“I think I’m only making things worse,” Nessa whispered, then turned away and went out into the morning, blinking hard. The sun was struggling up; the wind was fresh from the west, full of the sharp scent of the ocean. One of the dogs stood waiting for her by the cold remnants of the outdoor fire, ears pricked, head up, alert as if on guard. Her heart like a leaden weight in her breast, Nessa turned her back on the tower in the earth and set her steps for home. Her mother needed her. Her uncle needed her. The Folk were in peril. She must be with them, not here; she had been foolish to think this might end in good. She had never misread the signs before, but this time she must have been wrong. She would put this behind her. She would not even think of it. Of him. Of him waking alone and finding she was gone. Of him knowing she had run away. Of him walking into the sea and swimming steadily westward until the waves swallowed him, or wandering off across the winter hills and into cold oblivion. By the ancestors, the pain in her heart was fierce indeed. And yet…and yet there was the axe, fresh from the killing of a child, the axe that had slain and slain again, swinging in final, bloody judgment through years of heedless service to the god. That was alien; it was unthinkable. Tears began to fall, and this time she let them flow, hot and painful, for the only one who could see her was the dog, padding steady and silent beside her, all the way home to the Whaleback.

EIGHT

Somerled had a certain style. When at last he came, he strode across the narrow causeway in his billowing cloak and braid-edged tunic, his dark hair held neat by a red silk ribbon, and his men marched behind him with their burnished helms and their fine, sharp weapons. It was noted that this new chieftain bore a round shield, fresh-painted with a black horse on a red ground. It seemed he was not displeased with the name his comrades had bestowed on him. Kinart cursed under his breath, hands white-knuckled on his spear. The men of the Folk discussed the range of their bows, and whether they might pick one fellow off cleanly among so many. But Engus said, let them come. Now was the time for diplomacy, not assassinations. He had invited Somerled to make a treaty, and Somerled had come. It was a little late maybe, since the winter was almost over, but at least the man was here. They must assemble in the hall and hear what he had to say.