“You don’t care either,” Somerled said in a voice no louder than a rustle of wind in the bushes. “You’re just counting the days until I’m gone. Then you’ll go out with Sigurd and the others, and have a good laugh about me, and do your swimming and diving and hunting, and be pleased you haven’t got me to drag along, slowing you down.”

This was true, most of it. Already, in his head, Eyvind had planned a swim across the Serpent’s Neck and a run to the top of Setter’s Crag, a trip Somerled could never have managed. He spoke carefully.

“You know how much I want to be a Wolfskin. I’m too young now. They won’t even let me do the trial until I’m fifteen. It’s hard to wait. Three years seems forever. It’s been good having you here. You’ve kept me busy, given me things to do.”

“An amusement.” Somerled’s tone was cold. “A little diversion.”

“You know I don’t mean that,” said Eyvind, sitting up. Still the other boy’s face was obstinately turned away. “Have I ever laughed at you, even once? You’re my friend, Somerled.”

He heard the indrawn breath, and wondered if Somerled were weeping. Then his voice came, harsh and intense.

“Then prove it.”

“Prove it? How?” Eyvind was perplexed.

Somerled turned. He had his hunting knife in his hand, and his left sleeve was rolled back. As Eyvind stared transfixed, he scored a neat line in the white skin of the forearm, a wound that flowed with fresh blood from wrist to elbow. Somerled’s face was like a war mask, the mouth hard, the eyes fierce with challenge.

“Swear it in blood.” His voice rang in Eyvind’s ears like the call of a solemn bell or some trumpet of doom, like a sound from an old tale. “Swear we’ll be like brothers, forever. Prove to me you’re not lying.”

And when Eyvind hesitated, staring as the blood began to trickle from Somerled’s arm onto the blanket, and descend in runnels to be lost on the forest floor, Somerled’s eyes grew chill, his face still tighter.

“I knew you wouldn’t,” he said. His tone did not mirror his expression. It was the voice of a lonely child who fights to hold back tears.

Eyvind got up and took the knife from Somerled’s hands. Not allowing himself to think too hard, he bared his own left arm, took a breath, and cut neatly: not too deep, or it would be hard to explain; but deep enough so the blood would flow freely. It hurt, but he knew how to deal with pain. He lifted his arm and laid it against Somerled’s, and they clasped hands as their blood mingled and dripped in the glow of the fire.