There were two items there, and one of them was his own: the pouch he’d worn on his belt when first he blundered into this forbidden place. Until now, he had not even thought about it. The other was a folded scrap of cloth, tied with blue ribbon into a neat, tiny bundle. The ribbon was Nessa’s, the same that had fastened her long braid the day she had dried her hair before the fire. Carefully he untied the knot and spread the small cloth flat. Looking at what it held, he could hear her voice, calm, serious, and see the graceful movements of her hands as she gestured, explaining. Here is all that the islands are, Eyvi, all that the Folk are, and all that I am. Earth, fire, water, air: the enchantment of light, the patterns of being. Hold these things close, for they are life itself. On the unfolded cloth there lay a small gray feather, whisper-soft; a smooth brown stone from the shore, which bore a delicate network of lines in silver-white, like some strange earth runes; a frond of dried seaweed with fine grains of sand still clinging to its crevices; and a twig from the hearth fire, white at one end, charred black at the other. As well, the little bundle held three tiny round pebbles, pale as winter moonlight. Holding them in his hands, Eyvind felt his breathing grow slower, his mind become calmer. The beating of his heart seemed strong and steady. It was as if he sat in an island of quiet, outside ordinary things; as if he were back in that place the two of them had shared the night he first met her. He thought how exhausted she had been in those last days; how fear had shadowed her sea-gray eyes and turned her cheeks wax-pale. Yet she had made time to gather these things for him; had probably asked Rona to keep them safe until he should be ready to receive them. Carefully, he wrapped and fastened the tiny bundle again and opened the pouch to stow it away inside.

His hand encountered a tangle of cord or string twisted about something metallic and sharp. He drew the object out. A buckle: Ulf’s belt buckle, he had thrust it in here that day on High Island, thinking to return it to Somerled, and he had completely forgotten about it. It was a fine silver piece of considerable value; it should have been buried with its owner, or gone back to his brother. He must take it now…Eyvind’s heart lurched; a chill seemed to creep over him. His eyes understood, but for a moment his mind refused to accept. By all the gods, how blind had he been to miss this? Why hadn’t he taken the time to look at it properly, the day of Ulf’s killing? The belt clasp was twined about with scraps of fine, strong cord, the same cord that had pinioned Ulf there on the cliff face so tightly that his struggles had only served to sever his wrist nearly in two. Eyvind’s knife had slashed him free. The stained cord was frayed where the buckle’s edges had chafed it, and it was unravelling where the knife had slit it, but, above and below those points, he could still see the knots tied in the cord. No wonder Ulf had been unable to free himself. Eyvind knew this knot. It was neat, small, and decorative; it looked a little like a flower. It was a knot that tightened quickly at first and then more slowly, an infallible knot for a snare. There were only two people he knew who could make this knot: himself, and Somerled.