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 manytimes—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 PRINCEstood 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 supposewe 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.
