‘No.’ He pushed her hand away, a little too forcefully. ‘It’s done.’ She noticed the trace of a frown cross his brow. He flicked his gaze out over the water, as if that could shake away whatever thought was in his mind. ‘The river will take you where you need to go.’

‘Take us,’ she corrected him.

He nodded slowly. ‘Us.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Get your wench to look at your wound. And get some sleep.’ Then he left her. She listened to his footsteps pick their way to the stern. She closed her eyes. . .

She drifted into a time of dreaming. But she knew something was wrong, knew that she was falling into a deep darkness from which she might never escape. The fever must have taken hold of her that first night. Einar and Gerutha wasted much time arguing whether the arrow-tip had been poisoned or merely dirty. It made little difference. They did all they could for her as the river carried them further and further south. She drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes seeming responsive to Gerutha’s healing arts and others only a breath away from death.