“Come, Guard,” said Nessa, shouldering the little bag and picking up the other with its strange cargo. The shovel she must leave somewhere in the fields; it would slow her progress, but could not be abandoned in this place. “We must seek shelter until it is dark again. Come, good friend.”

When it came to it, they did not go far, for there were soon men about, Somerled’s men, and it was quickly clear to Nessa, peering out from what refuge she could find, that they were looking for someone. Perhaps they had learned of her escape, finding the ruins of Kinart’s boat, her footsteps on the shore, some other trace. Perhaps Somerled sensed her purpose and sought to silence the voice she would summon. She could see small groups of warriors scouring the countryside, going into every cottage, every barn, searching each fold and cranny of the land, perhaps on orders not to return until they had found their prize. Of her own folk, she saw none as she fled, nor would she have sought them, for to ask for shelter among what survivors still lived in isolated farmhouse or far-flung settlement was to bring down Somerled’s wrath on them. What must be done, she would do alone.