He must erase all sign of his presence from the women’s place. There was no doubt in his mind that Somerled’s men would return. He must take all his things, his weapons, his boots, his cloak. He must wear his wolfskin. Setting it on his shoulders felt very strange indeed, as if he dressed in another man’s clothing. He should take the helm as well. Where was it? He was sure he had left it there in the alcove beside Biter, but now it was gone. Eyvind had no desire to go back into that shadowy chamber far underground, the place where he had found Nessa lying limp and white after her long, lonely ritual. For an instant, that night, he’d thought he had lost her, and a wave of anguish had swept through him that was like death itself. In the moment of realizing that she still breathed, Eyvind had begun to understand why Thor had released him from his vow, and he had thanked the god from the depths of his heart.

Now there was no choice but to descend into the darkness and seek what was his. The helm was back on the shelf beside the little skulls with their blank, staring eye holes. Eyvind tried not to look at them as he reached up. He needed no reminding that this chamber was a forbidden place. The talk of a Hidden Tribe was more than enough to curb a man’s curiosity. His fingers encountered something hidden underneath the helm, a small soft object. He shuddered, and tried not to imagine what it might be. As his hand felt it, he seemed to hear a voice, a fierce, dark whisper: Take it. Take it, warrior. He did not look around, but seized the small bundle in one hand and the helm in the other, and fled up the crumbling stone steps to the top chamber and out into the light of day. Only then did he squat down to lay what he held on the ground before him and examine it.