And Sibeal. Her gaze like a clear well, her words drops of rain on my parched ground. I have hardly seen her. Since the night when she showed me the runes, a fog has come down over me. They fought to keep me alive, I think. Time passed; days, perhaps many days. Once or twice I heard her: Evan, can I help? I could sit with him. And the answer: He’s so weak, he would not know you were there. If I had had the strength, I would have wept at that.

Without a past, I was adrift. Without a name, I was nothing. She gave me a name like a bright flame of courage. She believes in me. That is the ladder I will climb, to escape this pit of shadows.

I find it hard to speak. The words will not come out, though they are in my mind. I try. I manage Yes, No, That hurts. Something weighs on me, something heavy. I have carried a darkness out of this wreck. Sibeal, where are you?

I am one step further from the abyss. Gull and Evan examine my water, muttering together. I hear Gull say, holding his own. They must believe I can survive this, or Evan would not keep feeding me this endless broth. He has explained that it will make me better; it will help my body work the way it should. Where is the remedy for my mind?

He washes me, dries me, tucks me up as if I were a baby. I am so weak. Sleep, Ardal, he says. The dog jumps up and settles beside me. A good companion; a simple friend. Fang. I do not care for that name. They say she bites. I have not seen it.

Drifting, close to sleep, I think of my own little dog. That first day, I ran home from the farm with him in my arms, most precious, most thrilling of gifts. I will call him Noz. My father laughed. Night? That’s a grand name for such a scrap! But the name was perfect. Black as coal. Black as a raven. Black as dark of the moon. When Noz hid under the covers, all I could see were his bright eyes.

Visitors: three men in warrior garb. One is a man who came before. A rune around his neck on a rough strip of hide: Eolh.

“He’s too weak to see anyone,” Muirrin tells them. “We nearly lost him, three times over.”

“We’ll keep it brief,” says a fellow with wheaten fair hair. “Knut just wants to see how he’s doing, wish him well.”

“Then let Knut talk to him alone, and not for long. Explain that to Knut, Jouko.” Muirrin is severe.