Chapter 17
17
D amon entered the council chamber with purposeful strides moments later, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men.
Tristan was seated near the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Damon’s suspicion of the man had only grown since the night of the attack, but for now, he kept his focus on the task at hand.
“I’ve called this meeting to address recent events,” he began, his voice firm. “The attack on the castle, the assassin, that was one thing.”
“We’ve nae stopped in our search, Me Laird,” Sebastian spoke in a throaty voice.
“There was a threat against Lady McCallum last night, though I’m sure word has reached ye about that.”
A hushed murmur rippled through the group.
Perhaps nae.
“An attacker threatened Lady McCallum outside me chambers last night. Ryder and I tried to track the man, but he escaped just beyond the rock face.” Damon cast a glance at Ryder, who nodded in confirmation. “These arenae isolated incidents. Our people are on edge, and it’s our duty to lead them through this.”
Hushed agreements rang out in the room, but Damon raised a hand to silence them.
“What if we brought our people together somehow? Surely there’s a way to show our appreciation to them while also bein’ respectful?”
“With respect, Me Laird,” Tristan interjected, his voice measured, “celebratin’ anything right now willnae sit well with most. The McCallums are a strong-willed people. A celebration could cause more unrest than it’s worth.”
Damon’s jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. “I didnae say ‘celebration.’ I meant that we, as a council who are relatively untouched by the events of late, should consider a way to bring our people together.”
“Do ye really believe that this will stop the attacks from happenin’? The entire clan kens about how ye murdered the assassin, and now this attacker lashes out at our Lady?” The tips of Tristan’s ears reddened as his temper flared, but his speech teetered on disrespect.
Sebastian spoke next, “I think the laird is onto somethin’. A celebration would be an easy way to bring them together.”
“We must change the way we interact with the people, meself included,” Damon replied evenly, his gaze never leaving Tristan’s. “Stagnation breeds discontent just as much as upheaval does. We need to show the people that we’re invested in their well-being, purchase from our vendors, enlist their hard work, and let them just relax.”
Tristan’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Ye will ask them to work hard to organize some ‘celebration’ for ye and all of the other lairds in the land? What a financial disaster.”
“It isnae for anyone else but Clan McCallum. A day for our people, organized by our people—nae by me or anyone in this room. Give them the power.”
“Ye might be surprised when ye give the people that much power.”
“It’s nae that much power, but it’s enough for them to feel like they’re makin’ an impact. They need revenue. They need to produce and sell. But with Kiel also limpin’ through the days, we dinnae have any type of markets runnin’ because there’s nay coin.”
Snotty disgust rolled off Tristan’s lips so easily without him thinking. “So, ye are just plannin’ to open the coffers to them?”
Damon waved off Ryder, who had started to move toward the man, and fixed Tristan with a glare that would make even the deadliest of snakes recoil.
“Forgive me,” Tristan said quickly, wide-eyed, understanding his misstep. “I’ve gotten ahead of meself.”
“I ken well enough that ye are against this, Gunn. As this is a council of many, I’d like to hear the others’ opinions.”
The men took turns defending their stances to Damon, who listened intently. It seemed that the council was equally torn.
“I am nae fully against the idea,” Tristan ventured. “It just isnae well thought out. If there was more information or even a better description of it…”
Damon looked at him with confusion.
The idea is all we’ve been talkin’ about, though.
“Are ye daft, lad?” Sebastian grunted. “The idea is already fleshed out. Where is yer mind at? We’re tryin’ to come up with a way to bring the people together! Keep up, will ye?”
The councilmen burst into laughter and banged their fists on the table, agreeing with Sebastian.
Tristan’s face reddened. The tension oozing out of him was like a caged, raging bull.
I need to get someone to say ‘festival’… I think Sebastian is almost there with me. Let’s see if I can get it out of him.
Damon raised a hand to halt the needless chatter. “I havenae heard how we are landin’ with this. If we are to hold an event where we empower our clansfolk, then we need to start tellin’ them about it. We arenae goin’ to be able to do that without a way to package and advertise it. Unless ye are sayin’ we go with Sebastian’s suggestion?”
Sebastian banged his cane onto the floor proudly. “Aye! A festival!”
Roars of agreement rumbled through the small room.
Tristan vehemently spoke up again. “And what of the resources required? Have ye considered the cost?”
“I have,” Sebastian said sharply, banging on the ledger in front of Rory. “Scarth has current numbers!”
“And I’m prepared to shoulder whatever the cost, personally. This isnae just about coin—it’s about the future of this clan,” Damon offered, which elicited synchronous nods from the others.
The tension in the room was palpable. Damon’s eyes locked onto Tristan’s, a silent challenge passing between them.
Finally, Tristan inclined his head slightly, though his expression remained guarded.
“A Village Festival?” Damon ventured, prompting the others to come up with a name for the celebration he expertly walked them into.
He considered other suggestions and made a mental note of his exchange with Tristan, his suspicion deepening. The man was too clever by half, and Damon couldn’t shake the feeling that the man had his own agenda. But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand.
“Branloch Day?”
“What about Kiel?”
“Aye, Kiel… Me Laird, do ye have any ideas?”
Damon’s gaze swept over the council chamber as the men leaned back in their seats, wearing expressions ranging from wariness to outright skepticism. He stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed over his chest, and then slowly walked over to the window, his imposing figure demanding attention.
“What say ye to…” he began, his voice steady but firm. “A Market Day Festival. It will be much more than just a gathering, and what about other villages? Keeping it unattached to a certain village will bring more of our people together, remind them of their unity, and show them that this castle isnae just a fortress but a heart that beats for them as well. A symbol of prosperity and protection.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “Aye, Me Laird. But as I was tryin’ to say before, change, even for the better, cannae be forced too quickly.”
“Aye,” Rory Scarth, the clan’s treasurer, chimed in. He adjusted his spectacles nervously, glancing down at the ledger in front of him. “The financial strain, Me Laird, isnae insignificant. Hostin’ a festival of that scale will require resources—food, ale, entertainment. The coffers are healthy, as Sebastian pointed out, but stretchin’ them thin without clear results could?—”
“Stretchin’ them thin for what?” Damon interrupted, his tone sharp. “Other than the fact that I just said I would finance it. Tell me, Rory, what good is a treasury if it cannae be spent to protect and strengthen those it’s meant to serve? Why would we nae discuss usin’ our ‘healthy’ funds?”
Rory flinched but nodded hesitantly. “Of course, Me Laird. It’s only prudent to consider the long-term consequences.”
Sebastian scoffed and waved his cane comically. “Scarth, ye shut it! Me Laird, ye shouldnae need to use yer funds. Our coffers are healthy, as Rory said. Ye are right, what other purpose are they meant to serve?”
Tristan leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing. “And what if this festival backfires? What if it brings more unrest, more grievances? The people are already uneasy with yer swift assumption of the lairdship as it is.” His words were deliberate, cutting. “If they see this as frivolity, it could undermine the authority ye’ve only just started buildin’.”
Damon’s jaw tightened, and his glare settled on Tristan like a hammer ready to strike. “Since ye are so full of argument, what would ye suggest, Tristan?” he asked, his voice cold. “That we sit on our hands, do nothin’, and let unease fester until it boils over into rebellion?”
“I’m suggestin’ caution, Me Laird,” Tristan replied, his tone measured but brimming with an undercurrent of defiance. “Caution and respect for the way things have been done before ye arrived.”
A tense silence fell over the room as the other councilmen exchanged wary glances, clearly hesitant to align themselves with either man. Damon clenched his fists at his sides, but he forced himself to take a deep breath. His anger, though justified, wasn’t the tool he needed here.
Sebastian, perhaps sensing the brewing storm, raised his hand. “If I may,” he said, his voice steady but diplomatic. “I believe the Laird’s idea has merit, but it would be wise to approach it in stages. Perhaps begin with a smaller festival—test the waters, so to speak. The clansmen last came to the keep for the weddin’ feast…”
Damon nodded, his expression softening slightly. “A fair suggestion,” he relented. “We can start small, aye. But it needs to be done properly. Half-measures willnae achieve what we need.”
Rory spoke up again, though his tone was cautious. “If we’re to do this, we’ll need to ensure that the necessary resources are allocated wisely. I’ll work with the stewards to outline a budget.”
The other councilmen murmured their agreement, though their voices lacked conviction. The tension dictated their wariness as Tristan stewed in his chair, a dark cloud on the otherwise semi-productive meeting.He remained unmoving, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Damon glanced at him, noticing the slight tightening of his jaw and the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table.
“Tristan,” he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “Have ye nothin’ more to say?”
Tristan looked up, meeting Damon’s gaze with a steady defiance. “Only that I hope yer confidence isnae misplaced, Me Laird,” he returned. “Change is a dangerous thing, especially when it comes too quickly. I’ll support the council’s decision, but ye’d do well to tread carefully.”
Damon held his gaze for a moment longer before turning to address the room. “The council has spoken, and the decision is made. We’ll move forward with the festival. I expect all of ye to do yer part to ensure its success.”
The men nodded, some more enthusiastically than others, but the tension in the room remained.
As the council began to disperse, Damon lingered for a moment, his thoughts churning.
He’d achieved what he set out to do, but something about the meeting left a bitter taste in his mouth. The council’s hesitation, Tristan’s stance, the clan’s supposed fear of change—it grated on him more than he cared to admit.