Chapter Forty
We need troops brought north to make sure Tinelann doesn’t raze the villages while they retreat.” Ronan gestured to the map on the table.
Draoi Griffin considered it. The meeting room felt empty with only the two of them standing around the long table. Their voices echoed against the stone walls and books. The soft fall of footsteps alerted them to Clía’s presence.
“Clía,” Ronan breathed, his gaze drinking her in while scanning for injuries—this was the first time he had seen her since he left her on the cliffs with Kordislaen.
She did the same to him, a worried look in her eyes as she took in his arm hanging in a dirt-covered sling and the dust and debris that coated his clothes. “Kían told me you were fine, but I needed to see for myself.”
“I understand.” Word of Clía defeating Kordislaen traveled fast, but it wasn’t until hearing her voice that Ronan could really believe she was okay. He remembered the weapon at his hip—Camhaoir. He held it out to her. “This belongs to you, I believe. It served me well.”
He wanted to ask her if she experienced the same strange energy while fighting with the blade but found himself distracted by an entirely different type of electricity as her fingertips brushed his. She took the sword, handing his own back in return.
“I’m glad.” Her lips curved into a smile. It was soft—almost weary but sweet.
“It’s good to see you, Princess,” Griffin said, reminding Ronan that he and Clía weren’t alone.
“Now, as we were discussing. I’ve already sent a messenger to King Cathal alerting him to what has happened.
We can’t command anything of him. All we can hope is that Chief Lyons gives his orders promptly. ”
“And if he doesn’t? He could have been in league with Kordislaen as well. If he doesn’t send the order, do we abandon the towns and villages between here and the border?”
The look Griffin sent him was scathing. Ronan didn’t falter. His pain was worse than before—inevitable considering how hard he had been pushing himself the past few days. His energy was a finite resource that he needed to reserve to protect his people. As he was doing by debating with Griffin.
“They are not forgotten,” Griffin said. “We simply cannot extend ourselves to protect them. If we leave Caisleán open for another attack, we won’t survive. The lives lost today would be for nothing.”
“What if álainndore sends aid?” They both turned to Clía. She had taken a seat at the table while Ronan and Griffin debated, her bright eyes staring at them with interest.
“While I admire the thought”—Griffin lowered his head—“you have your own kingdom to protect. And the Scáilcan king is a proud man; he might refuse.”
Her spine straightened, and Ronan could see a flash of worry cross her face. She had spent so much time focusing on Caisleán and Scáilca, when had she last thought of home?
They both knew she would have to return soon; she’d been away too long. He only hoped he could steal a private moment with her before that time arrived.
Despite the shards of ice that the idea of her absence sent through his heart, he knew it was necessary.
álainndore was not built for war. The king and queen weren’t fighters.
And they were not prepared for what might come their way.
Clía could help them. She could lead álainndore through battlefields and to triumph.
Ronan’s mouth set in a grim line. “So we wait for Lyons’s orders.”
“It’s the best course of action.” Griffin began gathering the papers they had scattered on the table around the map.
“Until we hear, we keep troops on guard in case Tinelann decides to finish today’s battle.
With Kordislaen killed and their advantage lost, they would be fools to return, but we must be prepared. ”
“What do you think their plan is?” Clía asked.
The room fell silent.
“Most likely they will retreat closer to the border, where they can better replenish their numbers and supplies as they await word from King Ardal,” Griffin said, settling the papers back down in a neat pile.
“I’m assuming he’ll wait before launching another attack.
We may be able to prevent that attack completely if Lyons plays his cards right.
The Tinelannians are acting out of desperation—the kingdom has seen brutal weather and never-ending droughts, which will only get worse when the Draoi remove all support after this attack. Crops will fail and waters turn.
“King Ardal is paying the price for his father’s selfish and reckless actions on the throne, and now must distract his kingdom from his family’s mistakes. A war is a perfect way to unite a kingdom and prevent an uprising.”
“You don’t think they’ll stop?”
“Like I said—they’re desperate,” Griffin explained. “Desperation breeds fear, and we can use that to our advantage. Prove Scáilca is not a kingdom to provoke. Intimidation tactics could be useful here, and then we negotiate a new treaty.”
Griffin made it sound easy, but Ronan knew it would be far more complicated.
Clía nodded. “What do we do for now?”
“We continue on. This battle had been the culmination of over a year of planning. We have time before they return. Time to rebuild, and to prepare.”
***
BY THE TIME RONAN FOUND HIS WAY BACK TO HIS ROOM, the sun had set and he was struggling to stay standing. His injured arm was only the beginning of the pain that coursed through him. His limbs pulsed with stabbing fury. All he knew was that he was tired. He was ready for it to stop.
When he opened his door, he was greeted by the sight of Domhnall sitting on his bed.
An angry gash covered his face, deep maroon and held together with stitches. It traveled from his eyebrow to his cheek. The eye itself was covered with gauze secured by a patch.
Any annoyance at the unexpected guest disappeared at the sight of it.
“I know my good looks can be striking, but can we please not stare?” Domhnall quipped.
Ronan wasn’t amused. “Will it heal?”
“They don’t know; I might make a full recovery, or I might lose the eye.
They said we’ll have to wait and see—they didn’t appreciate me pointing out the irony there.
But that’s not important. What is important is that as of today, a war with Tinelann is no longer some absurd hypothetical.
It’s begun and people died. People we knew.
And now I have to go back to the palace and marry Niamh, as if that’s going to fix anything.
” Domhnall’s fists were balled in his lap as he fell quiet.
Ronan stepped into the room, unsure what to do. He was a trained warrior, a battle strategist, and an expert on military history. However, when faced with his struggling friend, he was at a loss.
He settled for taking a seat beside him. Domhnall rested his head on Ronan’s shoulder. Ronan wished he could do more, offer answers or words of encouragement. Instead, he sat there.
They sat together for what felt like hours. Ronan’s pain passed into a subdued ache. Not quite gone, but bearable.
Domhnall was the one who broke the silence. “I don’t know what to do now.” He met Ronan’s questioning gaze. “You know, this wasn’t always a part of my plan. Studying at Caisleán. In a way, it’s your fault.”
“Mine?”
“It was always your dream to come here.” The prince shrugged.
“To meet Kordislaen. I understood it, that drive and ambition.
I had felt it myself. You would have found your way here no matter what—the gods would have made sure of it.
I told myself various reasons and explanations to get myself here.
All were true, in a way, including securing my betrothal with Niamh—but I also just wanted to be here with you.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you have a tendency to find trouble. Of course you get entangled with Clíodhna, the princess of álainndore, immediately after I call off our betrothal. Of course the man you idolize would be a traitor. Of course war would come to Caisleán right after you arrive.”
“Are you saying this is my fault?” Ronan smiled, shoving him.
Domhnall pushed right back. “No, as much as I would like to say you’re a magnet for danger, it’s not that.
You’re noble. You’re good. You want to help however you can, no matter the cost to yourself.
I was never like that—too focused on myself, I guess.
I would let álainndore crumble if it meant Scáilca would be safe.
I guess you inspired me. I may not be a selfless man, but I thought there was some part of me that could be redeemable if I could save you from yourself. ”
He wouldn’t meet Ronan’s eyes, head bowed and hands fidgeting.
Domhnall truly believed that. That he was beyond redemption, that prioritizing his kingdom above all else was some unforgiveable, selfish act.
“Well, I’m alive. It looks like you succeeded.”
Domhnall lifted his head. “You made it difficult.”
“So did you,” Ronan retorted.
Domhnall had made mistakes. He had hurt people. But he was still Domhnall, and Ronan would not abandon him.
“What’s next?” he asked.
“Niamh and I return to Suanriogh as soon as everything is settled here. There, we prepare for the wedding and war.” Domhnall sighed.
Ronan leaned back, collapsing onto the bed. “Which do you think will kill you first?”
“Niamh. Without a doubt.”
Ronan smiled. The muscles in his face hurt. “I can’t wait to watch.”
“I’m sure you would love to.” Domhnall leaned forward, palms resting on his knees. “But I doubt that will be happening.”
Ronan propped himself up on his elbows. “What do you mean?”
“Shouldn’t you talk with Clía before making any plans?” The reminder was gentle, but Ronan sat back up.
“She’ll be going home soon, back to álainndore. And I’m the captain of your guard. I go where you go.” Sadness filled his heart, taking in the inevitable.
Domhnall stood, turning to face him. “Kordislaen is dead. Your mother is dead, and what you do now won’t change that.
It’s time to find a new dream. You helped save Caisleán—something the kingdom owes you greatly for—but the war isn’t over.
Do you want to spend your time protecting me in a castle full of guards, or are you ready for something new? ”
“I’m not abandoning you,” Ronan insisted. For years, Domhnall had been like family to him. He wouldn’t leave his side in a time of darkness.
“As long as you promise to keep in touch, I’ll be fine. I can find another captain who will protect me just as well.”
Ronan paused, and then whispered the words he had been avoiding thinking. “She might not even want me.”
“Don’t cling to the familiar to avoid potential pain of the unknown. It will come for you whether you are ready or not.”
Later, Domhnall’s words rang through Ronan’s head as he tried to sleep that night. They didn’t leave him as he was eating his morning meal the next day. They followed him through the halls and into the tunnels as they were rebuilt.
Domhnall was right.
And Ronan was ready.