As for him. . . Erlan had left many moons ago. Where to, she had no idea. That was a question with which she no longer tormented herself. She had, of course – in the days after he’d gone. She had thought of little else, her mind flying after him like a swallow fleeing winter. But the wheel of her thoughts brought her no closer to him and so at last she had forced herself to give it up.

Instead she had resolved to give herself wholly to her husband: King Ringast, son of the Wartooth, victor of the Bravik Plains, who that day had won the Twin Kingdoms of Danmark and Sveäland and been hailed King-Over-Them-All. He had since even taken on a new name, joining his own with her father’s: Sviggar-Hring. A sign to heal the wounds between their peoples. But few used it. Most folk called him by another: the Half-Hand King. Half he lost on that bloody plain. The half he kept was killing him.

It came on slow. So slow even she had failed to notice. The work to rebuild their riven land was never-ending and Ringast drove himself hard. At first he complained of dizziness after the long hours spent in council. Lilla persuaded herself he was just tired, that he needed more sleep, and with the onset of the long winter nights he would get it. But his condition grew worse. When they lay together, his skin was cold to the touch, like a wight’s – as if he were half-dead already. Now Lilla saw it had only been his extraordinary strength of will that had kept him alive this long. A weaker man would have succumbed weeks, perhaps months, before.

That morning she had gone to the old ash at the heart of the Kingswood to make sacrifice to Eir, hoping that the healing goddess would open her mind to some new knowledge that could save him. She had listened and heard. . . nothing.

The truth was stark. She could not save him.

Maybe this last loss would come as a relief – bringing her to that final, inexorable state of being completely alone. And yet she felt a horror of it.

The entrance to the mead-hall loomed before her, welcome shelter from the wind gusting across the hall-yard. But for a second she didn’t want to go back in, didn’t want to listen to those ragged breaths rattling in his throat, or to see his once piercing grey eyes grown so dim.

Gathering her skirts, she forced down her reluctance and went inside. ‘He’s asking for you again, my lady.’ The voice belonged to Gerutha, her Gotar maidservant. A year ago they had never met. Now Gerutha was her only friend.

‘Have you changed his blankets?’

‘Twice since you’ve gone.’ Gerutha’s cheekbones cast sharp shadows down her face. ‘The fever still holds him. But he’s conscious.’

‘Bring fresh water. I’ll go to him.’