Firehead spat on the deck. “I’ve told you,” he said flatly. “But you wouldn’t hear me. He’s at it again; he’ll never change. Haven’t you seen him with that girl, the one with the young brother? But no, you wouldn’t notice, you’re blinded by the promise you made. You should have let me finish this now.”

It was as good as telling them who he was; who he had once been.

“We thought you might be able to put that behind you,” Eyvind said quietly. “Not let it poison your whole life. My mother thought you might have come back. There’s always been a place for you at Hammarsby. It’s your home as much as it is mine and Eirik’s.”

“There’s no going back.” Firehead’s tone was bleak. He turned and walked away, down to his watch in the stern, and the darkness swallowed him.

“Are you all right?” Eyvind whispered to Somerled, who was touching his throat gingerly. “We’ll have to report this to the ship’s master; he nearly killed you.”

“No need,” Somerled croaked.

“But—”

“Leave it, Eyvind. This will work itself out. Trust me.”

“But, Somerled—”

“Leave it, will you?”

The next morning Ulf released a second raven, and they observed its direction before hoisting sails and following after. The wind was strong from the north, there was a relentless swell, and progress was both fast and uncomfortable. All longed for the voyage to be over.