“I think you know my puzzles as well as my dreams,” he said. “That is one. After we buried them, Hakon and his family, my brother Eirik went away. He told me he would stay at Hafnarvagr, something about nobody hearing much from him before the spring, because he wanted to get back safely to his woman and children in Rogaland. He told me there was danger all around me. I–I hid from the truth, Nessa. I convinced myself I did not understand those words. But…”

“But?”

“Somerled was always fascinated by death and dying. When we caught creatures in snares he would not administer a merciful end; he liked to watch them go, slowly. When he heard that story, about Niall and Thora, all he wanted to know was…and yet, he has such ability. I know he is capable of great things, if only…if only he understood what it means to hurt. He plays his games with real men and women, and treats them the same as the little pieces carven in stone.”

Nessa nodded grimly. “Come, sit back here where I can see you,” she said. Now that her hair was unbraided, it would dry quickly before the fire. “That’s better. And thank you. I see there are at least three things you can do, besides fighting and killing. You can provide for a family, since you have not lost your hunting skills. Perhaps, as you said, you are not a clever man, not in the way Somerled is clever. But it is clear to me you are wise. That’s why it takes you so long to solve your puzzles, Eyvi. You must examine every possibility, weigh them up, before you reach a conclusion. Only a wise man does that. Only a wise man keeps silent lest he speak before he has fully considered a matter. No wonder the ancestors did not bar you from entering this domain.”

He was watching her intently. “And the third thing?” he asked softly.

“You know how to comb a woman’s hair,” she said dryly. “As you have no little sisters, I expect it was a woman who taught you that.”

Eyvind grinned, and was instantly solemn again. “Signe. It seems so long ago now. Her hair was fair as wheat, not dark like yours. Though yours glows red in the firelight, there’s a sheen on it like ripe chestnuts.”

“This Signe, she is your wife? Your sweetheart?” Curse her stupid tongue, why had she asked him that, as if it mattered the smallest bit to her?

“No,” he said gravely, “though it was not for want of asking, on my part. She is—was—friend and lover, a person of great kindness.”

“I see.” For some reason that made her feel no better. “So, she will be waiting for your return?”

“We said our good-byes. There are no expectations between us.”