“Perfect. Pay attention to how you feel in this stance. As you get better, you’ll be able to make variations for comfort and versatility, but this is the best way to start learning.”
She nodded, but then her brow furrowed. “But why can’t I usemysword?”
He gestured, asking permission to take her sword from the sheath strapped to her hip. When she agreed, he held it out. “You got this from the Caisleán armory, correct? Their training swords aren’t as well made as mine.” He lifted his own blade beside it to show her the difference. “Mine has a better balance, so that’s what you’ll practice with. I’ll take this one for now. And if that’s your only question, I have a few simple drills for you, mostly focusing on your stance and grip.”
He led her through various movements, switching from a normal stance to a fighting stance, occasionally nudging her into a better position. He then showed her some basic thrusts with the sword. He took time to explain how to use its weight and her balance to get the optimal hit.
She dropped the sword more times than he could count, and she could never quite get the stance right on the first attempt. However, Ronan remained patient. She showed tremendous potential and was a faster learner than he’d expected. He pushed her, but never too hard, and she didn’t give up or grow discouraged.
By the time the sun was rising in earnest, sweat was beading their foreheads and pain was flaring through Ronan’s hands and legs. Adding additional training sessions would only fuel it, he knew, but he wouldn’t let it slow him down.
They returned as the rest of the group were beginning to break down the camp.
The air was generally more somber than it had been the day before. By sundown, they would reach the Ghostwood.
Chapter Eleven
The gray mist reached out from the Ghostwood in tendrils as darkness began to creep upon them. The treetops shifted in the still air, brushing against each other in faint whispers that sounded almost like words, beckoning Clía deeper.
The trees were thick, but one stood out, larger than the rest. Its bark was dark, almost black, and an intricate symbol was carved into the trunk.
“That’s our entrance,” Ronan said, gesturing to the tree from his horse.
“Perhaps we should wait until morning light to begin our hunt,” Domhnall suggested.
After the training session that morning and a full day of riding, Clía agreed; however, she wouldn’t say that out loud. While she wanted to win him over, acknowledging he might be right about something was a line she wasn’t willing to cross at the moment.
Ronan nodded, exhaustion clearly wearing on him too. Clía could see it in the slump of his shoulders. Going in now would only get them killed.
“Whitspell should be a short trek south from here, on the other side of the hill. We can find an inn to stay in for the night, unless anyone would prefer to camp here?”
No one spoke up, so they kept moving.
Domhnall and Niamh talked quietly to each other as their horses walked together ahead of the group. Clía couldn’t make out the words or the tone of the conversation but found herself curious. There was a stilted familiarity between the two of them that implied more to their relationship than Clía knew. Could Niamh be the new betrothed Domhnall was talking about?
Clía stopped herself from continuing down that line of thought. They had a mission to complete. It was strange enough to be traveling with Domhnall and Niamh. She didn’t need to make it worse for herself with unnecessary theories.
When the party approached the village, the first thing Clía noticed was its size. Whitspell was small, its proximity to the Ghostwood sure to deter many potential residents. They saw no one as they followed the dirt path to the inn; the only signs of life were the curtains that shifted in windows as they passed.
As they rode, Clía couldn’t help but think of the four people who had been taken by the onchú in the past week. The number had seemed small at Caisleán, but now, standing in the tiny village, it felt immense.
The inn was in the center of the town. From the outside, it didn’t look like much, but Clía was desperate to sleep in a real bed again, no matter its condition. After leaving their horses in the inn’s stable, they filed in the entrance one by one, only to find the room as empty as the rest of Whitspell. A few tables sat scattered in front of them, and against the far wall, stairs led to a second floor.
“Oh!” At the top of the stairs stood a woman. Her hair fell inbraids down her back, and freckles dotted her light brown skin. “May I help you?”
Domhnall spoke first. “We’re looking for a place to stay the night. Do you have room for six?”
Recognition sparked in the innkeeper’s eyes. She fell into a curtsey. “Your Highness, I wasn’t expecting royal guests. We have more than enough beds for you—please take whatever rooms you would like. It is an honor to have you here.”
Domhnall offered his thanks, placing a generous number of coins on the table for their stay before moving up the stairs. Everyone else shuffled close behind him, too tired to do more than select rooms and fall into sleep.
***
CLÍA WOULD HAVE RATHER FACED EVERY BEAST IN THEGhostwood than leave the softness of the inn bed when Ronan woke her for training the next morning.
They made their way to the hills just beyond the village, the wide-open space offering plenty of room while being far enough away to not disturb anyone.
“First, some drills,” Ronan said. They traded swords again, and using her blade, he walked her through some basic guard positions.
