The sun passed across the sky. It seemed to Nessa the day moved on with cruel and unreasonable speed. Her burdens were heavy: the bag with its strange cargo gleaned from a chieftain’s barrow, and under her other arm the wolfskin, rolled tightly and bound with a strip of linen torn from her shift. She would not leave this great shimmering pelt behind, impractical though carrying it had proved. She had already allowed Eyvind to sacrifice himself for her, not once but twice. It was clear to Nessa that the skin was part of him, as integral to his self as steadfast heart or loyal spirit. The wolfskin must be kept safe. Thus, she reasoned, she might in some way protect him until the truth was at last laid out for all to see and understand. All the same, she chafed at every small delay, and as she passed through hidden vales and over gentle hills toward the sea, her mind was beset by images of what might be: Eyvind imprisoned, Eyvind beaten, Eyvind desperately playing for time so that she might be safe. He was in terrible danger. A man who would slaughter and burn as Somerled had would not hesitate to wipe another from the face of the earth if he believed him a threat. Friendship meant nothing to such a man. Nessa shivered as she stood on the edge of the cliffs above the hidden cove. Let him live. She sent a prayer to whatever god might be listening: Thor, perhaps, for surely this warfather would not abandon so patently heroic a warrior, whatever Eyvind himself believed. If the god had fallen silent it was for a reason, perhaps so that his son might listen to his own heart awhile, and make his choices in another way. Keep him safe until I have made what must be made, and journeyed back to find him.

She expected no answer, and there was none. She must simply get on with this. The way down to the cove was steep and narrow; she bore her burdens carefully, picking cautious steps on the slippery cliff path. Far below her the ocean rolled dark and chill to the shore, and all the way down birds screamed, gliding and diving in endless dance about the ledges and crevices of the rock face. Nessa had no free hand to protect her eyes, nor could she shut them as beak or claws flashed past a handspan from her face. It would be thus all through the nesting season. Guard faltered after her, edging his way down the precarious track. At last they reached the foot of the cliff, where a small stretch of sand lay before shallow caves, and shelves of flagstone spread out on either side, offering a safe haul-up for seals and a fine spot for line fishing when wind and tide allowed. There were no fishermen here today. Perhaps there were none left at all; she had passed several cottages whose roofs were burned, and whose stock wandered untended. Once, she had thought she saw the body of a man sprawled in a yard; once, she had heard a dog howling. She had not ventured closer. How many of Engus’s people survived here on the home island? Did Somerled seek to crush every last one of them, to wipe out all trace of the Folk, so that even in the tales of future generations the knowledge of them would be lost?