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great repute.
    Suddenly, Conor’s future   —and his safety   —looked far less certain.

CHAPTER FOUR
    A tailor accompanied Dolan to Conor’s chamber the next morning. Despite Galbraith’s contempt for his son, it seemed he would not let him leave for Lisdara unprovisioned. It would reflect poorly on the king should Conor arrive with only one chest of plain clothing better suited to a minor landholder than a king’s son.
    The tailor took his measurements with his fleshy lips pursed in dissatisfaction. Conor endured the perusal in silence. His scrawny frame would not do justice to the fine clothing, so he left the selection of fabrics and trims to Dolan’s judgment. He wouldn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t merely to avoid his father’s displeasure.
    You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for years. It’s the clothing that bothers you?
    Conor shifted uneasily, earning a glare from the tailor. The piercing comments came more frequently now, and Conor couldn’t say he was entirely comfortable with them. He voiced his disquiet to Labhrás, expecting his foster father to discount the episodes as imagination.
    But Labhrás only nodded. “Until now, you’ve looked to me for direction, but you are practically a grown man. It’s time you let Comdiu guide your decisions.”
    “So you don’t think I’m imagining things?”
    “Not at all.” Labhrás placed both hands on Conor’s shoulders. “Just remember, it’s your choice what to believe and how much to reveal.”
    “Aye, my lord.” Conor’s throat tightened around the words. Until now, he hadn’t understood all Labhrás had done for him. Though they shared no blood, Labhrás was his father.
    “I’m proud of you, son. You will bring honor to Tigh.” The older man squeezed Conor’s shoulders. Then he changed his mind and pressed him into a strong embrace. “Look to Comdiu, and you won’t go wrong.”
    Labhrás released him and moved to the door. Then he turned back, his expression sober. “If you ever need anything, and I’m not . . . available . . . remember I’m not the only one looking out for you. You’ll always have a place with kin if you want it.” He sent him a sad smile, then slipped out the door.
    Conor sank down on the bed, the warmth he’d felt moments before squeezed out by a cold, hard knot in his middle. Surely his foster father hadn’t meant the words as they sounded. Did Labhrás believe he was in danger? Was Conor in danger too?
    That alone would have been unsettling, but the kin to whom his foster father referred could only be his uncle, Riordan.
    If something happened to Labhrás, Conor was to join the Fíréin brotherhood.

    Once more, Conor traveled among armed, mounted men, and once more, their presence did not comfort him. A party of this size traveled slowly, with its complement of foot soldiers andmounted warriors. An endless stream of carts clattered along behind them, carrying their tents, food, and personal belongings, as well as a display of Tigh’s bounty for King Calhoun. At this pace, they would spend five days on the road, most of it only a stone’s throw from the ancient forest, Róscomain, and the dangers that lurked within. Even the brigandine jacket Conor wore, with its heavy metal plates sewn to boiled leather, failed to reassure him. It only reminded him how ineffective their weapons and armor would be against the threat in the mist.
    But Róscomain’s dark, threatening edge became tedious after a few hours, and by midday Conor began to succumb to the monotony. He marked the regular movements of the outriders as they scouted ahead for threats. He listened to the conversations of men around him and tried to guess the regions of their birth from the subtle differences in their accents. He even composed harp melodies in his head to entertain himself.
    When at last the light began to fade and the first tendrils of mist twined the trees, Lord Riocárd called a stop. The servants