A harsh whisper from the pallet. Not asleep then; not any longer. The deep blue eyes were on me, and the expression on the gaunt features so shocked me that for some moments I could neither move nor speak. Not fear; not confusion; nothing that I would have expected. He looked . . . transformed. As if, deathly sick as he was, my presence filled him with joy. No man had ever looked at me in that way before, and I found it deeply unsettling.

“Sibeal.” He spoke my name again, pronouncing it oddly. The one word cost him dear; he gasped for air.

“Don’t try to talk.” I moved at last, wondering if I had imagined what I saw, for that look was gone now, replaced by the fierce expression of someone whose whole mind is concentrated on breathing. “Here, I will move these pillows, make you more comfortable . . . ” I did so, slipping an arm behind his shoulders to lift him, wedging the pillows into place. I had hoped for time alone with him. Now I was all too aware that I was no healer, and that if he took a turn for the worse I would not be much help at all. A jug and cup stood on a shelf not far away. I should offer him water, at least.

I held the cup for him. He sipped, swallowed. Some went down; more spilled onto the bedding. A wheezing, painful breath. My own chest ached.

“More?” I asked.

He made a little sound, not speech, and took one more sip. The effort had worn him out. He sank back on the pillows.

“That’s good,” I said, though his weakness horrified me. “Breathe slowly if you can . . . in, two, three; out, two, three . . . ” I demonstrated, placing a hand on my ribs.

He managed a nod. No more words. I sat down on the stool by his pallet, reaching out to touch his hand. “You’re cold,” I said. “We need Fang. Little dog. Name, Fang.” I imitated her yap and pointed to the spot where she had lain in the curve of his knees to warm him. A faint smile appeared on his face. This, he had certainly understood. “Coming soon, with Gull, I expect.”

He was silent. He seemed to be waiting.

“You remembered my name,” I said, indicating myself. “Sibeal.” I pointed to him. “Can you tell me your name?”

No smile now. His long hands were restless, plucking at the woolen cloth of the blanket.

“Do you remember?” I asked on an impulse. “Do you remember the little cove, and how I came down and found you? The waves carrying us higher, the wood with the runic markings, the stories I told to hold back the darkness?”

No response. It seemed to me his gaze was turned inward now, though his eyes still rested on me. Too weary to think; too weary to listen. But I should try to explain about the name.