The tradition must have ceased with her unexpected death five years ago, Jack thought, sorrowful. And there was no bard on the isle to take her place, to carry the songs and legends of the clan.

He walked the length of the hall to the steps of the dais, not realizing the laird was standing there, watching his approach. A grand tapestry of moons, harts, and mountains covered the wall in glorious color and intricate detail. Alastair seemed woven into the tapestry until he moved, catching Jack by surprise.

“Jack Tamerlaine,” the laird said in greeting. “I didn’t believe the wind this morning, but I must say the sight of you is much welcome.”

Jack knelt in submission.

The last time he had seen the laird had been the eve of his departure. Alastair had stood beside him on the shore, his hand on Jack’s shoulder as he prepared to board the sailor’s boat to cross over to the mainland. Jack hadn’t wanted to appear afraid in his laird’s presence—Alastair was a great man, in stature and character, imposing even though he was prone to smile and quick to laugh—and so Jack had boarded the sailor’s boat, holding in his tears until the isle had faded, melting into the night sky.

This was not the man who greeted Jack now.

Alastair Tamerlaine was wan and gaunt, his clothes hanging loose from his narrow frame. His hair, once dark as raven feathers, was bedraggled, a dull shade of gray, and his eyes had lost their luster, even as he smiled at Jack. His thunderous voice was hoarse, made from shallow breath. He looked weary, like a man who had been at battle for years without respite.

“My laird,” Jack said in a wavering tone. Was this the purpose of his summoning? Because death stalked the ruler of the east?

Jack waited, bowing his head as Alastair drew close. He felt the laird’s hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his eyes. His shock must have been evident, because Alastair let out a rasp of laughter.

“I know, I am much changed since you last saw me, Jack. Years can do that to a man. Although time on the mainland has been good to you.”

Jack smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. He felt a flare of anger at Torin, who should have mentioned the laird’s health that morning at breakfast, when Jack had inquired after him.

“I have returned, sir, as you have asked me to. How may I serve you?”

Alastair was quiet. He blinked, a crease of confusion in his brow, and in that swell of silence, Jack was overcome with dread.

“I wasn’t expecting you, Jack. I didn’t ask you to return.”

The harp in Jack’s arms became a millstone. He continued to kneel, gazing blankly up at the laird, his thoughts scattering.