“Impossible,” he said quietly. “Unthinkable. And the decision must be yours in the end. In that, I do recognize what you are and what you have accomplished. I know that whatever hangs in the balance, you will never ally yourself with that man. A princess may wed outside the Folk, it has been done before. Men of Dalriada have fathered our kings, men of Northumbria and chieftains of the Caitt. The father of a future king is chosen not just for the alliances he carries with him, but for his courage, his good judgment, his soundness of spirit. That is how we keep our line strong. I had hoped for time to find a mate for you, one acceptable both to the Folk and to yourself. But I would never wed you to a man such as Somerled. As for the need to tend to the mysteries, I respect that; but I ask you to ponder what I have said. You are a wise woman, and you will choose wisely in this as in all other things, Nessa. I understand how hard it is; duty calls you both ways, and this troubles you deeply. I, too, have had sleepless nights. Let us hope your ritual sheds light on these matters for us, for we have sore need of it. Now come, we must go indoors and see if your mother is improved after her rest. I have hopes the spring may bring my sister back to herself.”

“I will find Kinart,” Nessa said. “Two days, one night, Uncle. And I’ll try to bring Rona back with me, but I don’t think she’ll come.”

“She always was a stubborn old woman,” said Engus.

Of course, by now he will be long gone, thought Nessa as she went southward on the path through the dunes under heavy skies. The dog kept steady pace, ears alert, feet padding silently on the sandy track. The moon has run her course nearly twice since I left him, and winter moves on apace. He will have fled away. Perhaps he has gone back to Somerled. Back to his dearest friend.

“I hope they come,” growled Kinart to his companion, Ferach. “I hope they come when we are on guard. I will split their bodies like pigs on a spit. I will crush their thick skulls like lumps of clay. I will account for every one, if they dare set foot near the sacred place.”

Perhaps he is quite well again, and in that man’s hall preparing for battle. Maybe even now he sharpens the war axe, makes bright the long sword. Perhaps he lifts that shield he spoke of, and ponders the marks he made there, a long record of heedless killings. I hope that Rona is safe. A warrior whose ears are open to Thor’s call does not see an old woman’s frailty. I trusted him; perhaps I was foolish. Did he learn where the difference lies: that, in taking a life, one must understand what life is worth? Did he ever understand what a precious gift it is?