She nodded, not sure what to say. He led her to the couch. The fire warmed her face as the flames danced across blackened logs.
“My mother loved Amhrána.”
Clía shifted so she could look at Ronan. His eyes never left the fire.
“She used to make beautiful wreaths out of the plants she and my father grew. I would always get a break from training to help her make them. Mine were never as good, but she would still hang them up.” He laughed to himself. “I miss her so much sometimes.”
She shifted their hands, squeezing his. He swallowed.
“It’s my fault.” The words were so quiet, she almost didn’t hear them. “When she was killed, I should have fought back. Gotten help. I should have donesomething. Instead, I watched her die.”
“You were a child.”
“I was old enough.”
The guilt was a physical thing, dragging him down. She wouldn’t allow it. “You wouldn’t have been able to make much of a difference. Not then. Not against trained warriors in an invasion.”
“I did kill one of them.” The words were said in a straightforward manner, as if he were talking about the weather. “But then after—I only made it out alive because of Kordislaen. And even then, I wasn’t the same.”
She leaned her shoulder against his. “You mentioned nightmares.”
“And the pain.” He lifted their tangled hands before his face, studying them, as if he could find the source of his pain and pull it out. “My joints and muscles burn with it, all the time. Some days, it’s manageable, but some days... all I can do is stay in bed and endure.”
That day in the gardens, when he didn’t make it to training—she had known something was wrong but hadn’t wanted to press him. And then they had kissed...
Unsure what to say, she offered a simple acknowledgment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve learned to live with it. Despite it. Still, it’s always there. A reminder of how I failed.”
Clía stopped him. “I can’t say I understand what you have dealt with or the pain you live with, but I need you to understand that you didn’t fail. You were a child, and you did all you could. And this pain—you haven’t only lived with it. You’vetriumphed. You have achieved more than most could ever hope for. The pain might be a part of you, but it doesn’t define you.”
His smile was sheepish. “I was supposed to be the one comforting you.”
“There’s still time.” She shrugged.
“I might have just the thing. Stay here—I’ll be back in a second.” And with that, he left. A moment later, he returned through the door that led to their rooms, hiding a hand behind his back. She sent him an inquisitive look from across the room.
He walked to her, his easy smile contrasting with the intensity lighting the gold flecks in his eyes. “I know you miss Álainndore, and I can’t take you there to make up for it, but I hope this could help.”
He moved, revealing a sword of steel that shone in the firelight. The golden hilt was intricately carved, with vines weaving across the grip. And in the center of the cross guard, a jewel sparkled. It was a soft pink, similar to rose quartz but striking in its coloration.
And it seemed all too familiar.
“Is that—?” she asked, running her fingers across the facets. Looking closer, she had no doubt that it was the same jewel she had been using as a paperweight. Several weeks ago, she had briefly wondered where it went but figured she’d misplaced it and that it would turn up eventually.
She was technically right about one of those things.
His chin dropped, avoiding her questioning eyes. “I apologize for not asking permission, but a couple of months ago, I saw the crystal and I had an idea. Sárait approved it. This jewel was from your first mission, and a successful one at that—I thought you might want to carry that memory into your future endeavors. But if you don’t like it, the crystal can be removed and replaced with something else.” He spoke in rapid sentences. When he met her gaze again, he must have been reassured by what he saw there, because his voice slowed. “The sword is beautiful, unique, and strong... like you. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting blade for the princess of Álainndore, curadh and newest warrior of Caisleán Cósta.”
She took the blade from his hands. Her hands slid around the grip as if for the thousandth time. It felt like an extension of her arm. The sword was well crafted and perfectly balanced. This was no cheap weapon, and the sparkling stone looked regal in the hilt.
Holding it, she couldn’t deny the energy that passed through her. She longed to see how it would perform in battle.
“It’ll need a name,” he whispered.
The pink stone in the golden hilt glimmered like the first light of day. “Camhaoir.”
Daybreak.
