“It is true.” That would be the difficulty, she could see it: not the times when he twisted and manipulated things, not the times when he was openly unpleasant, but those rare moments when one wondered if there might be a different person here, hidden somewhere deep. For a man like Eyvind, that would be the hard part.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. Someone did tell me a little something about the female line, and the need for an heir, quite a desperate need in view of your people’s recent losses. You may find your uncle has something different in mind for you, I think, something a great deal more down to earth. That’s a pity. Such a rare creature should not be wasted.” He glanced at Brother Tadhg. “Tell the king I, too, have come with a gift: a very special gift. I doubt if he has ever seen its like before.”

Tadhg translated, stony-faced. As he spoke, one of Somerled’s warriors stepped forward with a roll of parchment, which he passed to his leader. It was fastened with a length of silken cord. Somerled’s fingers moved deftly, untying the knot. He unrolled the document on the table before the king. The corners curled up; Somerled reached across to hold them down, and Nessa saw, clear and straight on the flesh of the left forearm, the mark of the knife: the pledge of a lifetime’s loyalty. He was my dearest friend. A shudder of disgust ran through her body; she caught his eyes sharp on her face, as if he knew what she was thinking. Nessa looked quickly back at the map. For that was what it was: a map of the islands, drawn neat and precise with quill and colored inks, complete to the last line of cliffs, the last tiny rush-fringed lake, the last small clinging grove of prostrate trees. There was High Island, you could see the two great peaks, even the giant-hewn stone lay in its lonely vale. There was the southern coast of the Queen’s Isle, and Gartnait’s Isle, and Little Spear, and there the small oval of Holy Island, and a house marked with the sign of a cross.

“This is a fine piece of work,” Engus said slowly, tracing the coastline with his hand, “very fine. You have a skillful draftsman in your household, that is evident.” His fingers stopped; they rested against the northwest margin of the home island, where a little circle showed off shore, with a tiny thread of ink joining it to the coast. The map was meticulous in every detail: cliffs, bays, fissures. Moorings, barns, settlements, storehouses. Stone walls, fortifications, hiding places. “What is written here?” asked the king.

Somerled gave a slow smile. “Have you no men of learning here,” he asked softly, “who can read the truth for you?”