Chapter Thirty-Nine
The wind swept up from the cliffs, whipping Clía’s hair behind her as she made her way to Kordislaen, who sat on his horse at the cliff’s edge.
A messenger hawk landed on the general’s outstretched arm. He attached a small piece of parchment to the bird’s claw before it flew away. This was why he was away from the fight—Kordislaen was leading his warriors from afar, so that he could ensure their victory.
A chill traveled down Clía’s spine as Kordislaen finally turned toward her, his dark eyes meeting hers, but she steeled herself against it. Watching Ronan walk away to an uncertain future was a necessary and crucial reminder of what hung in the balance.
This needed to end.
She wrapped her fingers tightly around Ronan’s sword, as three Ionróirans, a man and two women, climbed up the cliffs and joined the general. They were dressed for war, chain mail glimmering in the sun.
“Finish her off,” Kordislaen ordered, waving his hand.
The fight fell upon her.
She dodged fatal swipes of blades and responded in kind. Cuts and bruises collected on her skin, but nothing stopped her. She may have lost the blessing of her sword, but she was still more than capable of fighting.
She held nothing back. Her worries were locked away, and it was only the soothing hum of her blade that kept them bound. The soldiers met her in ferocity, but even the fierce must fall.
Her blade sunk into flesh.
Kordislaen remained impassive. He watched over them as if they were ants squabbling over crumbs.
One of the remaining Ionróirans caught Clía by surprise, gaining the upper hand. Before she could use this advantage and finish the fight, a blur of motion joined the fray.
Niamh blocked what could have been a catastrophic—if not fatal—strike. Clía sent her a look of appreciation, but she was too busy fighting to notice. She attacked with remarkable vigor.
“I got them—you take Kordislaen,” Niamh shouted between blows.
Clía ran toward Kordislaen. Finally, there was no one else between her and the general.
“I always thought you would be the type of leader to fight alongside his soldiers,” she called out.
He sneered. “I only fight when it’s necessary.”
She adjusted her grip on her sword. He watched the move, and she hoped he couldn’t see the way her hands shook. “I’m here to invite you to join in on the fun.”
“Ah, yes, the death of good soldiers. What a fun game.”
“You called it that yourself. The game of war. Tell me—did you intend to sound pretentious, or was it accidental?” Provoking him was both entertaining and necessary.
She needed him off his horse if she wanted any chance at winning their fight.
And in order to do that, she had to complete the wonderful task of infuriating him.
“I don’t have time for this.” His knuckles turned white around the reins.
“You were a decent warrior, smart enough that I had to get rid of you before you could catch on. Because of that, I’ll let you rejoin your little friends in their fight.
I’m sure they’ll need any help they can get on the beach. You can die honorably.”
She scoffed. His manipulations wouldn’t work on her again. “That isn’t how this is going to happen. You fought with words in Caisleán. I think it’s time to see how your sword measures up.”
“You’re awfully confident for a spoiled princess.”
“And you pretend to be honorable despite being a traitor. For someone who seemed so interested in how this will look in history, what do you think they’ll say about you?
” His eyes narrowed. She held back a smirk.
“You’ll be written about as a coward, a traitor to your kingdom.
Or maybe they won’t remember you at all. ”
With a thump, Kordislaen landed on the ground beside his horse. He pulled his blade out from its leather scabbard. “You never learned how to keep your mouth shut, did you?”
She smiled, despite the nerves tangling inside her. “No.”
He didn’t give her time to prepare. His first attack was strong and swift, her blade barely blocking it in time. She fell back a step but returned his strike with her own.
They took turns attacking and defending, their swords performing a waltz with no lead.
Her jaw clenched. While he had been sitting and watching, she had been fighting. The remainders of the battle ached in her bones. He was a roaring fire, while she began to wither in the winter air.
His blade flew at her, faster than she could anticipate. The cold metal bit into the skin of her cheek, and she felt warm blood begin to drip down her skin. A hiss of pain rushed through her lips as she twisted away.
“You should have left when I told you to.” He smirked, and the desire to make him hurt boiled in her veins.
She swiped the blood away from her cheek, something that seemed like a good idea but only made it sting more. Fuck.
Instead of responding, she took his advice. She stayed quiet and ran her sword straight for his gut. She knew it wouldn’t do anything—his iron-plated armor left little exposed for her to aim at. But he didn’t expect it, and it forced him back a step.
He recovered quickly, thrusting forward.
His sword came for her heart.
Her arms were too weak, her legs too tired. She couldn’t dodge. She couldn’t block.
She stared as the weapon made contact, and took in one last breath.
Kordislaen’s sword glanced off the fabric. She barely felt it.
He stared at her. “That’s armor?”
Her lunge was fast, this time a swipe at his vulnerable legs.
His response was a beat late, and his stance left him off-balance.
She stepped forward, capitalizing, giving him no room to respond with strength.
His next strike was easy to push away as she kicked his knee.
She was rewarded with a satisfying crack.
He stumbled, and before he could right himself, she lunged at him with brute force. The look on his face as he fell to the ground was something she would treasure for a long time.
Her foot landed on the wrist holding his sword, and she applied pressure until his grip loosened enough for her to remove the blade. He tried to twist away from her hold. With a subtle shift in her weight and a passive tilt of her ankle, something dislodged in his wrist.
He groaned in pain, but she didn’t let up. Her blade kissed the skin of his throat. Any movement more than a shallow breath would tear it open.
He was silent. If they were training, this would be the end of it. He would surrender, and she would remove her sword. She would extend her hand to help him up. It would be over.
When she looked down, she saw the eyes of the man who tried to turn her against Ronan. Who tried to manipulate him. Who poisoned Sárait. Who aimed to destroy Caisleán and her kingdom. Who made her doubt everything—her ability, her friends, her self-worth.
Killing him wasn’t enough. He had to know that she’d won.
“Thanks for testing my new design,” she whispered. “It seems looking pretty can be a useful skill after all, huh?”
She slid the blade across his throat and turned to where the fight still raged.
***
KORDISLAEN’S DEATH DIDN’T STOP THE BATTLE, BUT THE advantage had fallen to Scáilca’s side without the general to advise his troops from the sidelines.
Niamh had finished her fight shortly before Clía, and together they were quick to return to the front. Clía didn’t let herself think back on the fight on the cliff—reflection could kill a warrior in battle.
Word of Kordislaen’s fall made its way to the enemy troops. The loss of the great general, the man who promised them an easy victory, was a detrimental blow to their confidence. And as their morale fell, so did their warriors.
Clía didn’t know how long she fought. By the time the enemy warriors began to retreat, her muscles burned, and she was drenched in sweat and covered in the blood of strangers. She watched them flee from the gates of Caisleán Cósta.
Her hands shook around the hilt of Ronan’s sword. It clattered to the stones below her with a rattle as she dropped it. Every part of her wanted to collapse.
Bodies littered the castle grounds and the beach below, people who had fought hard and paid the price to protect Inismian.
She helped remove the broken bodies from the battlefield, even while her heart was urging her to run inside and make sure Ronan was okay. That Niamh, Kían, Domhnall—and everyone else she knew—had made it out alive.
With each body, she sent a prayer to Ríoghain that they would be taken swiftly to Tír Síoraí. The god would watch over them.
Then she would send another prayer to Tara that the next body wouldn’t have the face of a loved one.
Her prayers appeared to be answered, until she saw a familiar form on the sand.
MacCraith looked restless in death. His eyes were open, staring up at the sky to challenge the gods.
There was none of his reassuring quiet. His hair clung to his face, damp with blood coming from his scalp.
She wanted to brush it away, but all she could make herself do was slide his eyelids closed before beckoning another soldier to help her carry him.
There was no gentleness in carrying a dead body, not when there were dozens more left to be brought in. But it was MacCraith, and she wanted to be careful.
He looked no different next to the rest of the bodies. Only a corpse to burn come tomorrow morning.
The wall guarding her heart fractured. There were no sounds of fighting, no sense of danger forcing her to hold it up. It crumbled around her in small pieces.
***
IN THE POSTBATTLE CHAOS, CLíA FOUND KíAN FASTER THAN she expected. They sat in the study, back hunched over a table as they penned a letter.
“Kían!” she called. They jolted in their seat, the adrenaline and fear from the battle still evident in their dark eyes. “I wanted to see if you were all right.”
“Am I ever not?” They smiled, but it wasn’t as bright.
Shadowed by the undeniable sadness that lingered through the castle.
Kían and MacCraith had been close—they had many friends in Caisleán; more people to lose.
“Before you ask—I’ve only seen a few others around.
Domhnall and Niamh are bickering in her room about gods know what.
Ronan and Griffin are discussing plans in the meeting room, because that boy seems to have won the favor of the Draoi.
As for Brecc and Duinn, my best guess is they are entertaining themselves by bossing around the troops. ”
A warm sense of relief filled her chest and caught in her throat at the sound of Ronan’s name.
For a moment, she worried her eyes would tear up once more.
He was alive. He was okay. As much as she wanted to run to Ronan and pull him into her arms, verifying those facts for herself, she needed to make sure Kían wasn’t lying when they said they were all right.
She took the seat beside them. “How are you, truly?”
Kían shook their head, eyes glassy. “It seems foolish to mourn one person when so many more are dead, but he was my friend. I . . . It’s strange to think he won’t be training with me tomorrow morning.”
Grief had a way of choking someone. Clía had felt that suffocating weight when she killed ó Connor.
She’d tried not to think about it, not let it creep back into her for so long, but in the quiet of the study, she could feel it returning.
It was a pain she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
Her hand came to rest on Kían’s, a silent understanding passing between the two of them.
When Kían turned back to their paper, Clía took it as a sign to drop the subject.
“Who are you writing to?” she asked.
“Oileánster. The king ought to know what happened here, so he can properly prepare.”
“You think the war might travel that far south?” Clía’s whisper felt too loud in the quiet room.
“Inismian hasn’t seen battle between its kingdoms in centuries. We need to be prepared for every possible outcome.”
“Will you be returning to Oileánster, then?”
Kían shrugged, leaning back in their chair.
“I had spent my life always hearing of Caisleán and the curadh. The brave warriors and strong nobles who fought and trained here. It fascinated me. No one at home could understand it. They thought I should focus on sailing, politics, fishing—something useful. They told me that I didn’t need the glory, and I definitely didn’t need the stress.
” They laughed to themself. “But one day, my king asked to meet with me.
He wanted to send me here. Said it would best serve the kingdom for me to learn at the hands of the Draoi in the north.
He gave me the excuse I needed, so I went.
“If my king asks me to, then yes, I’ll return home with my new title.
But I’ve waited too long for this. I was promised a year of training, and what better way to learn than on the battlefield?
Not to mention, I imagine my presence would be more useful here in the north.
Someone needs to keep King Brogán informed.
Speaking of information—I sent word to Sárait.
” Clía’s head lifted. “I assured her that we’re okay.
If Tinelann continues their retreat, she might be able to return in a few days. ”
A few days.
What would happen then? Would training resume? Would new warriors fill Caisleán’s halls? Or would it be emptied, everyone returning to where they were needed, waiting to see if the war would continue?
Clía left Kían to their letters, making her way to the meeting room. She needed to know how much peace they might have bought.