“Ronan, where’s your map?” she asked.
He handed over the worn paper that he had used to lead them to Whitspell with no argument. The Ghostwood was relatively uncharted—the map showed only the general shape of the forest, where it cradled against the mountain range that made up Scáilca’s northeastern border. She traced the lines with her finger.
“These are the Diamhair Mountains.” Her voice was quiet, more for herself than anyone else.
“We can’t be here,” Ronan said, firm.
Domhnall took the paper from her hands, looking it over himself before turning to Ronan. Excitement lined his eyes. “But we are. And we’re going deeper.”
“Are you an idiot?” Ronan’s whisper was as damning as a yell.
Domhnall didn’t seem to care. “Often—it’s part of my charm. However, in this situation, logicison my side.”
Clía’s gaze bounced between the two men.
Ronan was deathly still. “Please, tell me how.”
Domhnall gestured to the map. The mountains curved downthe map in a Y, splitting Tinelann, Scáilca, and Álainndore. The Ghostwood clustered against them, where the two upper branches of the mountain range met and became one. There, the three kingdoms were close enough to touch, if not for the natural divide.
“If I’m right”—he pointed at the northeastern edge of the Ghostwood—“we are here. Tinelann should be north of us, and Álainndore due east. Redhallow would only be half a day’s journey from here.”
“And you want to travel there?” Ronan asked.
Domhnall shook his head. “We wouldn’t need to go that far. If our intelligence was right, we might be able to find evidence of treaty violations in the mountains.”
“Except, in order to find them, we’d be violating the treaty ourselves,” Clía reminded him. All this talk of preventing war would be useless if they started one in the process.
“Not if we have the approval of the other kingdoms,” Domhnall said, slipping back into the role of prince as if it were a warm cloak. “Our investigation proposal was approved by Liricnoc and Oileánster weeks ago. Naturally, Tinelann’s approval doesn’t matter since it’s them we’re investigating—all we needed was Álainndore to agree. If we enter the mountains with the Princess of Álainndore? Politically, we’re in the clear.”
Clía found herself looking at the cliffs once more.
Down that path, she might find answers. A way to protect her kingdom.
“I’m in.”
“You’re injured,” Ronan countered.
Without thinking, Clía covered the wound on her side, as if to hide it from him. Since their escape, the ache of the injury had turned dull and the bleeding had stopped. “I’m fine. Besides, a chance like this won’t happen again. I’m not letting a scrape stop me.”
Ronan pulled her hand away, revealing her ripped bodice and the puncture marks left behind by the Sluagh’s claws. He arched a brow. “A scrape?”
She smacked his arm away and reached into her pack, grateful Ronan had had the foresight to grab it in the chaos. She took out some bandages and her canteen. “It’s not deep. I’ll be fine.” While the water soothed Clía’s skin as she splashed it over the wound, the peace was quickly forgotten as she wrapped the bandage tightly around her torso. She kept her face stoic as burning pain radiated from the wound, and secured the dressing. “Happy?”
“That isn’t properly cleaned,” Ronan started.
Domhnall looked like he wanted to agree, but one glare from Clía and he shook his head. “This might be our only chance to follow this lead. We can’t waste time on wounds.”
“Besides, we don’t have many other options, and us staying here won’t heal it,” Clía added. “We should go now.”
Ronan looked between the two of them. The fight was lost.
“If either of you die, I refuse to take the blame,” he muttered.
Together, they took their first steps onto the terrain of the forbidden mountain range.
The rocks didn’t shake when her boot met the ground. No army came to meet them; no god struck them down. One could believe these mountains were the same as any other.
Almost.
