“I’m as happy as I can be. Marriage isn’t for me—it never was. I don’t love as most others do. It’s rarer for me. In the end, I find it’s not worth the trouble.”
“You’ve never fallen in love?” Clía asked.
“Only once. We had known each other since childhood. I think falling for her was inevitable. After her, I had hoped to never have to marry. It’s all so inconvenient. It would get in the way of my goals as a warrior and possibly one day a chief. But my family name is more important than my desires. And Domhnall knows and is fine with it. He has his own dreams.”
Clía nodded. Once, she sat beside a different fire, with Domhnall next to her. He whispered of everything he would do as king. To be well-liked and cunning with the crown. Worthy of his father’s throne. Back then, she had imagined herself on the throne beside him. Now she knew she’d never have fit there.
That throne would suit Niamh. She would hold her head high under the burden of the crown. Clía found herself looking forward to the sight. Niamh and Domhnall would be an indomitable pair; they held a cleverness and a tenacity matching that of their dreams. The desire to do all they could for that which they cared about, and the willingness to sacrifice whatever they must to see it through.
***
CLÍA ANDNIAMH STAYED BY THE FIRE UNTIL THE MOON WAShalfway across the night sky. Dornáin never emerged from his tent—surely asleep. The rest of their group still hadn’t returned.
“Where could they be?” Clía tried to hide the persistent anxiety that was clawing its way through her chest.
“They could have gotten lost,” Niamh said. “It’s easy to get turned around in these woods. They might have found a villager who needed help, or someone got injured. There are countless possibilities. We don’t need to assume the worst. Not yet.”
“Not yet?” The words were ice in her throat.
Niamh looked back at Dornáin’s tent. “Maybe it’s time we wake him.”
They rushed inside to where he was sprawled out, sound asleep on his bedroll. Niamh, never one for subtlety, kicked him in the arm.
“Wake up,” she demanded.
His eyes drowsily fluttered open, only for him to jump to his feet the second he saw their expressions—Niamh’s calm-yet-intimidating facade and Clía’s poorly maintained panic.
“What’s going on?” His voice was heavy with sleep.
Niamh crossed her arms. “They’re missing.”
“Ronan, Ó Dálaigh, and MacCraith haven’t returned from scouting,” Clía added. “We think they might have been captured or—”
Or worse.
This woke Dornáin fully up. He rushed out of the tent, straight for the horses. Rummaging through Ó Dálaigh’s saddlebag, he pulled out a neatly pressed piece of paper.
Clía looked at it carefully. “What’s this?”
“This is a map of the suspected Tinelann movements and potential camps.” His head swiveled around, taking in the few surroundings visible in the moonlight. “We chose this spot for our camp due to its proximity to the locations while remaining far enough away to be safe. Unless the initial reports were wrong...”
“Your trailing off is making me nervous,” she said, not bothering to hide how fast her heart was racing and how desperate she was to stop it.
Niamh rested her hand on Clía’s shoulder and looked at Dornáin. “You think there’s a possibility they could have engaged with Tinelann troops?”
“Maybe.” He groaned. “If only we weren’t so rushed! If Kordislaen had given us more time to prep for this damn mission, we could have planned and surveyed the area properly. This didn’t have to be dangerous; it could have been easy reconnaissance.”
“What do we do?” Clía held back the urge to follow Ronan’s path into the forest to find him. There was wisdom in knowing when to listen and when to act.
Dornáin ran a hand through his closely cropped hair, shrugging. “We leave. I’ve been taught to cut our losses. Three warriors lost, three alive? That’s good enough for me.”
“And abandon them?” she said sharply. Anger and fear were fighting for control inside of her, but they would be no help. She needed to stay calm, for Ronan.
“We know nothing about where they are, how many enemies are out there, or what weapons they have. And if our men did get captured, then Tinelann knows our numbers, weaponry, location, and who knows what else. Ó Faoláin and MacCraithare new—they wouldn’t last an hour under torture. We have no advantages. We need to retreat.”
The image of Ronan beaten and bloody burned behind her eyelids. There was no doubt in her mind that he would fight. He wouldn’t give in and risk their safety. Even if it meant he would die.
She couldn’t think about him dying.
