“Someone get a healer!” Kían’s voice broke. Their confidence and charm had been replaced by a desperation she had never seen in them before.
They knelt on the ground beside a crumpled form. A river of black hair that flowed onto the ground.
Clía’s ribs were a vise on her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
“Sárait?” Kían said, voice hoarse as they shook her shoulders. “Sárait, wake up.”
Clía’s knees hit the floor with a thud as she fell beside her friend. Sárait looked almost peaceful, lying on the stone floor with her eyes shut—except for the gray pallor of her skin and the blue hue staining her lips.
Clía’s fingers shook as they went to her neck. A pulse was faint, but there.
“She’s alive.” Clía said, doing everything she could to keep her voice even. “What happened?”
A crowd was forming around them. Clía could see Niamh’s dark hair among the warriors and Draoi. Ó Connor had vanished.
Kían stared down at Sárait, their hands hovering. “I don’t know. We were supposed to have breakfast together, but when I got here”—their fingers curled into fists—“she was justlike this. On the ground. Alone.”
Possibilities ran through Clía’s mind, and with no other signs of harm, only one stood out.
“I think it’s poison,” she whispered.
Their dark eyes met hers. “Then we need to know what poison was used! We need to find an antidote.”
“What’s going on here?” Kordislaen strode through the gathered crowd. “Do you all have nothing better to do? Go back to your duties.”
With a sharp look, the crowd dissolved, leaving only a few stragglers. MacCraith waited by the wall, jaw set with grimconcern. Niamh watched everything in front of her with a careful eye. Domhnall stood with skillfully constructed indifference. And Ronan. Clía hadn’t even seen him join the crowd. He stayed back, worry pooling in his eyes.
Kordislaen’s hawk eyes fell on the scene before him. “Is she dead?”
“She’s alive, but ill. It might be poison.” Clía’s shaking hand wrapped around her friend’s limp one. She squeezed it, hoping that if Sárait could feel anything, she would feel that she was not alone.
“Then she’s as good as dead,” the general proclaimed. “We don’t have the resources to spare for her, not when she might be beyond help already.”
Kían rose to their feet. “We can’t just let herdie.”
“Did you not hear me? She looks to be at death’s door already.” Kordislaen’s voice was deadly.
Kían squared their shoulders. “I don’t care. She’s done nothing but help those in this castle. If there’s a chance we can save her, we must take it. I won’t let you kill her by doing nothing.” Their voice rose.
They were interrupted by Ó Connor coming to Clía’s side, a woman trailing behind him. Her dark hair was in a braid, draped against her golden Draoi tunic. “I found a healer.”
Kordislaen raised a hand. “We should be saving these supplies for injured warriors, not wasting them on her.”
When the healer kept moving toward Sárait, the warriors with Kordislaen stepped into her path, swords drawn. Clía jumped to her feet. She could hear Kían’s sword being drawn behind her.
“Let the healer through.” Clía’s voice was steadier than she felt.
Kordislaen’s eyes narrowed. “Remember to whom you swore your loyalty.”
This was all a show of power to him, she realized. Practically another test. He wanted her and Kían to condemn Sárait and bow to his orders. If she continued to make a stand here, it would risk everything she’d worked for.
If she didn’t, Sárait might die.
She stared Kordislaen directly in the eyes as she spoke. “I know who I’m loyal to.”
It was a careful defiance. A subtle challenge she could deny later, one that showed she would not be moved.
He looked away, as if calculating how many allies he had in this room. And just how many he might lose if he continued pushing. He dropped his arm. His soldiers followed his lead and lowered their weapons, letting the healer rush to Sárait’s side.
