Colin Mortlock sat at his table in his private study in York and read the messenger's missive over a second time, trying in vain to make some sense of it. It was not that the letter's words weren't straightforward enough. The sentences were all simple statements and arranged logically, though penned in a very ill fist by someone obviously not often given to scrivacious pastimes.

The difficulty came with comprehending the context in which the message was written, and in certain absences of comment when some remark would have been normal.

Colin shook his head. He did not for one instant suppose that the brief interregnum in the north isles had made the new Laird of Skye any less intelligent or capable of looking after the clan's demesnes than his ruthless and half-insane father and uncle had been before him. But Colin was still uncertain of precisely what The MacLeod wanted of him in this instance, and whether he should be wary of answering this intriguing familial summons.

The letter even began interestingly, using both Latin and the Christian calendar. This was a certainly a change from the previous laird's style, who had disowned Colin's mother when she married a Catholic Sassun and moved south to the lands of the enemy English- might the French pox rot them!

To our cousin, Cailean Mortlach, at the season on the
mellowing moon, in the year of our Lord 1544

Greeting Dear Kinsman!

Sorrowful tidings we have had of the death of the
fifth king of the Scots called Seumas. Many brave
lives and things more precious were lost at the rout
of Solway Moss. But such must be expected after the
dissolution of the treaty of perpetual peace.
Sir Michael Balfour and his thirty sons were also
recently lost to this world. There remains only his
daughter and a young nephew at Noltlund castle near
our kin on Orkney.

"Cousin, cousin, what do you intend?" Without indulging in offensive pridefulness, Colin knew that he was accounted as being an astute man. But though he could sense that his cousin was steeped in some purpose in regards to Noltlund, what this project might be he could not yet see.

Not truly expecting enlightenment, Colin still read on.

Reports of a favorable nature have reached us and
we have need of you in Orkney. You must for a time
forsake the lands of this King Eachann and return
home at once to Dunnvegan.

We hope that you have not forgotten your gowff.
Yrs with great affection,
Alasdair, MacLeod of the MacLeods

It would be reassuring to know that it was the MacLeod whose humor and reason were so disturbed, but unhappily Colin could not place his oath upon the ailment resting with his Scottish cousin. His own nature had lately been excessively troubled by odd humors, which he suspected had begun affecting his judgment.

And now there had come this letter of rapprochement from his kin in Skye. A letter that was full of intriguing references to many strange events and people. Might this not lend purpose to a life that had of late been lacking in stimulation?

Colin drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. It was madness. He shouldn't even be thinking about accepting the summons. The suggested journey smacked of potential grave danger and certain discomfort as he traveled roads that went from bad to nonexistent. He recalled little of his childhood visit to the Orkneys beyond vast, disagreeable expanses of gray rock, stinging midges and biting ponies. There were no roads. And the region's politics were certainly among the bloodiest and unsubtle in Scotland. It was for this reason that his father had never permitted him or his mother to return to the Isles once her homicidal brother became chief.

Still, was the potential for swift death not better than slow suffocation from boredom? And for an intelligencer, born as well as bred, there really wasn't another choice, was there?