“I am grateful. You’re a man of great courage. But you should take care. There are some on this island who have little respect for what you represent. I think even a priest must guard his speech and watch his step now.”

“We are all God’s children, whatever our beliefs,” said the brother. “He holds us in his hand. If we can protect these innocent people from farther losses, we are bound to do so. I frowned once to see those matching scars, yours and his; it disquieted me to learn of the bond between you. But that very link may be our most potent weapon. If it gives you the power to alter Somerled’s course, to turn him from his dark pathway, then you may yet make all good. Be brave, warrior. Hold fast to the truth.”

“That was what she said,” Eyvind whispered. “We can make things bright and good again.”

“If she can hold on to that hope,” said Tadhg, “after such terrible losses, then it should not be so difficult for us. Now I must be off; Brother Lorcan does tend to fret when people are late. Farewell, Eyvind. I hope we may meet again in better times.”

“Farewell, and thank you. You should find Eirik staying with a man called Thord, a big fellow with a scar on his face. The cottage is at the eastern end of the settlement, by the water. Tell him to be careful.”

“I will. Go with God, Eyvind.”

Eyvind walked on as fast as he could, cursing his weakness. Once, before Ramsbeck, he could have covered this whole distance easily between sunup and midday. Now he would be lucky if he reached Somerled’s hall before darkness fell. His mind was on Eirik, and the good times back home in Hammarsby: the snow fights, the long solitary walks under the dark pines, the exhilaration of speeding across the wide expanse of the ice-hardened river. Then there were those long evenings by the fire, warm together in the light of seal-oil lamps while the snow fell outside, blanketing the longhouse in quiet: the women’s fingers fashioning things of beauty with needle and fine wool, Karl carving a tiny walrus from soapstone, and Bjarni frowning over his pattern board. He could imagine Eirik telling some tale of battles won, watched by dark-haired Oksana and her small, blue-eyed sons. Eyvind felt a wave of cold pass over him. Eirik must go home, he had folk waiting for him there. He should not have asked Tadhg to find Eirik. When the Golden Dragon sailed again for Rogaland, his brother must be on board, fit and well. They owed that to Ingi, and to all who waited, counting the days until their men came home again. It was strange, Eyvind thought, feeling the deep aching of his legs as he climbed a rise between dark, looming rocks—it was quite strange that he could no longer see himself anywhere in this vision. For one reason or another, it seemed to him that he would not be going back.