“And was this his decision or yours?”
“I think you canconcludethe answer to that.” It was her turn again, and she placed her last piece, blocking him.
Ó Connor let out a weary sigh. “His, then.” His next move took the piece she’d just played. She should have seen that coming. His pieces made a clean diagonal across the board, with only one small gap. He was set to win. “What’s your next move?”
He wasn’t talking about the game.
“He said I was too weak to rule. That I—” Her chest tightened, and she couldn’t make the words come out. They were stuck, squeezing her heart and lungs. She paused, clearing her throat before continuing. “He made it clear he doesn’t think I’m good enough to be queen of Scáilca.” She moved another piece in a hurry, blocking a potential win.
He looked at the board and back to her, before moving one of his pieces and connecting his line, finishing the game. “Letting your emotions rule your decisions is a guaranteed way to lose the fight. What do you want? What’s the ideal outcome of this situation?”
“I want this marriage. This alliance.” It would help her kingdom, and her parents would be happy. Not to mention, marrying Domhnall was expected, it was known, and Clía was never one for change.
From a young age, she knew better than to hope for a great romance; her marriage would only ever be a piece in a larger political plan. Sure, she had taken interest in others before, but acting on those feelings would be a waste of her time. Clía longed to be admired and loved as a queen, like her mother, and to be the daughter her parents wanted her to be. A marriage with Domhnall could bring her that. Besides, before today, she and Domhnall did have a friendship between them, which was more than most royals could ever hope for in a partnership.
She needed this betrothal.
“Then think logically. How do we accomplish that?” Ó Connor deftly reset the board. “The boy will be all but unreachable, away at Caisleán Cósta for the next year, preparing for war—”
“I need to prove to Domhnall and to his parents that I’m strong. That I can be a warrior.” They started the game again, her moves blocking his, he taking pieces but she offering a strong defense.
He moved one of his pieces to take another of hers. The win was almost his. He must have seen the concern in her eyes. “It may seem like it’s over, but there is always a way out. If you onlythink defensively, you’ll never win. Perhaps it’s time to be on the offense.”
She looked at her pieces, seemingly scattered across the board, and then she saw it. The line. Her win. She made her move. He made his. Then the final step. She shifted her piece, winning the game.
He smiled at her, proud. “Good. Now what will you do next?”
She grinned back at him. “Caisleán, you said? I have the perfect plan.”
***
CLÍA WAITED UNTIL THE NEXT MORNING TO APPROACH HERparents, running her pitch in her head several times. When she finally found them in the garrán beside the palace, they weren’t alone.
Tall trees loomed over them, draped in ivy and the remains of old fabric ribbons—the wishes and prayers from last year clinging to branches. Behind them, the morning sun fell gently from the treetops, illuminating a small moss-covered well—the clootie well—in soft golden light. Queen Eithne and King Tighearnán stood in the heart of the grove, surrounded by a circle of stones, as Draoi Ruairc spoke to them in hushed tones.
“... the Scáilcan prince has left, and your daughter is still not betrothed. People are saying he thought her unfit to rule. Is there truth to their concerns?”
Clía paused, her hand resting on the tree beside her.
“Our daughter has been taught by the best tutors and is fully prepared to take the throne when our time comes,” the queen said. “She even supervised a meeting with Prince Domhnall andone of our chiefs during the prince’s visit. I wouldn’t trust those rumors.” Clía would have almost felt warmed by her mother’s statements if she didn’t know the queen was only saying this to appease the Draoi.
“And I should take your word for it? I’m sure you understand the importance of the five kingdoms standing united.” Draoi Ruairc crouched down to the grass. A wildflower sat before her, wilted and small in the shade of the tall stones. The Draoi stroked its pale petals, and suddenly the plant stood taller, its leaves greener. The Draoi’s power and influence over Inismian was common knowledge, but seeing one channel the energy of Tír Síoraí was both intimidating and intriguing. “The Treibh Anam created this land for us to care for together and entrusted we Draoi to ensure its prosperity. But we cannot do it on our own.
“Too many times, you have ignored your brothers and sisters of Inismian. This betrothal was meant to be a show of your commitment to the Treibh Anam, to Inismian. If there was reason to doubt your support, the Draoi would have to pull back our efforts here.” Draoi Ruairc rose, her hand leaving the plant, and without her touch, it wilted once more.
Clía stepped back, and the crack of a twig beneath her foot sounded through the clearing. She cursed herself as Draoi Ruairc and her parents turned her way.
“Clíodhna?” Her mother sent her a sharp look.
“I apologize for interrupting; I was looking to speak to my parents for a moment.” She smiled softly to Draoi Ruairc, slipping on her mask.
“No need to apologize, Your Highness. We had just finished our conversation. Queen Eithne, King Tighearnán, I will seeyou tomorrow to discuss the Taranasadh arrangements.” The Draoi excused herself, leaving Clía alone with her parents among the trees, surrounded by the tatters of last year’s wishes.
In a little over a month, the scraps that hung from the trees would be joined by fresh strips of cloth as people from all over Álainndore traveled to this garrán for Taranasadh, the festival honoring the god Tara and the beginning of the harvest. They would adorn the clootie well and the grove in hopes of the gods healing their ailments. Then, to celebrate the season’s harvest, her parents would host a feast open to all the court.
“Is it true?” the queen asked, once the Draoi was out of earshot. She was calm, but Clía knew she was in the eye of the storm. “Will Prince Domhnall not agree to the betrothal?”
“Yes. The prince has refused it.” Clía fought to keep her voice steady.
