On a windy, dry day not so long after this burning, they sat in the hall before the fire. Somerled and Margaret were playing a game as they had so many times before, though now Margaret moved her pieces listlessly, as if her mind were elsewhere. She had seemed stunned by her husband’s death, and showed none of her old vitality. Somerled waited patiently for her move; he made helpful suggestions; he tried to divert her with jokes and tales, and sometimes he coaxed a faint smile to her lips, and a little spot of rose to her wan cheeks. Eyvind stood watching. It was Somerled’s choice to keep him close at hand now. The times were growing more dangerous, and it was prudent to take due care, since so many people depended on Somerled’s leadership. At the other end of the hall, a group of women sewed, and a group of men tended to their weaponry, sharpening blades, oiling leather, mending worn fastenings on scabbard or quiver. The wind howled outside, setting the fire flickering and hissing.

Thor’s breath, Eyvind thought. Something’s changing. A chill went up his spine; he could not say if it was excitement, or fear, or something else altogether. And then the door slammed open, aided by the fierce wind, and Grim came striding in.

“The islanders are assembling up the valley,” he gasped, holding his side, “a body of them, well armed. They didn’t see me.”

Already every man in the hall was on his feet. Belts were buckled, cloaks fastened, boots laced more tightly.

“Eyvind?” said Somerled. “Deal with this for me, will you?”