A Vow Of Thorns (Oaths Of The Iron Highlands #4)

Chapter One The Convoy and the Hollow

Caelan Kincaid measured the yard the way other men measured a battlefield.

He did it with his eyes first, then with his hands.

He counted barrels by the spacing of their hoops, judged sacks by the way they sagged against the boards, and listened for the small betrayals that spoke of waste, rot, or carelessness.

A cartwheel that squealed at the wrong point in its turn, a rope that had been tied in haste, a latch left unpinned because someone believed the keep was too familiar for consequence.

Familiarity was how famine began.

The morning mist still clung to the low ground beyond the walls, making the fields look softer than they were.

Inside the courtyard, there was nothing soft at all.

The stone was damp, the air sharp, and men moved with a restlessness Caelan could not file neatly into any inventory ledger.

He had watched that restlessness growing for weeks, ever since word came that Lord Roderic’s reach was no longer rumor.

Roderic did not need to stand at a gate to be felt. He sent pressure first. He sent shortages. He sent stories that turned to facts when a cart failed to arrive.

Caelan stopped beside the first wagon and pressed his palm to the sideboard. The wood was sound, but the nails that pinned the corner brace were new. Someone had fixed it recently and had done it well.

At least that, he thought. At least someone still cared enough to do a thing properly.

“Quartermaster.”

The voice came from his left, cautious and respectful. Caelan turned and found Ewan, one of the younger guards assigned to the convoy. The lad held himself straight, but his fingers worried the strap across his chest like a man trying to convince his own body to stay steady.

“You have the list?” Caelan asked.

Ewan nodded and held out a folded piece of parchment. The edges were smudged with coal and damp, as if it had been passed between too many hands.

Caelan took it and scanned the lines. Grain. Salt. Tallow. Nails. Two crates of arrowheads. Bandage cloth. Dried herbs, the last of what Mairi had spared. He read the count twice, then a third time, because the difference between a count and a truth was often one careless stroke of ink.

“You are short a sack,” he said.

Ewan blinked. “Begging your pardon?”

“Sack of oats. Listed as eight. I see seven.”

Ewan’s cheeks flushed. “We have it, sir. It is in the stable. The horses needed it overnight.”

Caelan felt irritation flare, quick as a spark, then he forced it down.

“The horses needed it,” he repeated. “Which horses?”

Ewan shifted his weight. “The two that came in lame from the east road. Kenan’s men brought them. They had not eaten since yesterday.”

A reasonable explanation. A practical one.

Caelan’s mind still rebelled against the breach of procedure.

A supply meant for the convoy had been used without his sign, even for a good cause.

The old part of him, the part that had watched stores disappear until there was nothing left but empty bins and starving faces, wanted to punish the habit before it grew.

He looked at the boy again and saw not defiance but fear of doing wrong in a world that had begun to punish everyone regardless of effort.

Caelan folded the parchment and returned it. “Bring the sack down before we leave. Replace what was taken from the stable stores, and note it. If it is not noted, it will be forgotten, and if it is forgotten, it will be taken again.”

Ewan nodded quickly. “Aye, sir. I will.”

He turned away at once, nearly running.

Caelan watched him go, then made himself step back from the wagon. He could have gone after him. He could have checked the stable himself and made certain the transfer was recorded. He could have done everything himself, as he often did when he could not trust the way others held a detail.

That was not leadership. That was panic in the shape of control.

He forced his breathing slow and turned toward the line of carts.

Six wagons in all, each loaded to a careful limit.

Not so heavy they would bog in mud, not so light they would look like bait.

Each driver had been chosen for steadiness rather than speed.

Each guard had been warned twice that this was not an escort meant to win a battle.

Their purpose was to deliver supplies to the MacFarlane border camp, where Liam and Anya held a line that kept Roderic’s men from sliding deeper into Kincaid land.

In the old seasons, Caelan’s duty would have ended at the storehouse door.

He would have tallied, sealed, and sent, then returned to the keep to argue with Baird about trade and with Kenan about what counted as necessity.

Now he was expected to ride out with the convoy, to make himself seen, to assure the allied camp that Kincaid stores still flowed despite the tightening roads.

Order, he reminded himself. Visible order. It was what Gavin needed.

He spotted Gavin near the armory steps, speaking with Donal. The laird’s posture was calm, but there was a tightness in his jaw that had not been there in the first months of his rule. War had a way of carving lines into a man even when the blades did not touch him.

Gavin glanced toward the wagons, then toward Caelan, and nodded once.

Caelan crossed the yard to them, boots striking stone with an even rhythm. He did not hurry. He did not drag his feet. It mattered, the pace. Men watched pace the way they watched hands.

“Everything accounted?” Gavin asked as Caelan arrived.

Caelan inclined his head. “As much as it can be.”

Donal’s eyes narrowed. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the only honest one,” Caelan said. “We are short on oats. We have compensated with barley. We are sending what we can spare without risking the keep’s stores for the next month.”

Donal’s mouth tightened. “The border camp is part of our defense now. If it weakens, our stores will not matter.”

Gavin lifted a hand slightly, a quiet motion that ended the argument before it could gather heat. “Caelan, how far do you intend to take the convoy?”

“To the ridge south of the Black Burn,” Caelan said. “It is visible from the camp. Close enough for their patrols to meet us, far enough that we are not riding blind into their perimeter.”

Donal gave a low grunt that could have meant approval or irritation. With Donal, it was rarely clear.

Gavin’s gaze stayed on Caelan. “You are riding with them?”

Caelan held the laird’s eyes. “Aye.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the unspoken to sit between them. Caelan knew what Gavin was really asking. Not whether Caelan would ride, but whether Caelan understood that he might not return from this duty.

Caelan had been born into a smaller holding that had not survived its laird’s greed. He had rebuilt himself within Kincaid walls by proving he was useful, incorruptible, exact. He did not own land. He did not have sons. His worth, in many men’s eyes, lay in his function.

If he failed, he would simply be replaced.

The thought did not sicken him as it once might have. It steadied him. Function had saved him. Function could save others.

“I will return,” Caelan said.

Gavin’s expression softened for a breath, then returned to the mask of command. “Do. Liam needs the supplies, and I need you alive.”

Donal shifted his staff. “And do not let pride lead you to fight a battle you cannot win.”

Caelan looked at Donal and kept his voice level. “Pride is for warriors who believe steel is a solution. I prefer solutions that last.”

Donal’s eyes sharpened, then something like grudging respect flickered there. “See that you keep preferring them.”

Caelan bowed his head slightly and turned back to the wagons.

He did not see Kenan until Kenan moved into the open, coming from the stable yard with two men at his back. The captain’s cloak was unfastened, hair loose from its tie, and his eyes were fixed on the road beyond the gate.

Kenan had the look of a man who hated waiting.

He stopped near Caelan, glancing over the wagons with a speed that suggested he already knew the counts and still needed to check them. “If you have packed the carts with nails and parchment again, I will throw you off your own wagon.”

Caelan did not smile. “If you throw me off the wagon, you will have to count the sacks yourself.”

Kenan huffed. “That is not a threat. That is a prophecy.”

Caelan’s gaze returned to the gate. “You have scouts?”

“Two,” Kenan said. “One ahead, one wide. They have not seen riders yet.”

Not yet. The words carried the same weight they always did now.

Caelan lowered his voice. “Do you believe Roderic will strike this convoy?”

Kenan’s mouth tightened. “Roderic strikes what he wants. If he wants you, he will take you.”

Caelan did not like the bluntness, but he respected it. Kenan did not hide fear behind talk of honor. He simply acknowledged danger and prepared.

“Then we will make ourselves difficult,” Caelan said.

Kenan’s eyes flicked to him. “Difficult is good. Invisible is better.”

“You cannot deliver supplies invisibly,” Caelan said.

“No,” Kenan agreed. “Which is why I dislike this mission.”

They stood in silence for a moment, listening to the yard. The keep was busy, but there was a restraint to it. Every clang of iron sounded like it was held back by memory.

Kenan’s voice softened slightly. “Do not be a martyr, Caelan. Gavin needs your ledgers.”

Caelan looked at him. “And the camp needs food.”

“Aye,” Kenan said, rough. “And both things can be true.”

Caelan nodded once and stepped away, because there was nothing else to say that would change the shape of the day.

He made one last circuit of the wagons, checking harness straps, counting arrows, watching how men held their shoulders. He gave quiet corrections. He did not shout. Shouting was for chaos. He refused to invite chaos.

When he reached the last wagon, he found Mairi there, her shawl pulled tight, a small bundle in her hands.

“I did not expect to see you in the yard,” Caelan said.

“You did not expect half of what has happened this year,” Mairi replied, her voice dry.