The duke approached and put his hand on his Imharr’s shoulder. Tears brimmed in the man’s eyes. “Let me help you, son.” He murmured in his native tongue, “Longarr. Don baer di regoor gwae.” Recognition flooded Imharr. He looked in his uncle’s face for the first time in more than twenty years. Memories of a kind man he once adored and worshipped blossomed inside him. This man had far more grey in his beard, and he was stooped and wrinkled around the eyes, but there could be no doubt. A confusing array of emotions collided with his mind, none seeming to rise above the others to give him clarity.
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