Looking to the stars, Ronan prayed for the strength of the gods.
“A longsword will also slow you down,” he continued. “When we were fighting in the Ghostwood, I saw you cross the clearing to save Niamh. It was dangerous, brave, and most importantly,fast. Your speed can be your greatest asset, if you know how to use it. A lighter sword will help you with that.”
Ronan began leading her through defensive maneuvers. After an hour of him lunging at her, she was getting nowhere with her blocking. Each time he leaped, she would falter. Instead of raising her sword, she would duck out of the way. It was as if she had retained nothing from their quest.
Ronan dropped his sword and tried to hide his frustration. “Clía, I can’t teach you if you don’t try.”
“Iamtrying,” she growled, her knuckles white around her sword.
“Really?” He shrugged. “Because you seem more interested in running circles around the arena than defending yourself.”
The wind whipped her hair around her head. She looked as wrathful as one of Orlaith’s storms. “Sorry, we can’t all be gods-blessed like you.”
“Where did you hear that?” He had hoped to escape those whispers after leaving Suanriogh.
“People talk. I may not necessarily believe it, but the point remains. This is all new to me. You were trained since you were a child—you don’t understand what it’s like to learn from the beginning. You were practically born a warrior.”
“I learned young, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t tell you’re holding yourself back. You’re not the first person I’ve trained, and I know you’re not incompetent. Youexcelledwhen we trained during the quest.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can tell you’re afraid of something. Whatever that something may be, know this: you are more capable than you know. You don’t need to let go of what’s holding you back—take control of it.” His words hung in the air between them.
She turned, locking herself away. “It’s the Ghostwood.”
“What?”
“Each time you strike, I think of the Ghostwood. The onchú and the Sluagh. I just—panic.” The word tumbled out of her in a hasty breath.
He thought of Calafort. Of the images that can linger in the dark. “Do you remember those grounding techniques I showed you?” He caught her curious glance and continued. “Those first years at the palace, I would see my village. I saw the Ionróirans attack, and I saw my mother’s death. Some days I still see it. One of my commanders taught me those techniques to quiet my mind. It isn’t perfect—some days the memories are stronger than I can handle. But other days, I’m able to keep moving.”
Her head hung low as she whispered, “I shouldn’t be letting something so small—sotrivial—bother me like this.”
“You’ve spent your life sheltered from blood and death; itonly makes sense that your first brush with it might be startling. But that’s why we’re here. To learn. Now close your eyes, and remember: the thoughts that haunt you are mere specks of dust. The wind will carry them from you.”
When she closed her eyes, it wasn’t to shield herself from the world but instead to filter it. He watched as the rise and fall of her chest began to even out with her breath. He picked his sword up from the dirt, ignoring the mud clinging to the grip. Slowly, her lashes lifted, and he was looking into the mossy expanse of her eyes. He could never seem to figure out their color, the exact shade of hazel changing with the slightest shift in light.
Why was he getting distracted by such things? Mentally shaking himself, Ronan stepped back into a ready position and lifted a brow. She stared straight at him—a challenge.
He lunged, and she lifted her blade.
Her sword met his with a satisfying clang. The noise rang through the late summer air. The vibrations shuddered down his arm; energy coursed through him. He looked and saw her triumphant grin.
“Now we can get to work.”
***
WHEN THEY ARRIVED TO THEIR LECTURE WITHDRAOIGriffin, a thin layer of dirt, sweat, and weariness hung off them. Most of the class was already seated, looking freshly rested. Ronan and Clía filed quickly into the room, claiming two seats in the back of the class.
Draoi Griffin pulled out a book and addressed them all. “You’re here to learn about warfare. But today, I wish for us totake a step back and look at something else: the gods, and what they’ve left behind.”
Some of the daltas relaxed, no longer interested in whatever Draoi Griffin would preach, but Ronan leaned forward. It was the Draoi’s responsibility to keep and pass down the myths, the stories that made up their land. The five Draoi-run institutes held knowledge that many kingdoms had forgotten.
Ronan and Clía already suspected Tinelann was searching for Ríoghain’s Jewel, but there was only so much information available about the gem. What if Griffin knew more?
“Remnants of the gods remain with us today. The Torthúil, Orlaith’s net of plenty, has been kept safe for years in Oileánster. Tinelann maintains the Eagna Tree for any wisdom seeker to visit, and the petals of the cneasú flower have saved countless lives. Then, of course, there are the missing gifts.” He looked to the class expectantly, waiting for someone to name them.
“The Gráceol and Ríoghain’s Jewel,” Niamh supplied from the front of the room. Ronan noticed Domhnall sitting beside her.
Draoi Griffin smiled. “Yes. The Gráceol, Tadhg’s harp, said to win over hearts. And Ríoghain’s Jewel, a gem of light that empowers its wearer.”
