He'd waited long enough.

He had no idea what the king's plan was. So far it seemed to be nothing.

Well, someone had to do something! He'd seen neither hide nor hare of his mentor, and Finn was clueless no help. One of the minor lords, an obsequious man not in the king's inner circle, hosted dinner. It was subdued and lifeless, though Moll's cooks had performed spectacularly.

As evening drew in, he reached his decision.

Lorcan waited in his bed while the upper halls quieted. He struggled not to drift off to sleep but was too weary. At some uncounted hour he succumbed to the comfort of his feather bed.

The dream was vivid, a confusing whirl of emotions; fear and loss, passion, lust. It shattered when he woke with a start. What was the hour? He touched the remains of the notched candle and found the bowl still warm. That would make it anywhere from moments to a half-turn of the glass. Good.

The moon's wan light hazed through the narrow leaded-glass windows. He heard Finn's snores through the thin partition walls between his chamber and the man-at-arms closet-like room. When the man was snoring he was a right bastard to wake. It would be cursed hard trying to worm out of here when Finn was awake and alert.

Lorcan slipped out of his bed and snuck around his chambers, pulling together his stashed belongings; clothes, a spare knife, and the like. He chose simpler garments, wools and leathers, and left behind the more ostentation articles. The silk brocade jacket and the doeskin court boots remained behind. He thanked God under his breath from the now obvious blessing of traversing, albeit against his will, all the island kingdoms with his mentor. Others accepted that he had travel-ready gear in his chamber.

He stared for several moments at the charm hung on the wall by his writing desk. A miniature Gospel of St. John hung on a silver chain, a gift from his mother on his tenth birthday. Finally he took it and hung it about his neck, tucking it under the smocked hem of his tunic.

He wished he could leave a note for Finn, but the man had never learned to read. It had never been important, but now it seemed a waste. However, Niall mac Ronan would be another matter.

Lorcan sat at the desk and quickly scrawled out a note for his guardian.

Lord Niall,

I hope you will find this note, or that Finn will bring it to you when he finds me gone in the morning. I am sorry for the inconvenience my leaving will cause, but I must know my brother's fate. I know they are somewhere between here and Connachtia, and it's a simple matter to take the north road and follow it.

I shall return once I have found Tadgh and Queen Muirren.

I could not have asked for a better mentor after my father's death.

God keep you,

Lorcan mac Donough ua Briain

Of course he had no intention of following the North Road. It split off half-a-day out of Bun na Raite, the other course leading up into the hills where he could ride in relative safety and evade the patrols sure to come pouring out of the castle as soon as his absence was noted.

He dusted the letter so the ink would dry faster, then laid the script on his bed. With cautious movements he hoisted the pack to his shoulder and made for the door. He paused there, listening to the castle. Then, with an unformed wish and touch on the medallion, he exited.

The kitchens were the next logical step. He crept to the tower stairwell that would give him access to the lower floors, boots in hand, his gartered socks whispering on the stone. He moved from shadow to shadow. At night the halls were lit only by thin wicks guttering in bronze oil dishes protruding from the stone walls. The open lamps fluttered with every passing breeze.

His heart lodged at the base of his throat the entire descent. It felt ready to leap out his open mouth. He avoided the creaking step five down from his floor of the keep. At the second floor he paused to listen before entering the hall. Leather scraped on stone in the hall beyond. Another person.

He waited. His leg started to ache, his left calf threatening to cramp from his bad posture on the stairwell. He gritted his teeth. Ages passed.

A deep voice grumbled. Metal clinked. The man in the hall gulped a breath and belched quietly, then shifted a couple of steps, grunted, and cut a loose, wet fart. He chuckled, then gagged, and finally walked away.

Lorcan waited several more moments while his eyes began to water. The man must have been an assassin, paid to murder others with his vile humours! He wanted to gag, but restrained himself. When he was sure the vile fiend was gone, the prince eased into the hall and made his way for the servant's door. Down another floor, a few more twists and turns and he was at the kitchens.

The fires in the great hearths were banked, all but Mistress Moll's Everfull Soup Pot. The room was still warm, the scents of food a warm fog. Dinner in the grand hall had been somber, but Moll's cooks had done splendidly. He'd regret not having more time here, but his mission beckoned.

The room looked empty at a glance, but the snores of kitchen helpers and scullions put the lie to that. Near the hearths lay more than a dozen figures, most wrapped in woolen greatcloaks similar to what he had draped over his shoulders, the garments serving as bedrolls and pillows. They lay close, bodies touching, absorbing as much warmth as remained.

Again, Lorcan held his pose and listened. He satisfied himself that all the people here were asleep enough they wouldn't wake to see him, especially if he kept quiet. He picked his way around the large tables toward the pantries and set to pilfering them for his rations.

A few biscuits, a couple loaves of bread, sausages, a small wheel of sharp white cheese. He thought about trying to pilfer some salmon from the smoking rack, but deemed that a step too far. The cabinet was secured with a noisemaker to keep greedy hands and mouths from pilfering extra food.

He suddenly wished he'd written a second note. Moll would notice missing articles, and she might beat one of these people for theft. He had no time to correct the situation, though. Outside the kitchens he took a moment to slip on his traveling boots. They were good, solid fare, suited to moderate walking and riding with a stirrup. Confidence accompanied the cladding, and he felt taller when he stood.

Time to leave.

He was reaching for the latch on the door leading out to the upper bailey when the latch levered up and the door pushed in!