“Later,” Clodagh said. “They’re busy in there. One of the Connacht men has a deep cut—a knife slipped—and his two friends seem determined not to leave his side until they’re sure Muirrin has given him the care he needs. Another man is having his ankle tended to.” She eyed me narrowly. “I’ll find you a quiet corner.”

“But—”

“No arguments, Sibeal. To be frank, you look terrible. Your face is a greenish color, and you’re shaking—look.” She took my hand and held it up before me. I could not keep it steady. “See? You can’t argue with that.”

Installed in a cozy nook close to the fire with Clodagh’s shawl around my shoulders and a cup of warm spiced ale between my hands, I sat quietly as people came and went. It was the usual practice to provide a hearty meal after a morning of bouts, but Rodan’s death had disturbed the pattern. There were plenty of folk in the hall, and most of them were eating, but the talk was in lowered voices and many of the familiar faces were absent. I saw Knut among a group of island warriors. They were talking quietly, sipping their ale, gesturing in a way that suggested perhaps they were discussing the morning’s combat. The Knut I saw now seemed unlike the man who had stood over Ardal this morning. Then, I had felt fury and terror spilling from the two of them. Now, exchanging easy banter with his comrades, Knut looked perfectly at home. He looked as if he belonged.

“Rat’s keeping the rest of the Connacht men over in the practice area for now,” Clodagh explained. “Johnny’s talking to them. And Gareth’s organizing the party to go and retrieve the body. This will be challenging for Johnny. It’s not the kind of news he’d want brought home from a stay on the island.”

At some point, Johnny would summon me to tell what I had seen; to relate the vision that had drawn me out to that cliff top, and the reality I had found. I could not retire to my chamber until that duty was done. I must eat and drink. I must collect my wits. It was hard to do that amid the comings and goings, the noise of voices and clattering pans, the smell of spices and wood smoke. Why had I been shown the falling man? Why had that vision come to me when it was too late? Or had it? My mind had been on my own concerns, and on Ardal in particular. I had been distracted. The warning had been clear enough. The terrible truth was that if I had told someone the first time I saw the vision, I might have saved Rodan’s life.