Chapter Eighteen
Iwin!” Clía beamed after placing her piece on the fidchell board. “I think that’s my fourth time.”
Ronan leaned forward, glaring at the board. “What? How did I miss that?”
“Don’t worry, I think your lack of skill at fidchell humanizes you—it’s not fair for you to be good at everything, you know. Now, what do I get for this win?” Clía cleared the board, but her satisfied smirk never left her face. Winning was much more fun when there was a prize, so they had taken to sharing facts and stories about themselves after each round. Ronan shared a lot of stories during their games.
“Have I told you about the time my mother first taught me to fight?”
Clía leaned forward in anticipation.
While Clía enjoyed their training sessions, it was studying that Clía looked forward to the most. Quiet moments sitting in the dalta library, warmed by the fire, playing fidchell with Ronan in between researching the lives of valiant generals and soldiers.
Sárait looked up from the trousers she was mending and loudly whispered to Clía, “He wasn’t born holding a sword?”
The three of them had claimed the seating area in the back corner of the room. Sárait had started joining them for theirstudy sessions, always with a novel to read or clothes to sew. Gratitude flooded Clía every time she saw Sárait waiting for them. It was a relief to have a soft, welcoming voice among the clamor of blades and the shouts of warriors.
Ronan rolled his eyes, then began. “I was five when I first learned how to fight. Some local kids had destroyed some of the crops at my father’s farm—their idea of a prank, I’m sure. It wouldn’t have ruined us, but I remember my dad looked so crushed when he saw his field that morning. My mom was away that week—some mission or something—but when she came back and heard what happened, she pulled me aside and gave me my first sword.
“It was closer to a dagger than anything else, but she showed me the basics of how to hold it, how to use it, and then told me that it was time I helped protect our home while she was gone. My dad was a gentle man, and he never would have raised a weapon. So I trained with her. And I was a mess.” Ronan laughed at the memory.
“You couldn’t have been as bad as me,” Clía offered.
Ronan shook his head, smiling. “I was worse. That first day, I dropped my sword on my foot. It was only a scrape, but it bled horribly. My mom didn’t stop, though. She told me to pick it back up and keep fighting. And I did.”
“I hate to interrupt your heartwarming story, but I had a question for you two.” Clía nearly jumped at Kían’s voice. She had almost forgotten they weren’t alone in the library—as they rarely were. Other daltas studied in there nearly as much as they did, but she was so focused on the game and conversation, everyone else seemed to blur into the background.
Kían stood next to the table, their ever-present grin still on their face. “I’ve heard about your extra training sessions in the morning, and I was wondering if you would be willing to share the arena with MacCraith, Quinn, and I.”
“You don’t need our permission to use the arena,” Ronan said, confusion on his face.
“I know that, but I also wanted to make sure that ‘training session’ wasn’t a euphemism, and that if my friends and I arrive in the arena tomorrow morning, we won’t be... interrupting anything.”
While Clía wanted to feel embarrassed at Kían’s assumption, Ronan’s deeply furrowed brow made her giggle. “Don’t worry, you’re more than welcome.”
“I assumed I’d be welcome to join either way,” Kían said, raising a hand to their chest. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, then!” With a wink, they sauntered away.
“I think I’ll join you guys too,” Sárait said. Then she raised a hand at Clía’s excitement. “I’mnottraining with you. But someone should be there to rein you in.”
***
CLÍA’S ARM ACHED AS SHE LIFTED THE SPOON TO HERmouth. The weeks of constant training were taking their toll on her. More than once she had dreamed of lazy days lounging about the cushioned rooms in Álainndore.
Sárait sat beside her on the bed, legs crossed, with her own breakfast—a grotesque porridge; oh, how Clía missed the palace chefs—on her lap. Murphy watched them eat, waiting to seeif any tidbits would come his way. He’d gone through quite a growth spurt and was now bigger than the average dog. Clía’d had to replace his water bucket with a metal tub.
“What type of jewel is this?” Sárait said, holding up the pink crystal Clía had found during the Ghostwood quest. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“I’m not sure. I found it in the mountains.” She didn’t need to elaborate about which ones. Sárait’s eyes widened, and she handed the gem off to Clía cautiously and quickly, as if it might explode.
“You’re keeping a mysterious gem from the forbidden mountains by yourbed? You really have no survival instincts.”
Lifting the crystal to the candlelight, Clía couldn’t find a single impurity. “I will find a use for it, but for now it’s been demoted to paperweight.”
Sárait tilted her head, considering it. “It might make a nice necklace.”
“That’s what I thought! But don’t think you can distract me.” Clía placed the crystal back on her workspace. “Tell me—why the sudden interest in my training?” Subtlety was a waste of time. Clía had asked if Sárait wanted to come to training sessions weeks ago, and she had been quick to say no. But she hadn’t missed a morning this week. And Clía couldn’t help but notice Sárait’s gaze straying toward the three other daltas in the arena as she sat in the stands: Kían; Niall MacCraith, a Liricran warrior; and Teafa Quinn, the daughter of a Liricran chieftain.
Sárait eyed the door, as if debating whether to make a run for it. Clía rested a hand on her friend’s knee, partially in comfort and partially so she could grab her should Sárait attempt to flee.
