Aisling had guessed Ronan might come after her, but she never thought he would move this fast, going straight to the king and having a decree issued before she even had time to prepare.
At dawn the day before, the city garrison had marched five thousand men to Ravenswood and brought King Cathal and his entire party safely back to Dunmore.
The attack had failed, but several ministers and some of the king’s own wives had been wounded, leaving him furious.
He ordered everyone connected to the attack arrested and held for punishment.
The whole city was talking about it.
While Cathal was busy calming his court and hunting down any remaining attackers, Ronan sent word through Fintan that he had already chosen his bride.
Cathal had been in a foul mood for two days straight, and the news should have cheered him.
Instead, once he heard the woman’s identity, he fell silent.
She was King Ruairí’s only daughter, the Princess of Ardmore.
That title had been given to Aisling in the fifth year of Ruairí’s reign, after she and her twin brother had fallen into the icy water and her brother had died.
Her father had specifically asked the king to grant her the title.
Ardmore meant peace and duty, a name chosen to suggest obedience and stability.
Cathal had understood exactly what Ruairí meant by asking for it, and he had allowed it without argument, even though it meant sending Aisling away to be raised by her mother’s family in Ardmore.
At the same time, he had arranged for Ruairí to remarry a Riordan woman, who became Aisling’s stepmother.
Years passed, and Ruairí, just as expected, sank deeper and deeper into drink, spending his days at Devlin House lost in it.
By rights, Cathal should not have needed to worry about Ruairí anymore.
As king, he ruled everything.
Ruairí was a lord in name only, with no real power, not even allowed to visit his own lands.
He was watched constantly and had no real opportunity to cause trouble.
And yet something about him still bothered Cathal.
That unease eventually led him back to thinking about the daughter Ruairí had, who had been growing up all this time in Ardmore.
Ardmore might have been only one region, but it was full of soldiers and skilled fighters, known throughout the kingdom for their courage in battle.
Fifty years earlier, when the old kingdom had fallen apart and warlords had risen everywhere, the Delaney family had focused only on defense.
They had never tried to seize power for themselves.
They had fought off raiders and clansmen again and again, keeping the entire northwest safe and preventing the northern tribes from pushing farther south.
The old head of the family, Fergus Delaney, had admired King Diarmuid’s courage and skill in battle and eventually agreed to bend the knee, but only on the condition that his family retain control of its own army.
Diarmuid, knowing that the Delaneys had ruled and protected Ardmore for generations, promised that as long as they never rebelled, Kilmore would never move against them.
He had even promised, informally, that his own granddaughter would one day marry into the Delaney family.
It should have worked out well.
But when Crown Prince Tadhg died young, the throne passed instead to his younger brother, the Prince of Ossory, who became King Ailill.
After that, the Delaneys grew considerably cooler toward the crown.
Fergus had sworn loyalty to Diarmuid himself.
Eamon, the current lord, had followed Tadhg.
Their loyalty had never truly belonged to Ailill, and it certainly did not belong to Cathal now.
When Diarmuid died and Ailill took the throne, Eamon had sent his own ten year old daughter, Aisling’s mother, to Dunmore to marry Ruairí, largely to protect him.
That powerful and stubborn family had never cared much for royal orders from Dunmore, and it had become a constant source of frustration for Cathal.
Yet with the northern clans always watching the border, only Ardmore’s strength kept them at bay.
If he moved against the Delaneys carelessly and their army turned against him, his own throne might not survive it.
Unable to crush them or trust them, Cathal had settled for using their strength while remaining wary of it.
Two years earlier, the thought had struck him suddenly.
Ruairí had a daughter in Ardmore.
She was seventeen now, old enough to marry.
The realization had chilled him.
He had quietly arranged for Aisling to be brought back to Dunmore.
He could not, under any circumstances, allow Devlin House to marry into the Delaney family.
Even with Ruairí as broken as he was, Cathal still had to guard against disloyalty.
And even if Ruairí had no interest in the throne himself, what about the Delaneys?
With an army like theirs, marrying into royal blood would give them every excuse they needed to move their soldiers.
All of that meant Cathal could not simply ignore the situation.
The safest answer was to marry Aisling off to someone he trusted completely.
That had been his plan.
Until Ronan stepped in and took the choice away from him.
Cathal hated losing control of anything.
It made him feel unsteady and exposed.
He now sat upon his throne in the Hall of State, deep in thought.
The twelve strands hanging from his crown cast shadows across his face, making him difficult to read.
He had taken the throne at twenty seven and had ruled for fifteen years.
Now in his early forties, he still looked well.
Even with the weight of the crown upon him, the royal robes gave him an imposing air of authority.
Fintan knelt carefully before him, expecting the king to seize upon the news after everything they had gone through to finally make Ronan choose.
Instead, the king looked strangely reluctant.
‘She is not even his own daughter’ Fintan thought.
‘If anything, that should make this easier.
Strange that he is hesitating now.’
Cathal turned the matter over for a long while without reaching a decision.
Eventually, he looked up and noticed Fintan still kneeling there.
“What do you think, Minister?” he asked almost carelessly.
‘Just say yes already, so I can be done with this,’ Fintan thought.
Of course, he did not say that aloud.
Instead, he answered smoothly, “Your Majesty, I believe it is an excellent match.”
“Excellent?” Cathal raised an eyebrow.
“The Prince of Dunmara has been here for days without choosing anyone.
Now that he has finally settled on someone, why not agree and see him on his way as soon as possible?
The longer his men remain in Dunmore, the greater the risk of trouble.
He is a proud man with little patience for our customs.
Refuse him now, and he may take it as an insult and break the alliance out of spite, leaving you in an even more difficult position.
You have worked so hard to keep this kingdom steady, Your Majesty.”
Fintan spoke as though he had no idea what truly troubled the king, laying everything out plainly, with just enough flattery at the end to soften his argument.
His entire career had been built on exactly that kind of conversation.
Hearing it, Cathal had to admit that the reasoning made sense.
“But this particular choice…” He hesitated, something resembling guilt entering his voice.
“Aisling is my brother’s only granddaughter.
The last living descendant of Tadhg’s line.
I do not know if I can bring myself to send her away.
It feels like a betrayal of him.”
Fintan felt a small twinge of unease himself, but his expression remained composed.
“Sacrificing one person to spare thousands is hardly something to agonize over, especially when it is only a woman.
Even Crown Prince Tadhg himself, if he were here, would likely have given up his own daughter for the good of the kingdom.”
Only a woman.
Something in Cathal’s expression eased.
As long as the matter did not directly involve the Delaneys, it would not create any immediate trouble.
Once Aisling was married and sent far away to Dunmara, she would have no one backing her there.
His mind made up, Cathal nodded.
“Good.
Wise words, Minister.”
He gave the order for the decree to be drafted.
Fintan smiled, bowed low, and murmured, “Your Majesty is wise indeed.”
Walking out of the hall afterward, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, relief flooding through him.
With the marriage settled, Ronan would likely leave soon.
He could already picture everything proceeding smoothly from there.
As for how the king felt about Aisling’s father’s household, that was not his problem to worry about.
At Devlin House, once the envoy finished reading the decree aloud, he held it out to Aisling with both hands.
“Please accept this, Princess.”
Bríd helped her to her feet, and Aisling walked forward slowly to take the scroll that would decide the rest of her life.
When she turned, she saw her father and, beside him, Lady Sibéal.
Sibéal wore open, undisguised delight on her face, even managing a few words of congratulations.
She had never expected the plan to work this perfectly.
Ronan really had been taken in by Aisling’s appearance, exactly as she had hoped.
Fate, apparently, had smiled on her.
Aisling paid no attention to her smugness.
Instead, she looked at her father.
While the decree had been read, something had flickered behind his usually clouded eyes.
For the briefest moment, there had been a sharp clarity there.
It disappeared almost as quickly as it came, so quickly that Aisling wondered if she had imagined it. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Once the envoy left, Sibéal swept away toward Ashwood Court with her maids trailing behind her.
Two servants carried Aisling’s father back to his pavilion at Willowmere.
He had already been drunk before the reading began, and they had barely managed to clean him up and make him presentable in time.
As everyone scattered, Aisling remained standing there, her fingers clenched tightly around the silk scroll.
Something inside her had gone distant.
Her eyes stayed lowered, her lashes hiding whatever remained beneath them.
It felt as though her spirit had drained away, leaving only the shape of her standing there.
“My lady…”
Bríd and Róisín watched her carefully, clearly afraid of what she might do.
But there was nothing they could say that would truly help.
Any comfort they offered would only sound hollow.
Aisling could think of only one thing.
Who had Ronan married in the history she remembered?
If she had never entered this girl’s body, the real Aisling would have died young alongside her twin brother ten years ago.
If Aisling had never existed in that history, who had Ronan chosen instead?
Or perhaps her very existence had already changed everything, and the history she remembered had simply rearranged itself around her presence.
It was a strange, circular problem.
If history had truly shifted because of her, that was almost frightening to consider.
Maybe she had only ever been destined to follow the same path regardless.
Which meant whatever she chose to do, or perhaps precisely because of what she chose to do, would become history itself.
Trying to change fate, only to become part of it after all.
For a moment, Aisling felt completely lost.
She was unsure what any of this meant.
Why was she here?
Why had she been given another chance at life?
Was it only so she could live a few more years before watching the land tear itself apart anyway?
Would she have to watch everyone she loved become scattered by the coming chaos?
Would generation after generation of Delaneys die on distant battlefields, still fighting the northern clans no matter what she did?
“My lady!”
A steady, familiar voice pulled her back.
“What is it?”
“My lady, please do not lose hope.”
Bríd pulled Aisling into a hug, her voice thick with tears she was struggling to hold back.
“Wherever you go, we will go with you.”
Bríd had just watched the light disappear from Aisling’s eyes.
She had seen something heavy and sorrowful settle over her as though it were pressing her down.
Aisling had never been like this.
Even when facing real danger, she had never looked so broken.
Bríd did not understand what had changed in her lady, only that she wanted more than anything to protect her.
She never wanted to feel that kind of helplessness again.
She never wanted to fail someone she loved.
“I’m all right,” Aisling said.
She wrapped her arms around Bríd in return and rested her head against her shoulder.
“Do not worry, Aunt Bríd.
I will not give up.”
She did care about this life.
Whatever had already been written and whatever had not, she wanted to live it as well as she could.
After a while, they pulled apart.
“Let’s go to Willowmere.”
They arrived at the same pavilion as always.
Aisling pushed the door open.
Just as she expected, wine jars littered the floor, and the entire room was heavy with the smell of drink.
She asked Bríd and Róisín to wait outside with the young servant boy and entered alone.
Her father lay sprawled across the floor.
Aisling looked down at him for a long moment before speaking gently but firmly, choosing each word with care.
“Father.
You’ve been drinking for ten years.
Isn’t it time you sobered up?”