Voices drifted in on the fog well before the camp’s firelight broke through.  The cousins from Morpeth hastened their pace down the centuries-old path from atop Dunadd, eager to hear and to be heard in arguments yea and nay, for loyalty or vengeance.  The throaty rumble of a dozen rested horses became clearer as the booming words of young Duncan, steady and deep, rose from the yet unseen meeting, “We must trust old alliances, just as I trust my brother Maldred and we the same to our father the Thane of the Isles.”

“And the Abbot of Dunkeld,” added Maldred.

“Lay Abbot,” corrected their father Crínán, who poured himself another hot cider as his attention split between the debate of men and the stir of horses.

“Aye, Crín&aa...

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