Beside me, Svala was perfectly balanced against the increasing movement of the boat. She wasn’t even holding on. Her golden hair flew about in the wind, so bright it seemed the morning sun was trapped there.

Felix murmured something in his native tongue.

“What was that?” I asked.

“The great eagle lend you the shelter of his wings,” he said. “The wolves of the forest guard you from shadows. The creatures of the deep swim by your side. And may your courage bring you safely home again.”

“Is that an old blessing from Breizh?”

“A new one.”

Gareth shouted something I failed to catch.

“Time to move to the hold,” Felix said. “They’ll be wanting to make good use of the favorable wind. Let me help you down, Sibeal. If it’s any comfort, the sickness doesn’t last.”

~Felix~

Liadan has some advantages: there is space in the hold for several men to rest among the baggage, while the women still maintain a corner of their own. And she has some disadvantages. The hold may be large, but it is open to the weather. Everything is damp, ourselves and our clothing included. The only shelter is under the boards of the fore and aft decks, and even there the wind bites. Sibeal is miserable: she sleeps a snatch at a time, waking to retch into a bucket, her face drawn and white. Gull tends to her as best he can. Svala is no nursemaid. She crouches among the bundles as she did on Freyja, watching as each man comes down to rest, and as each goes up on deck again. Her hands are restless, plucking at her gown, twisting her long hair.

I think of voyages past. Setting out from Breizh with Paul, a few silver pieces buying us passage to Britain with a trader, Paul’s brawn ensuring we were not relieved of the remaining contents of our purse along the way. That vessel was like this, a merchant boat, sturdily made, designed to go mainly by sail. Whatever happens, I suppose I will not need to row.

The trip from Britain to Erin, we made on a fishing boat. Paul helped with the nets. I studied the clouds, the intricate patterns of the waves, the harsh, musical sound of the language as the crew laughed and joked, balanced against the swell. That was a good journey; our hearts were high.

The last voyage: Freyja. I am trying not to think of that. I am trying not to remember the wave that took my brother away.

It is night. We sail on by the stars, heading for the place where the storm took Freyja, or as close to that place as Gareth can calculate. The men rest in shifts, a few hours’ sleep, a watch on deck. When Knut comes down, Svala backs further into her corner. She bows her head; her hair veils her face.