In the dark, Eyvind unwrapped the little bundle of cloth, fingers gentle on the narrow ribbon. This she had worn in her hair, her lovely long fall of hair like dark shining silk. He had been bold that day, he could not believe how bold, taking the comb from her hand, drawing it gently through, stroking her hair with his fingers, softly so she would not know what he did. So close, so close she had been to him, yet quite unaware of the longing in him to wrap his arms around her, to kiss the hollow of her neck, her pale cheek, the sweet curve of her lips…He would not think of how it had been for her at the end; of how she and her uncle had sat quietly in their hall as the fire came all around them, as the smoke filled their lungs and the heat seared their flesh. He would not think of it, and yet as his jaw tightened and the lump came to his throat and his tears began to flow again, he could not stop thinking of it, her pain and terror tore at him. Engus’s niece: no wonder Somerled had pursued her. Now she was gone, and if Somerled had spoken the truth, the royal line of the Folk was ended. He touched the small feather, the moon-white stones. The heartbeat of the islands was not so easily stilled. The ancient beings Nessa had spoken of dwelt yet in the deep places, though their clear-eyed priestess could no longer summon them forth. Beneath his grief, a chill purpose had begun to possess him. This was not finished yet.

Sleep was not possible. He made himself lie down on the cold ground, made his body still and quiet, a discipline well-practiced in long years of sea voyaging and hastily improvised shelter. His mind he could not set at peace; it showed the images of fire and terror over and over, until he could have howled his anguish aloud as a wild creature does. He recalled the tale of Niall and Brynjolf, and a blood oath that bound a man to a lifetime of guilt and sorrow. It seemed to Eyvind that Niall should never have made the vow at all, knowing Brynjolf far less well than he thought. But having pledged himself, and having done the deed, he should not then have let it go as he had, simply pouring his grief into his songs. He should have challenged Brynjolf, made plain the truth of what he had done. He should have made sure such an ill course of events could never happen again. That was what Eyvind would do. It would not make good his own loss, nothing could ever do that, but it was at least a path of purpose, a course of action that set folk’s feet in right ways.