The council chamber smelled of damp wool, smoke, and old stone, which were familiar comforts that usually settled Domhnall’s mind. That day, they did not.
He stood at the head of the table, with his hands braced against its scarred surface, listening as Cameron finished his report. Maps lay spread before them, weighted at the corners with daggers and seals. The men gathered were all captains, elders, lairds whose lands brushed Argyll’s borders, and none of them wasted words.
“The healer collapsed at dawn,” Cameron said. “Fever took him hard in the night. He’s breathing, but barely lucid.”
A low murmur followed.
“He’s near seventy,” one of the elders muttered. “We’ve been fortunate tae have had him this long.”
“Fortune daesnae mend bones,” Domhnall replied flatly. “Nor stop infection.”
Cameron inclined his head. “Aye. And that brings us tae the second matter.”
He gestured to a slate board where inventories had been chalked out. Several markings had been scored through and replaced.
“We’re running low on essentials,” Cameron continued. “Comfrey, yarrow, foxglove, woundwort. The last storms spoiled part of the stores, and the border patrols have already used more than expected.”
One of the captains scowled. “Whatever’s moving near the passes kens how tae bleed us without forcing retaliation.”
Domhnall straightened slowly. “MacGregor.”
No one contradicted him.
“We cannae prove it,” Cameron said carefully. “But the timing is nay accident.”
“Nae,” Domhnall agreed. “It never is.”
Cameron folded his arms. “Even if the healer recovers, we cannae afford a shortage. One bad clash, one outbreak of fever, and we’ll be counting graves instead of stores.”
The words settled heavily over the table. Domhnall looked down at the maps again, at the thin lines that represented paths men bled on.
“I will sort it,” he said at last.
An elder lifted a brow. “How?”
“That,” Domhnall replied evenly, “daesnae concern the Council yet.”
“That answer inspires either confidence or unease. I have yet tae decide which,” the same elder made a point.
“It usually ends up being both,” someone in the back commented.
Cameron did not smile. “Time matters here, me laird.”
“I am aware,” Domhnall said. “Which is why this meeting is over.”
The dismissal was quiet but absolute.
Cameron walked past him, clapping him on the shoulder. “If this turns bloody, I hope yer solution is quicker than MacGregor’s knives.”
“So dae I,” Domhnall replied.
Cameron lingered a moment longer. “Ye are certain?”
Domhnall met his gaze without hesitation. “I am.”
Whether that certainty was shared was another matter. One by one, the men gathered their cloaks and weapons, murmuring among themselves as they left the chamber. Some looked reassured, trusting the laird who had steered them through worse. Others wore doubt openly, the kind born of too many unmarked graves and too few easy answers.
Domhnall was still standing over the table when he heard footsteps in the corridor. He did not turn at once. He assumed it was Cameron, lingering to press a final argument. His hand rested flat against the map, and his thoughts were still caught between routes and risks.
