“Calm down Lochan!”, Eallair scolded, juggling the squirming baby in his arms, “you’re upsetting him”.

“If you will excuse me Your Highness, but I will confess that the sensibilities of the crown prince are hardly my primary concern at this very moment!”, Lochan snarled in reply.

Eallair was stung by Lochan’s use of his title. He never called him anything but Eallair when they were alone together, and it was an unpleasant sensation to be reminded of his status by someone he considered more than his equal. There had been many a time he had born witness to the dagger of his older cousin’s temper, but never had the point of the blade been turned on himself. He could scarcely find the words to reply and so he stumbled over them like the idiot he seemed to continually be proving himself to be.

“Lochan, stop worrying, Cindra will be fine. You got there in time. She isn’t hurt, just a little frightened”.

He bent his face unthinkingly to the soft, warm head of his son who had laid it heavily against his shoulder, apparently growing tired of Lochan’s ranting.

Eallair understood the sentiment and wished fervently to be small again, resting quietly on someone’s strong shoulder, free from the responsibilities of a Kingdom.

“Stop worrying”, Lochan growled, “Stop worrying!? Had I got there a moment later he would have killed her. It was damn lucky I was there but what if I hadn’t been?”

“And all you can think about is your son! Your people need you more than ever now. They are terrified, people are dying, falling prey to this murderer, perhaps even to a member of our own party as well, and all you can do is croon and coo like a doting git!”

Eallair withdrew his face from the soft skin of his son’s drowsy head as though its plesant warmth suddenly scorched him. He gazed at Lochan, his throat constricting in panic as he tried to keep his benign smile from dragging downwards at the corners and sliding from his face.

He felt sick deep in the pit of his stomach, the unpleasant roiling, churning that was always present whenever a decision was required or his opinion was questioned. His throat felt dry, the fluttering of his heart sucking all the moisture from his mouth as he tried to think of what Lochan would most like to hear from him.

Then he saw the door click open before him and his steward walked in. The corners of his smile leapt up again, the limp arms of a puppet jerked upwards on its strings.

“Garald”, he said congenially with a subtle swallow to hide the dryness of his throat, “I suppose you are here to take this little fellow back to his mother”.

“Yes Your Highness”, Garald said, his soft spoken voice echoing oddly in a room where anger had recently rebounded from the walls, “she is asking for him”.

Lochan strode over to the chair and lowered himself heavily into it with a sigh. Eallair could not mistake the sound of his exhaustion.

He gently passed the baby into Garald’s waiting arms, “Tell the Queen I shall be a while still, she shouldn’t wait up”.

“And you should be off to bed too Garald, your work is done for the night and I am sure your wife is waiting for you”, he winked but even his eyelid drooped heavily on its string, so it was not the hearty gesture he was hoping for.

“Thank you Your Majesty, but I still have some paperwork to attend to before I retire”, Garald replied softly.

“Oh well, as you wish then”, he saw Garald out the door and then came to stand behind Lochan, laying a hand gently on his shoulder.

“She will be alright you know, she’s a tough little thing. Don’t you worry, we haven’t seen the end of her pranks and I am sure these halls have definitely not rung with the last of her laughter”.

Somehow by sheer luck he had managed to stumble on the very thing that was worrying Lochan the most. His cousin’s face crumpled, the haughty ridges crumbling, the angry lines slumping, his expression sagging weakly after holding up the weight of his rage. All that was left was a miserable grimace.

“I’m sorry Eallair”, Lochan mumbled, “You didn’t see what he did to her poor little face”.

He turned towards him and Eallair felt the thrill of apprehension, the quickening of his pulse and knew that his opinion was required again. His throat went dry once more as he tried to stir his brain into action. His mouth twisted upwards into the benign smile that had become a reflex for him when he was panicking inside.

“Something must be done Eallair”, Lochan sighed, “It can’t go on like this. Nowhere is safe for our people now if he would dare to come to the ships”.

“But what can we do Lochan, we have searched everywhere within a days travel and there is no way he could have gotten further away than that”, Eallair pressed his cousin, in the hope that Lochan had some idea of what to do and would direct him, because he certainly didn’t.

“That is why I think we must set a trap”.

Eallair’s stomach relaxed and his heart began to beat normally again, Lochan had come through for him again and he felt a rush of gratitude for his friend. Then the reality of what Lochan had said rushed in and his belly clenched painfully once more. His hunter’s instinct told him that a trap like this would need bait.

“But Lochan”, he cried in dismay, “this is a madman we are talking about. A madman and a murderer!”

His voice lowered to a whisper, “He bit Goodwife Rawtharn on the throat Lochan, and from what you said what he did to poor Goodwife Barran…”

He thought for a moment, “And there is still Sister Mella, from what The countess and Father Harndall remember they were attacked by her. What if she is with him?”

Lochan sighed heavily, “If we go on this way we will lose more people and we cannot afford to. There are pitifully few of us as it is”.

“I think we must take the risk. I believe it is the only way”, he said with reassuring finality.

Eallair did not like to admit it to himself, but he was relieved that Lochan had made a decision and he could follow his lead. He could not entirely ignore his misgivings however as he stared at Lochan’s resolute face.

“God help us all”, he muttered.

Elmvarn, Murchadh, The Royal Family