looked the same. He could only pick a direction and go.
For miles, he walked. He walked until finally his knees gave out and he stumbled down to the frost-coated forest floor.
Rolling into a seated position, he rested his elbows on his knees and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself. There were still hours of traveling left before he would reach Caisleán—assuming he was right about his location. He had to keep going.
Rising to his feet once more, he ignored the pain lancing through every inch of his being.
It was after he crested another hill that he heard the footsteps behind him.
A figure stood only twenty feet away, dark cloak pinned with a familiar gleam of silver.
Kordislaen had found him.
“You should have killed me,” the general said.
Ronan drew his sword. “You were awake.”
“I wanted to see what you would do. If you could do it.” Kordislaen’s arms widened, gesturing to the open land around them. “You made it far, boy.”
Ronan’s sword bit into his palm as he clenched it tighter. “Is everything a test with you?”
The frozen grass crunched under Kordislaen’s boots as he stepped closer. “You had your little rebellion. You don’t want to feel the bite of my disappointment—it’s time for you to follow your fate.”
“The fate you laid out for me,” Ronan said. “The previous captain of Domhnall’s guard—you killed him.”
“I did what I had to do to get you into position.”
“All of this—sending me to the palace, training me—it was all so I could be your pawn.” When Ronan’s hand shook, he wasn’t sure if it was from the pain, the cold, or the rage rushing through him.
“I gave you everything. What did they call you? Gods-blessed? The only blessing you have ever received was my goodwill,” Kordislaen growled. “What would your life have been without me? Wasting away in Calafort? If you even survived. I made you who you are.”
Ronan lunged at Kordislaen. The general sidestepped his attack easily.
“I know you’re better than that, ó Faoláin.” Kordislaen’s sword fell toward him, forcing him to roll out of the way.
Ronan’s legs protested the movement.
He was tired. He was in pain. And while he was a strong fighter, he didn’t have as much experience as Kordislaen. Strength and skill would not win him this fight.
But he couldn’t die here. Not tonight.
Domhnall was back at Caisleán, a perfect target. The fool would be determined to save his kingdom at the cost of his own life. He needed Ronan.
And Clía. Would she still be at Caisleán, or traveling back to álainndore? She would remember him as another person who betrayed her.
He had to win.
Kordislaen wasn’t a myth. He was flesh and blood and could be beaten. He had to have a weakness.
When Kordislaen struck next, Ronan dodged, but too slow. He turned ever so slightly. Kordislaen’s blade swept against his side, drawing blood.
Ronan let himself fall onto the grass, his back against the cold ground. The general stood above him, sword in hand.
“It’s a shame it had to end like this. I hoped for more from you.” Disappointment coated Kordislaen’s words. He lifted his weapon, readying the final strike.
“Stop!” Ronan exclaimed, channeling desperation into his voice.
The sword stood still in the air, hovering above Ronan. Ronan took that moment to slowly creep his fingers around the hilt of his own blade, tightening his grip.
“I’m sorry,” Ronan said, pouring all of himself into the words. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me live, and I’ll make up for it.”
It was a lie mixed with the truth. For so long, his gratitude to Kordislaen had been his motivation. It made the plea come easier than he expected.
Kordislaen didn’t lower his blade. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
“If you don’t believe me, believe my blood pooling on the ground. Believe that I would rather live for myself than die for those who care nothing for me. You were right about my ambition. If this is the only chance I have to live, then I’ll take it.”
Ronan waited as Kordislaen’s sword inched slightly back. A moment of hesitation. He could work with that.
He twisted, sword lifting just high enough. It dug into Kordislaen’s calf. His roar of pain was a sweet reward. Swiftly, Ronan jumped to his feet, sending the pommel of his weapon into the general’s stomach before slicing into Kordislaen’s other leg.
The general fell.
“I’m done playing your games,” Ronan said, studying the man on the ground. He looked almost human, bleeding into the dirt. Ronan knew he should finish him off, but the debt he owed stayed his blade. “This is the last you will see of my mercy.”
Kordislaen might bleed out—the blood was coming at a decent speed—but Ronan doubted it. The general had too much combat experience to not be able to stanch the bleeding. No, this injury wouldn’t kill Kordislaen. But it would slow him down.
And that was all Ronan needed.
He turned his back on Kordislaen and ran.