There was no special need for secrecy. The Norse lived in many parts of our land. Their signs appeared on door frames, on ships’ timbers, on weaponry, on protective talismans like the one Knut wore around his neck. Their interpretation might be an arcane art, but the signs were not in themselves forbidden. I fanned the rods out across the pallet beside Ardal, then helped him to sit up.

“Rune rods,” I said, keeping my voice to a murmur. “Used in divination. The signs that came to my hand indicated a mission ahead. Perhaps for you, perhaps for me, perhaps for the two of us together. Whatever it is, it will require great courage.”

Ardal was studying the rods closely. Now he began to move them around. I sat in silence, waiting. Gull lay still under his blankets, already asleep. Eventually Ardal took up one rod, another, a third. He held them on his open palm, showing me.

“Is. Ger. Lagu,” I indicated each in turn as a prickle of strangeness ran over my flesh. This was no random choice. Ger: reversal or completion, as in my own divination. Lagu: a sign of the moon, full of mystery. And whether it was my own preparation for the ritual, or whether it was my openness to the pain of others, I thought I knew why he had chosen these three.

“You can’t trust,” I said, looking into his eyes. “Not me, not the others, not anyone. You feel as if you’re walking on shifting ground.” I saw it in his face. “Nothing certain, nothing sure, nothing to hold on to.” He bowed his head. “But you have Lagu with Ger. That means you can achieve a goal. It’s close to the result of my divination—it concerns a quest or mission, a matter coming full circle. Yes?”

He put down two rods but retained one. Is: literally, ice, which turns fluid to frozen solid, closing in, shutting down . . . The locking of life in stillness. As I hesitated, knowing I was on the brink of a discovery, Ardal held the Is rod against his heart.

“This refers to you, yourself?” I whispered. “Shut in? Shut out?”

He showed me the rune again, then lifted a hand to touch his brow. He moved his fingers to and fro before his eyes as if to indicate dizziness.

“Shut in; confused; unable to think clearly,” I said, letting my thoughts wander through the possibilities. “Beset by nightmares, dreams, visions . . . ”

He waited for me to work it out.

“I know you want to tell me something,” I said. “I might keep on guessing and guessing, and still not understand what it is. It seems to me that you can understand some Irish at least. Can’t you talk to me? It’s safe here; we are all friends. But you won’t even tell us your name.”