Page 46

Rígan

My arm sang as an Exile’s sword clashed with mine, my shoulder protesting. I told it to shut up, shoving my opponent until they slipped on the blood-soaked terrain, dropped their sword, and lay at my mercy. I killed them without a second thought, already raising my sword to meet the next attack.

áine fought beside me, a whirl of black and silver as she brutally slashed her daggers. I vaguely noted that it was beautiful, how she moved. And personal, like she had her own vendetta.

A sword swiped my cheek, the sting causing my eyes to water, and I refocused on the enemy in front of me. Her black hair was pulled back, brown ears pierced all the way up. I had the urge to grab one of the rings and yank, but I didn’t think that would be playing fair.

I brought my blade down in a practiced arc and severed her sword hand, her scream tearing through the commotion around us. Part of me felt bad; I had to imagine losing a limb was incredibly painful. The rest of me figured it was justifiable payback for any harm she’d caused Cunlarans. Despite the blood streaming from her, she struck the side of my knee with her foot so hard that pain erupted in stars. She used the distraction to tackle me to the ground, coating me in even more blood.

My head bounced off a discarded shield, the metallic ring jostling my senses. She was strong, her lack of sword hand doing little to stop her. Likely adrenaline. She pinned me, knee to my stomach, sending a wheeze up and out of me. I shoved, but she was a rock. Airflow halted when she pressed down harder. I tried to stay calm, but something inside me lashed out. I shoved again, panic rising when she refused to move.

If I could keep her from hurting me long enough, she’d bleed out. I could wait that out. Just get her to not grab the sword beside us—

But then the blade was to my throat, pressing in, likely drawing blood, and the need to live took over. I thrashed, trying to throw her off me, but the steel only cut deeper, black spots clouding over her red smile, taking over—

Before a different blade cut off her head and someone kicked the body off me.

My breathing came rapidly as Liam hoisted me to my feet. A nasty purple bruise spread from his left temple down his jawline. “You alright?”

I gulped in a breath. “Just fine.”

He patted my back, a wild gleam—worry?—about him. “That’s the spirit.”

He thrust a sword into an oncoming Exile as I took stock. Arrows stuck out of backs only a few paces away. No new volleys were fired, only one-offs, as though the archers didn’t want to risk hitting their own.

“Are we pushing them back?” I asked above the noise.

He pressed his lips together. “Not exactly.”

He spun, putting us back-to-back. A trio of enemies swung at us, áine claiming one of them. We quickly dispatched them.

Liam dragged a hand over his head, leaving bright blood and dark gore smeared on his scalp.

Horror seized my limbs. Liam was Dàibhid’s main guard. But if Liam was here—

“Where’s Dàibhid?”

“I’ve lost him.”

My skin turned clammy. I searched frantically through the throng of people, the bodies on the ground. I wasn’t sure if not finding him was a good thing.

“And Thomas?”

“He should still be with him. He was when we got separated.”

My relief was short lived. It was a battle, after all.

And we were still being pushed back.

We needed more people down here with us. Every little bit to get more of an upper hand.

“Liam, I have a plan.”

I hated the plan. It created a new kind of panic that made my ears ring. But it was the best plan we had. And with no Dàibhid in sight to approve it, we had to do it now.

“Bryn!” I called, rushing to the archers with Liam. She lowered her bow, brows pinching.

Commander Lochlin, leading the archers, approached. “What is this, Liam?”

“We need to push them back harder,” I said. “We have to force them into a retreat. And to do that, we need more fighters.”

Several archers reached for blades at their sides. Soldiers with varied training, most likely. Others, though, seemed awkward at the thought of touching a sword. Many didn’t even have one to reach for.

A middle-aged man shook his dark head. “We aren’t all trained fighters, miss.”

“We’d slow you down,” a woman with wrinkles abound said, her clothes seemingly borrowed as though she didn’t usually wear trousers and grabbed what she could.

“We’d die as soon as we set foot out there,” the man added. “We wouldn’t be of much help for long.”

Bryn looked intently at me, her eyes hard as ice. “We won’t die.”

The man and woman gaped at her. Commander Lochlin looked exasperated.

“The optimism is admirable,” he said, “but only a few of these—”

“No. We won’t die,” Bryn said, adamant. She stepped toward me. “Remember in Tírdorcha? When I knew that Exile would kill you? It reminded me of something when I was thinking about it . . . after.”

Had she been having nightmares and hiding it from me? But no; I could deal with that later.

“When we were young,” she continued, “the summer after I almost drowned, we found a rabbit in the garden, and I said the poor thing was going to die that day, and you laughed it off and Mother was aghast I’d say such a thing. Remember?”

A chill crept up my spine. “It did die. We watched a fox catch it.”

“That feeling I had in my gut then? I have it now. You don’t need to worry. Any of you,” she said, turning to the others. “They need us.”

Commander Lochlin threw his arms up. “Well, if your gut says they’ll be fine, by all means—”

“Fantastic.” Liam seized an archer by the shoulder. “Have you ever held a sword?”

“No?”

“It’s a simple answer, man, have you?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

Liam shoved his second sword into the man’s hand. “Pretend like you have.”

I handed Bryn a sword I’d gathered on the way. “You’ve held a sword.”

She nodded, more uncertain now that she was holding the weapon. “I have.”

She’d been willing to give being an archer a second chance, hating the thought of not fighting with us. But her uncertainty now, her implication that she’d been having a hard time handling things, created a stone in my stomach. I could tell her she could leave. Then again, I couldn’t give her that choice without shaking the confidence of the others. She wouldn’t leave, anyway. Not now. Not in the middle of things. And we needed them.

I repositioned her thumb on the hilt. “Remember what you’ve learned. Be careful, and believe in yourself.”

She motioned behind her. “Tell that to them?”

They were all looking at me, the din of the battle raging on. Wide eyes on every civilian.

I raised my voice. “You can do this. Even if you’ve never held a sword, even if you’ve never fought a day in your life, you have it in you to do this. You have to believe that for yourself, the people around you, your families, and this country. You heard my sister—nothing bad will happen to you out there. If nothing else, believe in that . Take strength from it. Fight like Cunlaran depends on it.” Because it does.

Bryn, Allün bless her, gave a war cry that could only be described as adorable. But it did the job—the others echoed it, the civilians raising their weapons rather clumsily, but the effort was noted.

With a glance at each other, Liam and I led the archers into the fray. The sudden shift in numbers, small as it was, caught the Exiles on the outer edges off guard, sending some of them skittering back.

One Exile made the mistake of laughing as the woman in the ill-fitting clothes rushed him. Her sword clanged terribly off his, and he laughed harder. The distraction cost him—I cut his head clean off his shoulders, hot blood spraying. The laugh died as abruptly as it had started.

Bryn stayed beside me, swinging her sword with a modicum of finesse. I waited for her to stumble every time she landed a hit, but she never did. Instead, she managed to swing her targets in my direction so I could finish them off. Her tunic and vest became as splattered as mine, and next to my pride rose what felt an awful lot like regret.

We kept pushing forward, making headway, losing none of the archers as Bryn had predicted. It was a minor miracle, but our enemies were too surprised to find inexperienced fighters among them.

Even some of the inexperienced ones got kills in.

My focus was honed, trailing the movements of the Exiles and rebels around me, until a shout rang out. My heart caught on before my head did. It was close, male.

There.

Dàibhid was head-to-head with an Exile—no, not any Exile. Balor’s stand-in. My lips pulled back as the man slashed at Dàibhid, who narrowly jumped out of the way, feet sliding on the muddy and bloody ground. Thomas was nearby, the freckled Exile occupying his attention.

Despite the claims the Exiles fabricated about Dàibhid not being a skilled fighter, they had to see how wrong they were. Dàibhid could fight just as well as they could when he set his mind to it. It seemed our little talk on the battlefield earlier had helped as he slashed and parried with the strength that was due.

Trusting he could handle himself, I put my focus on dispatching the enemies Bryn sent my way. Still, I snuck glances at him, an array of emotions rising each time.

Fear.

Regret.

Admiration.

A soul-deep longing.

And then panic as the freckled Exile twisted away from Thomas, sword tearing through Dàibhid’s right shoulder, and Dàibhid’s agonized scream rent the air.

I surged forward, barely registering the bodies I jumped over or that others were also responding to his cries. I stumbled as I ran but never faltered. Fal’s blood flowed freely, painting the ground in fresh, thick red. Had the Exile stabbed an artery? Was he bleeding out? I couldn’t see where the injury was through all the blood. He swayed on his feet, skin turning deathly white beneath the grime. Thomas surged toward him as a Cunlaran soldier fought the imposter. Good. I’d get the freckled Exile.

Despite everything I knew about sneaking up on opponents, my rage spilled forth in a cry, the need to hurt consuming me. He’d injured Fal, possibly fatally. He didn’t deserve to live.

The cry wasn’t enough to tip him off in the end.

I plunged my blade into his heart before he even lifted his own.

His eyes, previously holding the cockiness better suited to a child, widened, mouth slacking as blood flowed from it. He was dead before I dropped him.

Ahead of me, Thomas half led, half dragged a fighting and bleeding Fal away. To my right, the imposter pulled his blade from a Cunlaran soldier’s chest. My blood ran hotter.

I charged.

The imposter spun in time, meeting my strike, presenting a chilling grin that was too much teeth and all vicious satisfaction. At least until he saw the body I’d delivered to Dérra. His grin turned to a snarl.

He pushed brutally hard against my sword, forcing me to concede a step. I tried to drive him forward, to strike anywhere that would do damage. His boot squelched in the blood-soaked earth as I gave up a single step. He grinned again. I wanted to cut it from his face.

Instead, I landed a gash to his forearm. It wasn’t deep. Wasn’t enough.

He jumped out of reach before I could swipe again.

People crowded the space between us, cutting me off from him. I launched myself at the Exiles among them. Cut down at least five on my own. I must have had help, but I hardly noticed above the swelling heat in my head. By the time they were cleared, the tattooed imposter was nowhere in sight.

Bryn’s panicked shout carried toward me. “Rígan, look out!”

Pain exploded at my temple, making me fall to my knees.

I staggered up, vision coming in and out. I blinked away spots, trying to regain my balance. A rebel charged, and I prepared to swing—likely horribly—but when another rebel galloped past, holding the reins of a riderless horse beside them, the charging rebel deftly swung themself into the saddle, racing past me. The sudden shift made me fall on my ass. I tucked every limb in as more rebels and Exiles galloped by in . . . retreat? Why—?

The horses.

They were taking our horses .

Every loose thought fell away. They were trying to weaken us further. Even as they rode with our stolen horses back the way they came, they cut down those on our side, taking more lives in their departure.

I ran for camp, where I could stop more Exiles from executing whatever plan this was. Everywhere around me there were bodies. Sometimes just pieces of them. I’d seen death. Dealt it. But this extent was new for me. How many people had we lost? Who had we lost? Had Dàibhid survived? What about Maya and Lou?

I ran twice as hard. If any of them had died, I wasn’t sure what I would do.

An Exile rushed toward me. In my panic, I assumed they would go around like the rest.

But they raised their sword, and I saw black.

I came to in Bryn’s arms.

“What happened?” I touched my head and groaned. A bump had formed at my temple.

“You were knocked out, but nothing seems to be damaged.”

I clenched and unclenched my hands. They squished through something cold and wet, and I giggled at the sensation between my fingers.

I stopped giggling, memories returning.

I threw the bloody mud from my hands. “How long was I out?”

She held my back to slow me down. “Only ten minutes or so. Some of us formed a barrier around you while the Exiles retreated.”

“Why—” I ran my tongue through my mouth, willing it to work properly. “Why did they retreat?”

“We don’t know. One moment they were fighting and the next they were just . . . leaving.”

I stood, a dizzy spell threatening to topple me sideways. Bryn and someone else, someone I didn’t recognize, steadied me.

The horses. Dove. Dàibhid .

“Rígan—”

I was off and running before Bryn could get another word out.

When I reached the edge of camp, still unsteady on my feet, I spotted three lingering rebels, crossed-sword pendants proudly on display, untying more of our horses. There were woefully fewer than when I’d left camp that morning. Had they gotten Dove?

But no, there she was, tethered with those remaining, screaming when one of the rebels approached her. Every feeling I had, the panic, the worry, the exhaustion and grief, crashed into me tenfold, and I snapped forward, screaming with her as I buried my sword in the rebel’s back. The other rebels scattered without their prizes.

I threw my arms around Dove’s neck, stroking and calming her as I trembled, head light and skin cold. Her nose pressed into me, like she was calming me, too.

Someone placed their hand on my back, and I spun so quickly that my braid, in its piss-poor condition, smacked me in the face. My sword was raised before the braid landed its hit. The person yielded a few steps. A crest on her chest. Our crest. A Cunlaran soldier.

“It’s alright, that was the last of them,” she said, hands up.

I slammed my sword into its scabbard. “Where’s the king?” My voice was shrill. He’d been bleeding so much. Was he seen in time to stanch the bleeding? To prevent infection? “Where is he?”

The soldier stumbled over words I didn’t hear. They didn’t make sense. If she couldn’t tell me where to find Fal, I’d find him myself.

I pushed her aside, moving drunkenly through the tents, not registering the faces or their injuries.

I must have asked more people where he was. I vaguely remembered some confused and pained expressions along the way.

I stumbled into Liam, who held my arm and guided me to where I needed to be.

“He’s been asking for you, too,” he said.

A blur of canvas, faceless people, solid, clean ground beneath my feet, then flaps of a healer-marked tent opening, and Fal sitting on a table. Alive.

I rushed inside, my arms flinging around his neck, gripping tightly, too tightly, as each inhale came too quick and I held him to me.

He sagged against me, holding just as tightly. I didn’t want to pull away, but I had to see him. I ran my hands over his face, down his neck, inspecting.

I stopped when I came to the bloody bandage where his shoulder met his upper arm, held in a sling. The bandage was still bright red, like the blood flow hadn’t ceased. My breathing quickened again.

“It’s fine.” He rubbed my back. “The bleeding has mostly stopped.”

He was still pale, the green of his eyes too bright. I placed a hand on his forehead, but it felt normal.

“You can stop your inspection, Kit,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? What did the healer say?”

“That I’ll be fine.” His words were gentle. Too gentle. Like he was keeping something from me. I stared him down until he caved.

He sighed. “The sword severed quite a bit. There’s a chance my arm won’t be as functional as it was, at least not for a while, so using it may get . . . difficult.” He frowned. “But that’s it.”

“That’s it.” I laughed softly, like he hadn’t lost partial use of his dominant arm. He was alive. He was talking. He would be alright.

I whispered, “You terrified me.”

His throat’s apple bobbed. “When I lost sight of you, when you were fighting that Exile, I was terrified, too. I was until the second you walked through that door. The thought of losing you, especially when I’ve just gotten you back . . .”

His expression. It was so soft . . .

Affection. It was pure affection on his face. I choked on every emotion I’d felt on that battlefield, every ounce of guilt over not trusting him with my secret, every particle of relief that he was willing to risk his relationship with my father for me. I could only think of one way to let it all out.

I leaned forward, waiting for him to back away. When he didn’t, when he pulled me closer, I crashed my mouth to his.

My nose smashed into his cheek, but I didn’t care. That pain was nothing compared to what could have happened. I wound a hand through his hair, just as soft as I’d imagined, gripping his back with the other. He shifted so I stood between his legs, bringing us even closer. He held me like he was scared this wasn’t real. Like I wasn’t real. I pressed into his chest to assure him I was.

His breath caught before he nipped my lip, slid his tongue against the indent he’d left, and tilted my head to deepen the kiss even further. I clung to him, inhaling everything I could. The smell of him, paper and ink and tea, underneath the tang of blood. The taste of his skin and the salt of our mingling tears.

It was the softest and most desperate kiss I’d ever had. I couldn’t get enough of him, not just because I’d clearly craved this, but because he was here . And he wanted me, as I was. Maybe I could let myself hope that both of us being here, like this, meant something. That I could let myself see where this could lead.

He was the one to break the kiss, wincing. “Ow.”

“Shit!” I yanked my hand off his injured shoulder. “I’m so sorry!”

He chuckled. “You know, I don’t think I mind much.”

I shook my head before kissing right above the bandage. “Don’t do that again, alright?”

He did that little smirk that got me going. “Don’t let you fondle my shoulder while we kiss, or don’t get any more sword wounds?”

I flicked him through the swooping sensation of my stomach. “Either.”

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Was that a panicked kiss, or was it something else?”

“Both.”

His eyes crinkled. He pecked my lips once, twice, before leaning his forehead against mine.

“I’m sorry I freaked out before,” I said. “In the Grove.”

He knew what I meant, and pushed his nose into mine. “It’s alright. I understand why you did it. All of it.”

I twined my arms around him again, resting my cheek on his good shoulder. The fabric of his short-sleeved, too-large tunic felt almost as cozy as the hug. I’d been a fool to let his comment when we were children stop us from being friends. Perhaps this could have happened sooner—we’d always felt natural. He’d been my first crush, the only crush that had ever truly meant anything. But maybe this was how it was supposed to happen. Sooner or not, this felt right. I didn’t plan on fucking with that again.

A throat cleared. Liam stood off to the side. I really hoped he hadn’t stayed for all that.

“We have a problem,” Liam said.

Dàibhid sighed. “We have a lot of problems.”

“A more personal problem, Dàibhid.”

Dàibhid stood, still clinging to me. He swayed. How much pain was he in? “What sort of problem?”

We secured Dàibhid a wheelchair before Liam led us to Dàibhid’s tent. Maya and Lou stood near the entrance. Lou’s features pinched when they saw me, Maya’s turning stony. But they both grabbed me for a tight hug, and we held each other fast. We were fine. This was going to be fine.

But they pulled away just as abruptly, Maya crossing to the other side of the tent, Lou trailing, and I knew they didn’t want me to follow. We weren’t fine, after all. I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay.

“Where’s Cianán?” Dàibhid had taken stock of the room faster than I had. There was Maya and Lou, and Bryn, and Brí—who seethed at the sight of me—and áine. Liam and Commander Lochlin. Thomas. Thank gods they were all fine. But there was no Cianán.

“He’s unaccounted for,” Thomas said.

Dàibhid gripped the arms of the chair. “Even among—”

“The dead?” Commander Lochlin finished. “Yes.”

I positioned Dàibhid at the table, taking a seat beside him. Bryn shot me a look that said she wanted to talk later, and from her glance between me and Dàibhid, she had questions.

“This was left on your pillow.” Thomas extended a letter, still sealed. The Exile mockery of a crest stared up at us. I bristled.

Dàibhid opened it, the silence around us palpable. His face fell with every passing second. When he spoke, it came out strained. “It’s from the imposter. Eoin. They took Cianán.”

Shock rippled through me. “What?”

Brí snapped out of her rage toward me. “What do you mean, they took Cianán?”

Dàibhid crumpled the paper before tossing it to his sister. “They took him. Some twisted idea of a power move. They took him when they took the horses. When they left to ‘mercifully spare more Cunlarans from the Exile blade.’ He says they got what they came for. He’s treating this like a fucking game,” he ground out, eyes shining with unshed tears.

He was right. This was a game of chess to Balor.

“All the dick leaders do,” Maya said. áine voiced her agreement, wearing her usual scowl. But something else was there. Something darker. Something rageful.

Liam leaned forward. “He says they got what they came for.”

Dàibhid paled further. “Cianán. Panic. Death.”

I did what I’d refrained from doing for so long in moments like this—I put my hand on his knee under the table. He took it in his.

“What if there was another reason they left when they did?” Liam said. “I’m not doubting those three things were precisely what they were after. But the Exiles only retreated once you’d been injured. And from what the healer told me, you were lucky your injury wasn’t worse.” The floor dropped out from under me. How close had I been to losing him? “My guess is, this Eoin fellow panicked and rushed the retreat. It felt too chaotic to be otherwise.”

“You think Balor wants to do the job himself,” Dàibhid said, monotone. The floor kept falling.

“That’s partly what I think.” Liam took a carving of a crown from the table—which had a map of the country etched into it—and rolled it between his palms. “But I also believe the Exiles saw something today they weren’t prepared for. All the support you had. Not just from soldiers and guards, but from civilians. They didn’t go unnoticed. They saw you’re still loved by your people, and that put them on edge.”

“You think Balor’s scared of making Dàibhid a martyr,” Maya said.

“It makes sense,” Brí said. “A beloved monarch turning into a martyr can be a dangerous thing.”

It did make sense; if the people were still behind Dàibhid, killing him now would only rally them behind him that much more. The Exiles couldn’t kill Dàibhid without getting a bigger war on their hands.

Liam nodded. “But they’ll find out he lived, and they’ll use that to their advantage. Use the fear, and double down on their claims of weakness.”

Dàibhid shuddered. Hearing he could have been made a martyr couldn’t have been easy.

“While I’m happy you may be right that Balor doesn’t have an interest in my death”—his missing yet spoke for itself—“we need to focus on moving forward. Figure out what we do next. Which includes finding Cianán.”

“Why would they have wanted Cianán?” Lou asked.

Dàibhid closed his eyes. “Eoin assessed Cianán and Liam yesterday. When we met in the field.”

Liam frowned. “I noticed.”

“I think he was deciding which of you to capture,” Dàibhid said.

“You may be right.” Liam pointed to the side of his head, where the bruise had increased in size. “They may have attempted to take me first.”

“You fought back,” Dàibhid whispered. Liam nodded, more than acknowledgment of the statement.

Cianán wasn’t a fighter.

“Why capture and not kill?” Maya asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Dàibhid said even quieter. I squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

I was pretty sure I had an idea; to make the people more scared by taking a known figure close to Dàibhid. And, now that Dàibhid lived, to hold yet another thing over him. But I wasn’t going to say it.

“We’ll get him back,” Brí said. Dàibhid nodded, but it was half-hearted at best.

“What of Fenwald?” Commander Lochlin asked. “You sent for aid?”

Bryn looked at me again. Since reading the letter, I’d come to trust Dàibhid implicitly. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous over the prospect of Fenwaldans coming anywhere near me or Bryn. Some of them would only need to look at us to know who we were.

“I did,” Dàibhid said. “But it’ll be at least a couple of weeks before we hear back, and another week or more before we receive any actual aid. But I’ll be sending another letter, informing them of what’s happened.” He frowned at me, but said nothing more. Despite my nerves, it had to be done. Fenwald was Cunlaran’s best ally. Perhaps, given the lives on the line, my father would send more aid than I’d given him credit. Maybe a united front would be strong enough to deal with the Exiles.

“Let’s pray for a response sooner rather than later, then,” Liam said.

The camp was hushed, like a shroud had descended upon the living as well as the dead.

Dàibhid and Brí were talking with Liam. Discussing Cianán. Next moves. Dàibhid’s eyes were distant, like he was barely paying attention.

Lou had come up to me after the meeting and told me they and Maya were glad I was alright, told me neither of them had serious injuries, that their horses hadn’t been taken. But Lou didn’t linger, and Maya didn’t approach me at all. A piece of me went with my friends as they walked away.

Bryn tried to mother me like an insistent hen, stifling me. She needed something to do. Something to distract her from her first battle. She said she felt the death around us, seeping into her pores and choking her. The only admission that something was wrong. But I couldn’t be her distraction, so I guided her to the healers so she could aid them instead. But without her or Dàibhid anchoring me, I drifted, untethered in both body and emotion.

Rage that the Exiles had grabbed the upper hand. Sorrow for those weeping over lost friends and family. Joy at the lives of my own friends, at the chance to find something with Dàibhid, marred by frustration that I even felt that in the moment.

Then there was the unease every time someone looked at me too closely. Despite my fears, I’d never been afraid of Maya or Lou spilling my secret should they learn of it. Dàibhid wouldn’t betray me, and something told me áine didn’t care enough either way to say anything at all.

Brí, on the other hand, was an unknown. She might want to spread word to protect Cunlaran’s alliance with Fenwald, act as though Dàibhid had never known about me. Did those looks mean people knew? Had she told even one person about me?

One of the archers waved when he saw me. I didn’t acknowledge him as I kept walking, meandering who knows where. Perhaps they’d just all seen what I’d been like on the field. Seen the skills the king’s hired swords possessed.

The next time someone gave me a look, I wanted to punch them. My glower made them recoil.

“You look like I usually do.”

I swiveled, finding áine leaning against a cart.

“Are you following me?”

“Should I be?”

Maybe she’d be the one I punched. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

She pushed off the cart. “Unchecked rage is dangerous.”

“I’m not unchecked.”

She motioned with her chin for us to start walking. Her footsteps were heavy thuds, her shoulders as tense as I felt.

“Is yours checked?” I asked.

“It’s fine.”

A cart carrying the dead crossed our path. I shivered. “Did something happen to someone?”

“No. That’s the problem.”

“Why are you so angry all the damn time?” I asked, too tired to keep with the politeness of not intruding.

“None of your business.”

“Revenge, wasn’t it? That’s what you said before.”

“You’re one to judge a secret.”

I fumed at the words. “Shut up.”

“What, did you think someone would send you back to daddy?”

I wheeled on her, pushing her into a cart. “Don’t you dare ,” I spat, “presume to know why I did what I did. Why I’m still here.”

She pushed me away, and I staggered a few steps. I shoved her right back.

She jabbed a finger into my chest. “Then don’t you dare presume to know why I’m here. You don’t want to push me.”

“And you don’t want to push me .”

We were close, our breaths blowing hair out of the other’s face. Anger settled into her features. I gulped, concern flaring.

Somewhere along the way, rage had wiped out my fear, my sadness, because it was easier to deal with. áine wasn’t the reason I was angry. And I doubted I was the reason she was, either.

I’d broken two friendships today. I didn’t want to break a third.

I swiped some berries from a nearby provisions basket and extended my hand to her. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight you.”

After a second’s hesitation, she opened her hand, letting me pour some of the fruit into it. “Afraid you’d lose?”

I snorted. “Well, yes, but that’s not what I mean.”

“I know,” she said with the smallest of smiles. It felt like a victory all the same.

She popped a berry into her mouth and examined me. I held firm under her scrutiny.

Whatever she found, she nodded as if she liked it. “Go be with someone you actually want to spend time with.”

I almost corrected her, told her I liked spending time with her, but she left before I could.

Still, she was right. I wanted Dàibhid more than her.