It grew dark outside. At one point the iron bolt was slid open, and the door widened a crack, and a cautious hand came around with a hunk of bread and a cup of water. Eyvind made no move, no sound. The door closed; the bolt slid home. He could endure a night or two in this stinking hole; he still had his wolfskin to shelter him, he still had Nessa’s gift lying small and warm against his heart. Rushing out blindly with nothing in his head but the desire to strangle Somerled was the sort of thing the old Eyvind would have done: the sort of thing a Wolfskin would do. He was not a Wolfskin now. He had a mission; he had given Nessa his word, and he would keep it as best he could. It was too late for her, but somewhere in the islands were the remnants of Engus’s people, in hiding here on the mainland, or captive in Somerled’s settlement, or eking out their living by land and sea on the remoter islands, not knowing yet that their good king was gone forever. Those folk he could warn; them he could protect, somehow. He could tell them what Nessa had wished and hoped for them, he could give them heart. And he could stop Somerled. That part was first.