Chapter 41: Chapter 41: The Second Son

The great hall was cool. Eoghan's grunts of satisfaction and loud burps serenaded Lord Laoch and Padraig as they ate their noontide meal with two empty chairs at the table.

Padraig pushed away his nearly full plate. “Still no messenger from Rory.”

Lord Laoch, head down, minded his soup. He wanted a shave, his chin stubbled with a day's growth of beard. Next to his plate was a large parchment, neatly rolled and tied as it had been when Padriag had presented it to his father. It contained Padraig's estimate of this fall's wool harvest.

Eoghan burped. “One day late and you are worried? Rory is the best fighter among us.”

Padraig put out his two hands, palms up, as if they were the trays of a balance. “Rory? Dragon?” he said, weighing them. “Hmmm . . .”

Eoghan scoffed. “You're like an old woman. He's been gone but three full days.”

“And it is one day's ride to Keep Nathair, and one day to ride back.”

“No doubt they stopped for the night.”

“Even then we should have had word.”

Lord Laoch pointed his spoon—at Padraig. “Go. Find him.”

“What? Me?” Padraig asked.

“Of course, you.”

Astonishment on his face, Padraig rose quickly to his feet, sending his chair to the ground behind him. “Yes. Good. I'll find him.”

“See that you do.”

Upon entering the stables Padraig dismissed the stable boy. He called neither squire nor groom. He chose a strong, reliable horse.

He hesitated.

Think.

He hit his own head. If Rory is dead . . .

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He led the horse back to its stall and took out one of his father's war horses, eighteen hands high. No sooner had he reached for his saddle than his eyes fell on Fior, in the last stall, trained by Eoghan from birth. Quickly, he returned the war horse to its stall. As he approached, Fior whinnied.

“Where's home, boy?” he asked. “Where's home?”

The horse stomped three times on the ground.

When Fior was saddled, Padraig laded a second horse with food, water, a sleeping roll, and herbs for healing. He awkwardly climbed onto Fior’s back using a mounting block. His ungainly movements almost unseated him before he'd put his rump in the saddle. When at last he sat upright, his father cleared his throat. He was standing at the stable door. “God's speed.”

“Thank you.”

“You don't want a squire?” He turned as if to call one.

“No!” Padriag hastily interrupted. “No, I'd prefer to go alone.”

Laoch nodded. “No doubt you will encounter the messenger not far from here. Eoghan's probably right; Rory sent him late.”

Padraig nodded. “No doubt.”

“You . . . you do worry like a woman.” As Padraig passed by him, his father laid a hand on the reins. “But if not, if he's . . . if you do not see the messenger, how will you find Rory?”

“I'll track the dragon, father. A beast that large cuts a wide path.”

Lord Laoch nodded. “Yes, I remember. There will be signs.”

Again, when Padraig urged Fior forward, his father caught the reins. With a gruffness in his throat, Lord Laoch added, “See that you mind your own life.”

Never had Padraig been allowed to travel even to the village on his own. One twisted leg and, of course, he was useless. He took the forest road, keeping the sea on his right. Since he had left well into the day, he rode past sundown to reach the shores of Dragon's Lake. Though exhausted, he couldn't sleep. His hip, his back ached from the saddle. He waded into the cold water, sitting on the bottom near the shore, only his neck and head above the surface. When his lips had turned blue, he emerged shivering, to sleep like the dead. For once, his leg did not wake him, throbbing with pain.

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