Then she took the boat and rowed away southward to the shore near the women’s place. The sun was high, but veiled by heavy cloud now; she had tarried long in that place of death, too long maybe. Nowhere was safe; it was a time for flight and concealment. Somerled understood what Nessa was; he knew what she stood for. She must move quickly, and stay ahead of him. There was a task to be completed, and she must find the strength to do it, and do it alone. Once it was accomplished, it would be the time to step forward and confront him, though the thought of that filled her with dread. She had clung to hopes of Rona, but when she stumbled into the grassy hollow of the women’s place, she found the cottage burned to the ground, and her old friend gone. It was clear men had been here; the earth still bore the traces of their boots. She did not see how the wise woman could have survived such an attack. Even then Nessa could not weep; this sorrow was beyond that. It was a thing of bone and shadow, dark and deep; it had laid its hand heavily over these fair isles, so heavily it seemed beyond the strength of any priestess to lift it, be she skilled in lore and steeped in wisdom, be she brave as a hero of the old tales. She would not give in to weakness; she would not lie here in the dim quiet of the tower in the earth, huddled under an old cloak that once had sheltered a damaged warrior, she would not release the tears that built and built inside her.

Her little bag had been carefully packed, ready for just such a flight as this. Engus had known, as she had, how slender their hope of survival would be once Somerled had his grip on the land. She could make fire; she could feed herself for a day or two. She had a tiny lamp, and oil in a corked jar. She could cast the bones in augury; she could burn herbs and sing prayers for the dead. She could perform the duties that had been set out for her since the day long ago when she ventured a little too far into the dunes and first met the wise woman.

Nessa did not sleep that night. Guard curled up on the cloak, alert enough to warn of intruders, yet not his old self; perhaps he had hoped to find his mate here, or the man he had helped watch over, for there was something in the droop of his tail and the sadness of his eyes that touched her deeply. He did not go to hunt; he ate a scrap of hard bread from Nessa’s small store, and settled by the entry to watch.