For Somerled was right, as usual. Eyvind would not attempt an escape, though as soon they’d brought him in here, he had instinctively sized up door and bolts and guards to weigh the chances. For a Wolfskin, this was a natural reaction. But he would not try, even though he suspected Somerled’s idea of what constituted a fair hearing would differ markedly from his own. If he broke out and fled, he would be pursued. Somerled could not afford to have him abroad spreading dangerous truths. And if they hunted for him, they would find Nessa. That could not be allowed to happen. He was not so much of a fool as to believe there could be a future in these isles for him, even though she had lain in his arms one whole, sweet night. She had a place here as priestess, as leader. As for himself, it seemed he had earned the scorn of all who had once admired and loved him. There was nothing to do but go on in the manner of a warrior, with what strength and dignity he could muster. He would face death as the wolf did, steadfast to the very moment of darkness.

Time passed. The guard changed and changed again. Someone brought food and drink. Eyvind wasn’t hungry, but he ate it anyway, simply for something to do. The silence, the shadows sharpened his awareness of the pain in his wrists, the trembling in his hands, the weak, numb feeling in his legs. He made himself move about within the tight confines of the cell, bending, stretching, always hampered by the shackles. He tried to imagine what the hearing would be like, what Somerled would say, and how a man such as himself might counter the arguments of such an expert law speaker.

The light from outside suggested late afternoon or early evening. Eyvind sat on his straw pallet, concentrating hard, making sure he could remember all the details of Ulf’s death, and what had been said during that day on High Island. The blood…the dead eye…the knots…Somerled’s voice, shrill with shock…He was jolted back to the present by a hoarse whisper from the door. Grim stood beyond the grille, flaxen hair, bristling beard, anxious eyes.

“Eyvind!” he hissed. “Wake up, man!”

Eyvind rose and moved forward. He said nothing.

“Listen,” whispered Grim, mouth close to the narrow bars of the door. “Shouldn’t be here, haven’t got long. Might be able to get you out. You game for it?”

Eyvind could not help himself, his heart thumped, his blood surged with hope. A friend, freedom, a chance to live—gods, how he wanted that!

“How?” he murmured.

“Suppertime, little diversion, one of us slips the bolt. End of the hallway, there’s a yard, and a couple of old nags. Up to you then. We’d keep them busy, give you a fighting chance. Better than nothing. What do you say?”

“I can’t.” There was no choice; he had known that all along.

“What!”