“But they’re just bedtime stories,” Domhnall said, and sighed. “Those two gifts haven’t been seen in centuries, if they even existed.”
Kían sent him a look. “The Gifts of the Treibh Anam are plenty real. The Torthúil saved countless Oileánstran villages during that horrible storm season thirty years ago.”
“And then was promptly never seen again,” Domhnall pointed out, and Niamh rolled her eyes.
“If you don’t learn to be quiet, you might never be seen again,” Ronan heard her mutter. Thankfully, Draoi Griffin either didn’t hear it or chose to ignore the noblewoman. When he continued, he spoke louder, for the whole class to hear. “The existence of the gifts aren’t up for debate. There are records of them throughout our history.”
“He’s right—there’s no denying they exist, but their divine origin is questionable,” said a new voice—a redheaded dalta whom Ronan vaguely recognized as Niall MacCraith. Ronan had seen him around Kían during classes and training. “The Draoi can channel the energy of Tír Síoraí into the land. Who’s to say a powerful Draoi didn’t channel it into these objects, centuries ago? Although, the harp and the jewel are more likely the result of centuries of exaggeration.”
“There are Draoi-blessed items already in existence—they’re rare, but they exist—and none of them have reached the reported power of the gods’ gifts,” Ronan interjected. He didn’t want to be debating anything related to divinity, but knowledge existed to be shared. “The gods must have played a role in creating them.”
“Ah, yes, do tell us about the gods, Ríoghain-blessed,” Kían replied.
Now he knew how Clía found out.Thiswas why he avoided discussions of the Treibh Anam. That foolish rumor would never die.
Ronan glared, but Clía spoke up from next to him. “Are you jealous you don’t have divine skills with a sword, Kían?”
Kían laughed, Clía’s words cutting through any tension. In that moment, Ronan could see the version of Clía he’d had abrief glimpse of in the Álainndore court—confident in an almost calculated way. Defusing tension with ease.
“All right, this was not intended to be an open discussion,” Draoi Griffin said, silencing them. “If any of you wish to continue arguing, save that for Kordislaen’s lessons. Then maybe you can wound with something sharper than your wit, which is duller than you realize. Now, let’s continue.”
***
“THE KEY TO DISARMING IS NOT STRENGTH, BUT PRECISIONand speed. Don’t waste effort overpowering their defenses—be fast enough that they don’t see it coming.” Kordislaen’s sword fell swiftly, in a graceful arc. “Practice it among yourselves. I’ll be observing.”
Ronan and Clía found their corner of the training arena, and he watched as Clía struggled to keep her grip on her sword. Exhaustion was clearly wearing on her. Still, once they were situated, he wasted no time before lunging at her.
For the past five weeks, they’d followed an intense routine. At dawn, they would meet in the training yard and run through a series of exercises. When Clía looked ready to collapse, they would eat breakfast in the dalta library and prepare for that day’s lessons, before having the pleasure of exerting themselves again for General Kordislaen. Then, if they had any energy remaining, they would squeeze in one short, final session before diving into their research and studies.
Kordislaen hadn’t set any more trials or tests since everyone had returned from the Ghostwood. Only one group failed in their mission, sustaining serious injuries before their target, theEllén Trechend, flew away. It was a miracle any of them lived after facing the three-headed vulturelike beast. To go after the Ellén Trechend was tantamount to suicide. Kordislaen gave them only a day to heal before sending them home, and since then, he’d reinforced the fundamentals, taught the remaining daltas new maneuvers, and then let them spar as he watched and offered comments. During that time, Ronan always partnered with Clía. Some days, he worried Domhnall would be upset at the amount of time he was spending with her, but the prince seemed too focused on Niamh to notice.
Their blades scraped together, and Clía’s fell to the ground.
She picked it up with a sigh. “Would you rather work with someone else?”
He almost took it as a sign she was looking to get rid of him, but then he noticed how her focus stayed glued to her blade as she dusted it off with her sleeve.
“You can work with whomever you’d like, but I enjoy working together,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she asked, doubt coating her words. “I know I’m not equal to you in skill. I don’t see how training with me can benefit you—”
He interrupted. “I’llworry about me. You only need to focus on perfecting your form.” He tapped his foot against her too-wide stance. She quickly adjusted it.
“I feel guilty,” she admitted, finally meeting his gaze. “I’m getting all this help and giving nothing in return.”
Ronan shook his head. “Consider it a gift to Álainndore. Besides, I like seeing your growth. Now stop wasting your time with self-pity and get ready.”
When he struck next, her grip faltered under the weight of his sword. Instinctually, he stopped and reached to help her adjust it, but Clía was distracted, looking past him at something else. Someone else.
Domhnall trained with Niamh not ten feet away from them. Covered in sweat, his shirt clung to his skin, and he was laughing easily at something she said. As if he sensed them looking, Domhnall turned their way.
Clía’s gaze dropped back to her blade, but Ronan caught the unfamiliar look on her. His chest grew strangely tight.
He whacked the flat side of his blade against her shoulder, jostling her.
“What was that for?” she hissed, her face flushed.
“Where did your mind go? I thought you were supposed to be disarming me.” He gestured back to the blade, still in his hand, and her eyes narrowed.
