The weather grew warmer, and Eyvind taught Somerled to swim. The boy practiced this new skill as he did all the others: doggedly, methodically, with no sign of enjoyment. He splashed about, making a gradual, floundering progress through the chilly waters of the fjord, while Eyvind swam and dived and practiced holding his breath under water. It seemed Somerled learned things not because he wanted to, but because he believed he must.

There was one exception, and it unsettled Eyvind. They set snares for rabbit or hare, clever nooses of cord placed so the quarry would wander in unawares and be caught by neck or limb, unable to free itself from the constricting loop. Usually the creatures would be dead by the time the boys checked the snare, but sometimes they were still alive, straining wild-eyed against the cord, or hunched, staring at their captors with a knowledge of death on their small faces. Eyvind preferred it when they were dead; it was better if the snare went around the neck. But he bore a short, heavy club and used it efficiently when he needed to. Somerled would not employ the club. He checked his own snares, and Eyvind came across him sitting there quite still, watching with grave interest the small, struggling animal, whose frantic efforts to free itself had worn the flesh of its trapped leg almost to the bone. Perhaps Somerled was waiting for that moment he had once spoken of: a turning point, when it all went dark. Eyvind shivered, and then reached across and administered the merciful stroke of death. And Somerled was suddenly very angry indeed.

“Why did you do that? This one’s mine!”

Eyvind looked into the dark, fierce eyes and swallowed. “There’s no need to keep them alive,” he ventured cautiously. “It hurts them, you know, being strung up. This is the way it’s done. It’s the way I always do it.”

“And this is the way I do it,” said Somerled coldly. “Tend to your own snares.”

“Suit yourself,” said Eyvind, and then bent toward the limp bundle of gray fur, peering more closely. “What knot did you use?” he asked.

“Ah,” said Somerled, “you noticed. Want me to show you?” Deftly, his fingers moved on the hempen cord, flicking under, teasing out the bloodied ends until the complex rosette that formed the knot was unmade. “I invented this. You’ll find it quite useful, I think. It tightens swiftly at first, and then more gradually, and it’s very hard indeed to undo unless you know the trick. Here, watch me.”

It was a clever knot, and decorative. Eyvind practiced it several times, until he could remember the cunning sequence of under, over, across, through and around, which formed the flowerlike result. It would have its uses, certainly, but…

“I prefer the old one, for a snare,” he commented. “Quicker and cleaner.”

“Maybe.” Somerled glanced at him sideways. “But this is much more interesting.”