Eyvind walked on until he saw the form of one such barrow looming up ahead. He thought he could discern an opening, though all was shades of gray on gray. The moon was low in the sky, casting the stones’ long shadows across the heather-clad hillside and touching the lake water with a faint glimmer of silver. It was apparent to him that he could go no farther; he recognized the gradual numbing in his legs and knew they would buckle and disobey him if he asked them to carry him on. Crouched double, he crept into the secret depths of the howe. He walked the edge of the chamber once, touching the neat-laid stones with outstretched fingers, judging the size, the positions of three small alcoves. He did not reach within them. If precious things were hidden here, it was not for him to disturb them. Eyvind unbuckled his stolen sword; he spread his wolfskin on the earthen floor and sat, leaning his back awkwardly against the sloping wall, staring into the blackness. The wolfskin was all he had left, the last thing that was his own: that, and the small tokens Nessa had given him. His captors had tried to seize even those, with muttered words about spells and witchcraft. He had not fought them for his bright sword or his dagger, he had not even fought them for Biter, so great had been his anguish on that day of death and betrayal. But he had fought them for this scrap of cloth, this ribbon, these little things that seemed of no consequence, yet encompassed the world in the space of a girl’s cupped hand.