Page 47

Dàibhid

The battlefield was as silent as the dead it had claimed.

I sat in my wheelchair on the edge of the field, apart from my forces, surrounded by mud and grass and a multitude of things I didn’t want to focus on. My legs were unsteady despite being seated, the muscles spasming as soldiers worked to collect the remaining bodies.

My fault.

Though we knew the Exiles had taken Cianán hostage, part of me hoped they were lying. That one of the blank faces before me would be his. But he wasn’t there. He was gone, perhaps on route to be tortured.

Also my fault.

I forced in air, trying to ignore the taste of iron and death wafting around me. I gagged anyway.

It was strange, both regretting and not regretting my choices. I knew meeting the Exiles had been the right call—we’d needed to learn if negotiations were an option, face-to-face. I accepted that. I would also never regret trying the peaceful route first. My people deserved that, as did the average citizen of Doaríc. And I knew the Exiles’ decision to attack today wasn’t on me, and that we’d had no choice but to fight back. Some of the anger from their brazen move still lingered in my veins. But what if I’d brought more soldiers with us? What if I’d accepted long ago that my citizens might want to fight for themselves? What if I’d sent a team to gather information sooner? What if I’d truly acknowledged the possibility that Balor wouldn’t want talks from the start? What if, what if, what if. I tugged my hair, a dull ache building on my scalp.

Would fewer people be dead if I’d done something differently?

Would Cianán still be here?

The letter informing me of his capture tore at my heart. Eoin not only wrote that they had captured Cianán but that a true leader protects their own.

The Exiles knew I’d failed my friend. My uncle, if only in name. And they wanted to rub it in my face, make me feel like shit about it.

I hated that it was working.

I touched my right shoulder, where the freckled Exile’s blade had torn through. Even the lightest of touches sent lightning down my arm. Despite not using it for the last few hours, despite it being in a sling for support, it still felt tired. Like I’d been holding a boulder for hours without rest, when it hadn’t done more than hang there. I’d need to learn how to safely use that arm through discomfort and possible numbness, and how to better use my left. Practice left-handed swordplay, a skill I’d started but never kept up. Would I be able to lose myself in my harp for hours like I used to? Or would that be too difficult, too?

My shoulder throbbed in time with my pulse. A scar would form in the coming weeks. But this pain was nothing compared to others’. Lost limbs. Lost lives. Mine was a part of the price I would pay for their losses. Not that it was enough.

What would fix this would be making sure everyone hadn’t died in vain. Getting Ardanna back. Getting my people’s homes back.

Getting Cianán back.

My thighs spasmed again. That would likely lead to more death. But we were too deep in it now for that to be avoided. And I wouldn’t take a covert approach, not anymore. I’d face this head-on, no matter what that looked like.

I eased out of the chair and sank to my knees, staring at nothing.

Someone sank down on my left, their clothes as muddy as mine.

“Where’s the princess?” Brí asked. It sounded like she wanted to be gentle, but there was bite.

“Don’t,” I said. “I don’t care if this is to distract me. Don’t start with that.”

She conceded. “Still. I thought she’d be with you.”

Last I’d seen Rígan, she’d been wandering untethered like a ghost.

After the meeting in my tent had ended, I’d remained behind to talk with Brí and Liam. To discuss where the Exiles might be taking Cianán. What their end goal was for the abduction.

Someone claimed to have seen an Exile carrying Cianán away, knocked out on the back of a horse. They weren’t headed south, where the rest of the Exiles had gone. Ardanna, most likely, but we couldn’t be certain.

I’d choked down sobs at the image.

When we’d finished, I searched for Rígan, but she was talking with Bryn. Rígan’s look of devastation made me want to go to her, but Thomas had brought me aside, and she was gone when I’d turned back.

“You’re not planning on telling anyone her secret, are you?” I asked Brí. The mud was cold on my knees, but I refused to move.

She glared. “No, Dàibhid, I’m not.” She tried to untangle a mess of hair, gave up, and tossed the ponytail behind her. It was more ruddy than blond. “If word got out that you were harboring two of King Wilhelm’s daughters without his knowledge, relations would crumble. We can’t afford that, not now.”

So it wasn’t about Rígan, or even Bryn. My jaw tightened. At least she wasn’t going to out them.

“But we do need to figure that out,” she continued. “They can’t stay here without repercussions.”

“Fuck that.” I’d lost Cianán. People had died. Part of me cracked watching the living approach the carts holding the dead, finding Harry weeping at the sight of Tara taken from him. Either the Exiles had gotten her in the camp, or she’d snuck out to fight. Either way, she was dead. I hated my job more than I ever had, so I wasn’t about to let one of the best things in my life slip away. Especially if Rígan had no intention of going anywhere. “They can stay if they want.”

“Dàibhid—”

“Not now. Besides, it’s my call to make.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she stopped and rested some of her weight against me. She toyed with her necklace, one I recognized as a gift Cianán had given her on her fourteenth birthday. The first one he’d known her.

I put my arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll get him back,” I said. We had to.

She clutched the pendant tighter. “I know.”

Brí left before the sun set. It was mere moments until Rígan took her place, twining her fingers through mine. Her face was still dirty, blood under her fingernails and on her neck. Her hair was unbound, cascading down her back in a tangled mess. I visually traced the pattern of freckles on her cheek, counting them to distract myself from the weeping that was growing louder in the camp, the murmured prayers and words of comfort exchanged as more names of the dead were spread.

When she caught me staring, she leaned in and kissed me softly. The ease of the action took my breath away, releasing some of my tension. Having her, like this, unguarded and affectionate, made me see how much she’d been holding back. Even in our quieter interactions, there had been a wall up. Now, I saw Kit, plain as day. The friend I’d known in all the important ways as well as I’d known myself. The girl who could tease and soothe me in the same breath. And now, the woman—the person —I felt the strongest around. The most comfortable with. Holding her hand, kissing her, was both a novelty and the most natural thing in the world.

I’d missed her. I’d missed being Fal. And there was no way I was letting either go ever again.

“Are you alright?” I asked, remembering her puffy eyes from earlier.

She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I don’t think I am.” She let out a watery laugh. “Maya and Lou hate me.”

“They didn’t know about you, did they.” A shake of her head. “And you told them?” She nodded, sniffling. Gods, I could only imagine her pain. “What do you need?”

She nestled closer. “This. This is good.”

I kissed the top of her head, uncaring of the grime. “I can do this.”

“What do you plan to do now?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” We had ideas, things we could do, but right now, it was all so overwhelming.

She looked up at me, cheeks wet from tears but with a gentle smile just for me. “We’ll figure it out.” Her gentleness remained, but her eyes honed into something sharp. “But whatever we do, let’s make sure Balor regrets ever coming for your throne. Deal?”

As the last of the carts carrying our dead rattled past and the sun sank into the horizon, illuminating the destruction the Exiles had wrought in their retreat, something settled in my bones beside my grief, my guilt.

Resolve.

“Deal.”