A fortnight later, Iain came out of the evening mist.
It had been raining for several days and the fog hugged the shoreline, though still Duncan looked incessantly for the return of Cormac’s son. He had met every tide, certain of what the other man would do, but his conclusion had not been proven aright thus far.
’Twas just as he feared that he had been completely wrong, that Iain was less a man than he had hoped, that the shadow of a boat formed in the mist. Duncan caught his breath.
’Twas Iain. He brought his small forge and Duncan was glad that the sea was as smooth as a bronze mirror. The weight of that forge would have been difficult to manage on unruly waters, particularly as Iain rowed alone.
“You should not have risked the fog,” Duncan chided by way of greeting. “You could have
