‘I won’t say no to an ale, young man,’ said the stranger amiably to Leikr. The boy shrugged and poured him a cup.

‘I’ve not heard that accent before,’ said Erlan. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Some way to the south.’

‘Frankia?’

‘No, no.’ The man chuckled. ‘Much further. To the south-east, if we are being precise. Beyond the Great Rivers. Beyond even the Friendly Sea.’

‘The Friendly Sea? Never heard of it.’

‘Some in the north call it the Black Sea, I think. Though why I cannot say since it is as blue as any other.’ The small eyes twinkled with amusement. His little head jerked towards Osvald’s high table. ‘If your lord is to be believed, you sound like an interesting man.’

‘I wouldn’t take what he says too seriously.’

‘And an outsider here like me.’

Erlan shrugged and drank some more.

‘The other kingdom he spoke of – where is it?’

‘Due west from here, across the East Sea. The land of the Sveärs. I was once sworn to their king.’

‘Yet even there you were a stranger.’ A statement, not a question.

Erlan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps.’

‘It is a lonely fate. To always be a stranger.’

‘Something you would know?’

‘Ha! Of that I do know a little, yes.’ He smiled. ‘But in truth, I was never fully alone.’

Erlan sighed. It seemed the man liked to speak in half-riddles. ‘What’s your name, friend?’

‘Vassili. And yours?’

‘Erlan.’

The man folded his hands before him and leaned a little closer. ‘No. It is not.’

The nape of Erlan’s neck prickled. ‘What do you mean it’s not?’

‘Erlan is not your given name. What is your true name?’

Erlan grimaced, feeling the chafe of his oldest and most precious oath. But he would not speak of his past. Not to this nor any man. ‘You tell me.’

‘Every outlander comes from somewhere. A place where he is known, where he is someone’s son.’ Vassili smiled. ‘Even. . . a chosen son?’

Erlan jerked back from the table, startling Aska whose muzzle still rested in his lap. ‘Who the Hel are you? Do you know me?’

‘No,’ Vassili replied, still calm. ‘Not in the way you think. I know only what I see.’

‘It’s no business of yours to see anything.’

‘I cannot help what I am shown.’

Erlan took a sullen swig and peered into the bottom of his cup. Chosen son. That was the meaning of his first name, Hakan. The name his father had given him. But Hakan is dead. Erlan walked in his shoes now.

‘Why are you so reluctant to speak of your past? Have you so much to hide?’

‘I swore I would not speak of it.’

‘My friend, the one from whom you hide most is yourself. But there is one who sees all that is in you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve bound yourself with these words of yours.’ He paused and cocked his little head, as if listening to something. ‘And yet this is not the greatest curse in you. There is another.’