She was tired; she was so weary her legs would hardly go forward, her eyes barely remain open to see her way. She would have to stop. She would have to rest and go on at dusk when she might move more freely undetected. She watched while a group of five warriors searched a hay barn, now all but empty of its summer harvest. The best stock had not long been let out of winter confinement to feed on the first new growth in the fields; it was strange to remember that, but for Margaret and Ulf, the crop that had been stored here might never have been gathered in to nourish the herd through the dark season. When the search was over and the men moved on, Nessa stole into the barn with Guard by her side, and crept into a dark corner among the remnant hay. She lay down with her pack under her head and her arm curled protectively around the other bag. She was too weary to eat, to drink, to do anything at all. In the far corner, Guard caught some small, squealing thing and ate it hungrily. Nessa thought about Margaret. A fine, strong girl: a pity she had not been able to sway Somerled. He had not listened to her, and he had not listened to Eyvind. He had scorned the good counsel even of those who loved him. He had gone his own way, and now it seemed he would make the choices and determine the path for all of them. That could not be allowed to happen. She would stop him. When it was dark, she must head southward to the great circle, and then to the coast again. The Hidden Tribe had come to her aid. Now she must seek help from another quarter, though she trembled to think of it. She would go on…she would…

Nessa slept. In the doorway lay Guard, one eye half-open, ready for trouble. The sun passed over, the breeze brought a shower of rain, and another. Down the hill, armed men passed and passed again, searching. The sunlight glinted on their spears, on their helms, on the burnished bosses of their round shields.

“Not a whisker,” said one warrior to another, easing his back. “Whatever way he went, it wasn’t this one.”

“So what do we do?” asked a second. “Report back empty-handed? Who wants to tell Somerled we searched from dawn till midday and found nothing? Not me.”

“We could try northward,” suggested another.

“Fool’s errand,” grunted the first. “The man’s a Wolfskin. Wild creatures, they are. Slip across the land like the hunters they’re named for. Like shadows. Like ghosts.”