He had forgotten, maybe, that she was a priestess. Whatever lay unseen above her on the fair sloping grassland of the Whaleback, she could not leave without ensuring certain things were done, certain words spoken. So, when it seemed to her all was quiet above, and the tide was rising apace, so that Somerled’s men had surely passed back across to the mainland to celebrate their great victory, Nessa crept out of her hiding place. She approached the settlement cautiously; there might be guards, set here by Somerled to watch over the field of his triumph, lest there be one enemy they had missed, one youth unslaughtered, one old wife cowering in the blackened ruins. But there was nobody there: nobody but the dead. She walked down across the trampled sward.

This was the stuff of dark dreams. It was a sight to wring the stoutest heart, to pale the rosiest cheek. She was prepared to see death; she had stiffened her will for that. But these pitiful corpses, not even afforded the dignity of resting whole on their home soil, these bodies cruelly mutilated, so that not one of the men lay as he had died—this was a scene of deep unrest, a heart wound never to be healed. This place would never be a safe haven again. A blight of wrongness lay over it; the drifting smoke from the ruined hall was heavy with the memory of shame. Nessa did not weep. Her eyes were dry, her breathing calm. She felt only the cold, hard thing in her chest, a shriveled kernel of grief, a tight knot of suffering and loss. There was no sign of activity over on the point now. No sentries watched her; only the dead eyes of her kinsmen looked on across the swirl of the incoming tide, each blanched face gazing westward atop its savage spike as their priestess knelt by each headless corpse, crossed each warrior’s limp hands on his chest, and spoke the ritual words of farewell. Rest, brave spirit; may the earth hold you gently in her hand. Great Mother, receive your warrior, Ferach…your warrior, Brude…your dear warrior, Kinart… She knew them like brothers, one by his long, ringed fingers, one by the way he bit his nails down to the quick, one by the many freckles the sun drew on his fair skin.