“I have lost two more this day,” whispered Nessa into the silence of the underground chamber. “My friend and mentor all these years, Rona, priestess of the mysteries. Mother and teacher she was to me, a wise woman indeed. It seems to me she met an unkind end, yet I know she faced it tranquilly, with courage, for if ever one were ready to move on, it was she. And I have lost another: my faithful warrior, slain in a valiant fight for truth. But for me, Eyvind would still live, and could still return across the sea to his own people. I sent him forth to do my work; I sent him to his death.” Her voice wobbled; this was no good, she would be strong, she must be strong. “I don’t understand why I had to do that, why your words told me he must fall in one last battle. That seems nothing but waste, since all his efforts could not stop the slaughter of our people. And to die just when he was starting to see his way forward—did you seek to teach me that a priestess cannot entertain such feelings as I did for him? It was a harsh lesson, and I bear it in my heart along with all the others I have learned today. I did not know how dear this man was to me until I saw him fall.” She would not weep, not over this, not when so many losses must be endured. And yet, this seemed the cruellest, as she sat here alone. The knowledge that she would never again sit by him as she had that night, sharing the warmth of a single blanket, speaking as if to another part of herself, so close-attuned were they each to the other—to know that would never come again seemed unendurable. “It is hard to be faithful at such a time,” she whispered fiercely. “Very hard. Have you taken him from me for this reason alone, that if he had lived, perhaps I could not have remained your priestess? Have you robbed him of his future solely so that I can remain your conduit? It is very hard; so hard I don’t know if I have the strength to go on.”