“How much longer do you think the kingdom will survive under your parents’ rule? They’ve drained the coffers with their lavish spending, and they’ve alienated their allies. They don’t even care to know what goes on in Álainndore, let alone tend to it.” He scowled. “Your parents have neglected their kingdom, their throne. By what rights should they keep it?”
Her eyes widened. “Chief Barra’s death. The rumors of spies.You’vebeen helping Tinelann...” Her voice cracked.
“Change must come. This war was coming to us no matterwhat we did, but with them, I can ensure Álainndore survives in some form. I’m doing this for us.”
Her next strike missed as she struggled to stay focused.
He was right that her parents had failed as rulers.
Since arriving at Caisleán, her eyes had been opened to so much, revealing her parents’ apathy and self-interest in a glaring light. They weren’t fit for the throne. But having a mutual enemy—gods, were her parents enemies?—didn’t make Tinelann and Ionróir worthy allies. They didn’t care about the well-being of her kingdom; they had larger goals in mind.
She thought of Ronan, and the Ionróiran raid that had killed his mother. The ones who would be hurt most by this war wouldn’t be the king and queen; it would be the Álainndoran people. The warriors whose lives would be lost and the commoners whose villages would be invaded. The children who would lose their parents.
There had to be another way.
She shook her head. “This isn’t how to fix their mistakes. All you’ve done here is betray your kingdom. Yourfamily.” She pushed Camhaoir against him. “I won’t let you win.”
“You won’t have a choice.”
She knew she could outlast him. He had more experience, but she was younger. He’d grown complacent, while her training was fresh.
She could win this fight. If she wanted.
She heard Ronan behind her. In her peripheral vision, she saw him edge his way around them.
Ó Connor pulled back, and she saw it. The opening. A chance to end this.
She hesitated.
When Ó Connor’s blade came at her again, she wasn’t prepared. She felt it slice into her, a trail of fire on her arm.
“Clía!” Ronan shouted, plan forgotten as he thrust his sword at Ó Connor.
But the chief was prepared. He blocked, then swung the side of his blade at Ronan’s head. Not the killing blow he might have intended but damning all the same.
Ronan went down. Clía felt her heart drop with him.
He wasn’t moving.
Ó Connor lifted his blade, ready to make the kill.
She threw herself between them. Her forearm blocked his attack. His weight screamed against her as she tried to hold his arm back from plunging the sword into Ronan. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him die.
She stayed focused on the hand holding the blade, struggling toward Ronan. Toward her. The same hand that wiped her tears and helped her up from countless falls when she was a child.
The dirt was cold under her. She kept the pressure on his arm, using both of her hands now. She was injured and tired. And he knew it. Looking up at his face, she saw only weary resignation beneath unwavering resolve as he pushed.
In a last-ditch effort, she pitched her body forward, freeing her leg from under her to swipe at his. He stumbled backward, putting space between them. Just enough. She could already see him looking for the angle, preparing for the final blow—when she swung.
The swish of her blade cutting through the air was all she could hear.
Camhaoir made contact, sinking into his chest.
“Clía?” Ó Connor choked out.
What had she done?
He looked at her with a question she didn’t know how to answer. A hurt she felt echo in her heart a thousand times over. She tried and failed to harden herself against it.
