“You didn’t answer me, before.” His voice was so quiet she could hardly hear him: a thread, but strong. She could not bring herself to meet his eyes. “Are you sworn to a life of celibacy in the practice of your rituals? Is that what you were saying?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t know the answer.” She fumbled with the boot straps.

“Let me,” he said, and knelt down by her to tie them carefully. For a man with such big hands, he had a neat touch with knots.

“Your hands aren’t shaking at all,” Nessa said.

“No,” replied Eyvind, “but I am frightened. Frightened for you, frightened for the old woman, terrified of the task ahead of me. He could always cut me down with words. They are his weapon of choice, and he uses them like a master.”

Outside there were footsteps on the path; Rona was returning. The old woman coughed loudly, a warning perhaps.

“Can’t you tell me more of what you saw?” asked Eyvind urgently, rising to his feet. “What about you? I don’t want you in the path of an attack, you should go away to safety—”

“Shh,” Nessa said. “There’s no time left. There’s no time left for anything but good-bye.” She stood on tiptoes and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. It was a touch as quick and light as the brush of a feather, the brief dance of a butterfly on an open flower. She heard his indrawn breath, and knew that if she lingered an instant longer his arms would come up and wrap themselves around her, a cloak of love and warmth and protection. That could not be allowed to happen. She stepped away and fled out into the fading light of late afternoon, down to the shore where her two guards waited, and they raced the tide back home.

NINE

Once he would have acted without hesitation. He would have strapped on his sword belt and put Biter on his back and marched away from the secret place, straight to Somerled’s court. Once he had been a Wolfskin.