“In our homeland,” commented Ulf’s adviser, Olaf Sveinsson, with a frown, “such an oath must be ring-sworn; only then is it truly binding. A fine circle of gold, sacred to Odin or to Thor, allows the gods themselves to bear witness to the solemnity of such a promise.”

“A ring?” queried Engus. “If that is your custom, what I propose should satisfy you well. The place of our ritual will permit this vow to be doubly sacred, and doubly strong. When we meet for the swearing you will understand my meaning.”

Even so was it done. Nessa had the account of it from Kinart, for this oath was between men, and even the priestess of the Folk did not attend at such a swearing. Her cousin told her how, at the appointed time, the men of the islands had gathered around the sacred stone, which stood majestically alone in the fields close by the place of the greater and lesser circles, in that part of the land where lake shone under sky, where cloud lay drowned in water, where wind whistled around the ancient monoliths and sang across the buried chambers. In this place, margins met and blurred; the elements merged, and the ancestors whispered in the ear of any true son of the Folk. A vow made here, on the Great Stone of Oaths, was as binding as any promise might be. No man dared break such an oath.

The men from the snow lands marched up to join the islanders, led by the solemn Ulf and his brother, Somerled. There were the advisers, the men-at-arms, the wolfskin-clad guards. They took their places in the circle, and Ulf and Engus advanced to stand by the tall stone, a veritable giant pierced by a single, round hole: the mark of a god’s angry fist, one of the visitors had suggested, but Engus had explained calmly that it was an eye. Swear on this, and the ancestors would be watching you every moment to ensure you kept faith. It was also a passage, a portal between worlds. Thus, to make a promise this way meant you understood what these islands were, how they contained not just the human life that tilled their fields and fished their seas, but a deeper, more secret life, the life of earth, the spirit of the ancestors. Ulf had nodded gravely at Tadhg’s translation, saying nothing.

As to the ritual itself, it was quite simple, and all could see clearly how it satisfied the requirements of both Engus’s folk and Ulf’s. Both ring and stone were here present in one; the treaty would indeed be doubly sworn. Through the hole in the looming monolith, Ulf clasped the king’s hand, and each bowed his head. There was a silence, and then Engus’s voice rang out:

“Let not sword be raised, nor bow be drawn, nor fist be loosed in anger between my folk and yours!”