Key pieces of information were missing, and he didn’t know how to proceed without them.
MacCraith didn’t have that issue. “I’m leaving. The first chance I get, I’m heading for Suanriogh. I don’t trust sending this information through a courier. I’ll share my concerns with Chief Lyons himself. He can help me rally more warriors to properly defend Scáilca. I don’t trust Kordislaen to handle it anymore. Domhnall—if you could write to your father, I can deliver it to him.”
“Of course,” Domhnall replied, a familiar calculating look on his face.
“Suanriogh is days away. By the time you get an audience with Lyons, the battle here could already be lost,” Ronan reminded him.
The redheaded warrior turned away from Ronan. “I think Caisleán is lost no matter what I do. My husband, at home in Liricnoc, doesn’t know how close he came to losing me. I won’t let myself be killed now because it might be the noble thing to do. At least this way, Scáilca will have a chance.”
Ronan shook his head. “Caisleán hasn’t been taken yet. We need to protect the keep. Even if Kordislaen—”
“If?”
“IfKordislaen isn’t to be trusted, leaving Caisleán to his control would be the same as giving it to Tinelann. We would be handing them this war,” Ronan insisted.
MacCraith met his gaze. “We’ll be giving in to death if we stay.”
“I would rather risk my life than risk my kingdom,” Ronan said.
The warrior looked to Domhnall, and when the prince didn’t say anything, MacCraith gave a resigned shrug. “It’s your life. I’ll still be gone at first light. If either of you want to join me, you can.”
He left the room.
Ronan turned to the man he had once considered his closest friend. “Domhnall, you don’t actually think—”
“I don’t know what to think.” The prince sighed. “I don’t want to think I could’ve been so blind, but I can’t deny the facts. I need to write to my father.”
Without another word, Domhnall walked out the door. It closed with a thud behind him, leaving Ronan alone with questions that plagued him like pieces of a puzzle, the solution just out of reach.
Chapter Thirty-One
You have proven to be quite the contender, Fionnáin,” Kordislaen said.
Clía sat at the table as he stared down at her. There was no question in his words, nothing that might hint at anything but a genuine compliment.
She couldn’t help but think of the girl she used to be, who would have been thrilled by such a compliment. Did that girl die when she stuck that blade in Ó Connor? Or had she been killed long before that?
“Thank you, sir,” she replied.
He pulled out the chair beside her, taking a seat. “You’ve witnessed a comrade die before you. And Ó Connor—that is a blow I could not see coming. Were you the one to take him down?”
Clía nodded, unable to do anything else.
There was a gleam in Kordislaen’s eye. “It’s almost impressive. I mean, he was an older man, but to kill the one who helped raise you? You must be struggling. Even ignoring recent events, I would expect all of this to be challenging for you. Tell me, do you know how many people will die in a war with Tinelann?”
“Many,” she replied.
“Thousands, if not more. Kingdoms could fall. If it stretchespast Scáilca and Álainndore? Our continent has never seen war such as this, with outsiders assisting the enemy. It will be recorded in history, studied for centuries. The game of war, with life and death balancing on the edge of a blade. There’s no turning back now.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” he asked, his voice coated with steel. “You’re a smart girl, Clíodhna. What do you think your odds will be in a fight like this?”
She stared back at him. “My odds?”
He nodded. “Your odds. Do you expect to survive? To return to Álainndore a hero, with your friends by your side?”
No words would come to her.
