As Greylen approached the training field, he noticed Duncan’s frustration and immediately stepped into the fray. The boys about bowed to him. ’Twas an honor to train with him personally and one not granted by all lairds. Greylen, however, would have it no other way. It gave him pride to watch his boys grow into their skills and manhood.

Today, however, his attention was elsewhere. He took a blow from a sword, splitting the skin of his arm. The boy who dealt the injury instantly dropped to his knees, fear evident on his face. Greylen pulled the boy up and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, demanding that he meet his stare. “A lesson, Michael. Never lose your mental stand in a match—on our fields or in battle. Your life depends upon it.” Greylen turned to Duncan and dismissed himself. ’Twas time to seek his mother’s needle. She’d not be pleased.

After a pointed look from Lady Madelyn and a regal sweep of her hand, Greylen sat in the chair his mother gestured to. She finished her work quickly and never once mentioned the reason to blame for the wound. “Good luck to you with the rest of your day, son,” she’d said. “I’ll be sure to keep my instruments handy should you need my services again.” Greylen offered a wry smile and thanks as well, then went to his study.

He’d been consumed the past days, and now needed to address the correspondences atop his desk. Most were letters updating occurrences among neighboring clans. They would become the agenda to be discussed at the upcoming council meeting.

The council, comprised of twelve lairds, convened four times yearly. After years of feuding during his father’s reign, Greylen and his peers did their best to live peacefully. Their only fighting now proved to be little more than minor skirmishes or warring at the behest of their sovereign.

Greylen served his king for fifteen years and helped to bring an end to the internal strife which plagued their homeland. Now only a few caused troubles—those spiteful or hungry for power.

One clan in particular was the MacFale. ’Twasn’t the father who made trouble but his son Malcolm. Their lands bordered to the south and any disturbances of late, Greylen knew Malcolm had caused. Though he’d not seen him in years, Malcolm’s jealousy of Greylen’s continued success fueled his hatred.

Greylen began listing the grievances to be addressed but looked to the door when he sensed Gavin’s approach. Greylen bid him entrance and waved to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He tossed him the parchment he’d had in his pocket and gauged his reaction.

Gavin studied it, then looked back in question. “What is it?”

“Numbers Gwendolyn wished for me…to call. The first is her friend, Sara. The latter, the name of the inn where she was staying.”

Gavin shook his head. “I’ve no idea her meaning, Greylen, nor does this name sound familiar.”

“Nor do I.” He took the parchment back, staring at the strange sequence of numbers. “She…damn it, Gavin.” Greylen stood and walked to the window behind his desk, staring past the garden. “The things she’s said…the way she speaks.”