“Something changed. I was standing there, and the red mist cleared, and I could see them. Not as warriors, not as the enemy, but as real men, men who walked the land and fished the seas, men who had wives and mothers and babes at home who depended on them. And…and when I looked further, I saw that most of them were old graybeards or mere boys, not seasoned fighting men like my own. We had slain a troop of grandfathers and children. Still my men were hacking, stabbing, clubbing the living flesh. And…and there was a boy, a boy who drew his bow with trembling fingers. My axe left my hand before I saw how young he was, how frightened. I split that child’s head in two, Nessa. Then I ran like a coward. I ran and ran, and when I could go no farther, I hid. Thor stepped away from me; his voice was gone. You see what a sad remnant of a man I am? I am become so weak and hopeless that my own mother would disown me.”

“His name was Taran,” she said, working very hard to keep her voice steady. “Her brother—Ara’s little brother. They didn’t want him to go, but he wouldn’t stay back. He was angry. The Folk are all angry. I heard what was done to him. When I took your axe, when I put it away, I did not know it was fresh from that ill deed. This is…it is very hard for me, I find it hard to…to look at you and…” It became impossible to keep control; tears began to spill helplessly from her eyes, and she let go his hand to brush them aside, fighting the tumult of feelings within her.

“Now I have made you weep. And you do shrink away from me. For all your good intentions, you cannot hide your disgust. I disgust even myself. This is not one error but many; not one ill deed but hundreds. I have a shield, I do not bear it often now. It is marked with little notches, row on row, a count beyond counting, of all the men I have killed. Many were warriors, taken in fair combat. But who is to say whether, among the myriad slain, there were not other ancients, other innocent youths? I will never know. It was not until that day at Ramsbeck that I ever saw them.”

“Oh, Eyvi,” she whispered. “Oh, Eyvi.” Then she got up and stirred the coals to life, and began to heat water again, for the familiar brewing of tea helped her maintain a little longer the pretense that things were all right between them. She sprinkled herbs, fetched the cups. He watched her, unmoving. When she had poured the tea, she put his cup by him and moved away to sit alone, staring into the fire.