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loss of two adults and a few children, agreed?”
    Per nodded. “But we’re still faced with the original question. Who will it be?”
    Studying the neat rows of bridle pegs, Gyan pondered the options. Many pegs were empty, another blunt reminder that the fetters of duty were as strong as those made of iron. And fighting the intangible bonds was just as futile.
    She abandoned her mental struggle to regard her father and brother. “We can rule out the women.”
    “Oh? Why?” From the surprise in Per’s tone, it seemed he had expected her to suggest one of the female slaves.
    “They’re a timid lot.” She shrugged. “We need someone who can keep his wits about him under pressure.”
    “Aye. Trouble is”—the folded leather strap snapped taut between Ogryvan’s fingers with a loud crack—“we haven’t seen any of our slaves react in a real crisis.”
    “What about the fire in the stables last summer?” Per asked. “Who was that stable-mucker? Dav? Daff—”
    “Dafydd! Of course!” The memory of that dreadful afternoon sprang up, when Gyan had nearly lost her beloved Brin. “It was his idea to blindfold the horses so they could be led to safety.”
    For his role in saving the horses, Dafydd was given a position as one of Ogryvan’s personal manservants. An appropriate reward, although Gyan had always wondered why Dafydd had not been set free for his efforts. In her father’s place, she wouldn’t have hesitated.
    Perhaps now Dafydd would have his chance.
    Slowly, Ogryvan stroked his beard. “Hmmm, Dafydd…he’s so quiet and unassuming that most of the time I forget about him.” He favored his daughter and stepson with a proud smile. “By all the gods, you two are right. He’s got a good head about him. I do believe Dafydd is our man.”

Chapter 4
     

    “ R EMEMBER, MEN, DO not draw your weapons unless you hear the word from me. From me!” Ogryvan roared. “Is that clear?”
    If the chorus of “Aye, Chieftain” sounded less than enthusiastic, it was not unexpected. They’d heard the command at least a dozen times in preparation for this special duty. But he had to be certain of their obedience.
    “I said, is that clear?” The Ogre hurled the full force of his glare at each member of the guard.
    Their second response was much more to his liking. This was not the time for youthful bloodlust. Only cool heads and steady hearts would see a successful conclusion to the first attempt in clan memory at a peaceful meeting between former enemies on Argyll land.
    He raised his fist to signal the troop’s departure. As he set heels to the flanks of his roan stallion, Easgan, he glanced back at Gyan. The rain had calmed to a drizzle, and she had taken a step from beneath the stable roof’s thatched overhang. With sword arm outstretched, she clenched and splayed her fingers in the Caledonach warrior’s salute. Fierce pride surged through every line of her stance, making Gyan look more than ever like her mother. And before much longer, he would be losing her too.
    At least this separation would not be final. He hoped.
    Ogryvan returned the salute. He settled the hood over his head, thankful for the rain that hid the mist rising in his eyes. To drive away the sorrow, he focused upon the matter at hand. But the image of his daughter did not fade. For that, he was also thankful.
    The regular patrol split from the honor guard to take up positions behind the outermost earthen embankment. Quickly, Ogryvan inspected his men to ensure that every warrior was concealed, javelin at the ready.
    Trust was earned through worthy deeds, not bought by a fistful of scribbling on sheepskin. If the Dailriatanaich were unwise enough to display naked steel during this meeting, the Ogre was prepared to see that none lived to tell the story.
    As the honor guard drew rein below the embankment, he watched the translator, mounted behind Per. Like the others, Dafydd was cloaked and hooded against the relentless October rain. The