They had relied on the border clans for years to thin the herd, but if they were slipping through the nets of the Dúnan Toor, it was almost certainly on purpose. And the men of Annath couldn’t be sent so far north without doubling their post. That wasn’t such a bad idea, Skyre thought, but that would help them little in the moment.
“It’ll be no good to leave em lay, neither,” said Rask.
“This is a ceremonial procession.” Jor continued. “We’re not equipped for extended confrontations. The time commitment alone could set the procession back for weeks, not to speak of the resources that would involve.”
Skyre ground his teeth. “Equipped or nae, we’ve still got the best fighters in all of Cullach. I willnae allow traitors to idle on my borders, nor leave the north country open to more incursions.”
The prince pointed to the map where the northern head of the mountains dipped down into perilous cliffs. That was rugged country, but it was the only passage inland that didn’t involve traversing miles of tangled forest.
“Cairnfea is not a simple detour. And we’ll be disadvantaged if we just wander in. Sixty good men and a king will mean nothing in a funnel,” Jor said.
“Aye,” Rask agreed with a heavy sigh. “And there’s not much here but cows. Likely they’ll be trying to get south. Enough crop there to feed an army.”
“No other reports of attacks have come out of the north. We ought to continue and establish a post once we return to Rhyd-hal,” Jor suggested.
“If we change route now over one negligible attack, the people will think us fools,” said Skyre.
“Jor is right,” said Rask. “This is no campaign, and we’ve bigger trouble coming.”
“We travel with women and the weak,” said Nacht. “Even if we ride out, we leave them exposed.”
“Surely we could leave them in a villaigh,” Greyv said lazily.
Skyre almost agreed, but hesitated at the idea of the druid being left alone. He glanced back at the map. The road forked—the south route curving down through the Everstretches. It avoided the craigs of Cairnfea and whatever watchful eyes lay in wait for them there. But it also meant a deviation from their intended procession through the coastal city of Gáirmon, where the Vaich had appointed a new laird—Ronan of Clan Conall, whose brother had been Niall.
And that wasn’t the only matter.
The route trended away from the Fáoth. What would have been a short diversion would become a challenging feat, made no less complicated by his omission.
Skyre hadn’t spoken of the detour to anyone in his Féin and could not consider to do so now. It was becoming a burden he’d rather do without. When weighing the druid’s fancies against the well-being of his entourage, what choice did he have?
“Your decision, my laird?”
Skyre met Jor’s expectant gaze. The prince looked like a cat waiting for the vole to sally close.
“We’ll take the south road.”
“Good.” Jor made to roll up the map, but Skyre held it down with his fingertips.
“And send a herald along to Gáirmon to proclaim mydeepestregrets for the change of plans.”
“Certainly. I’ll write your dispatch tonight.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“How noble.”
Skyre sneered and left the tent.
The camp had been broken down, the men having packed the movables onto the wagons. After Skyre announced their change of route, he searched for the druid amongst the crowd.
He found him stood alone in the wind; still and silent against the sunwashed sky.
His waifish form was small, yet commanding. His linen gown gathered in the breeze, creasing above his hips and tangling between his knees. Those silver eyes stared out, wistful towards the distance.
A piercing cold gripped Skyre’s heart.
The druid had only asked of him one thing, and, without a word, had accepted his failure. Skyre couldn’t bring himself to go to him. To beg and grovel a second time.
