I walk back toward the settlement. Others have seen the ship now, and folk are streaming down to the bay to greet the travelers. People are laughing, smiling, gesturing, chattering. Men come from the practice area to join the throng of women and children. From the cliff path above the bay I see Deiz poised on the very edge of the jetty, a quivering ball of anticipation. Her small form vibrates with the desire to leap, to swim, to fly, to close the gap in whatever way she can.

It would not be right for me to go down there, so I find a place at the top of the path, on the stones. Not long after, while Liadan is still some way from shore, I feel a presence behind me. “Sibeal,” I say, smiling.

“How did you know it was me?” She comes to sit beside me.

“I knew.”

We sit watching as the boat comes closer. Liadan is smaller than Freyja. I shiver, closing my hands over the blisters long healed. The rocks, the splintering timbers, the wave . . . I will be brave, says a voice inside me. “She looks a sturdy craft,” I comment, and this much is true. Liadan seems made for trading, not war. They’re lowering the sail, and using oars to bring her in: two pairs forward, two aft, the rowers standing. Amidships is the deep open hold. It looks big enough to accommodate a considerable cargo, though it is near-empty; this was no merchant voyage. Men crowd the walkways to either side, their eyes fixed on home.

Sibeal has heard the reservation in my voice. “If Johnny and Gareth believe the job can be done with this vessel,” she says, “then it can be done. After all, she’s just been all the way down to the south and back.”

Neither of us adds that such a voyage can be completed without any need to sail beyond sight of land; at any point her crew might have headed for a safe bay to ride out storm or trouble.

“Sometimes I wish I were the kind of man who does not think too much, but simply believes,” I say. “A man of blind faith. It would make life much easier. Yet it was seeing that kind of faith in action that lost me my own belief, back in Breizh.”

“Perhaps you have more faith than you realize,” says Sibeal, lifting a graceful hand to tuck her dark hair behind her ears. The breeze is rising. “You presented a strong case for me, and for yourself, based at least partly on my runic divinations. I’m sure you mentioned the gods more than once.”

When I do not reply, she looks at me and smiles. The honesty in her eyes is a shining light. How can a man see that and not believe? It is hard to put this into words for her.