So, Somerled was back, taller, paler, still unsmiling. His clothes were finer. He wore a woollen tunic whose border was pricked out with glinting metallic threads, and his cloak was fastened by a heavy silver brooch in the shape of a dragon’s head. His dark hair was neatly combed and held back by a band of the same metallic braid; he watched much and spoke little. As soon as he arrived, the other lads stopped asking Eyvind if he would play Battlefield, or take them through the forest for deer. It was assumed, with not a word spoken, that for the duration of his stay Somerled would be Eyvind’s only companion.

Somerled had changed. It was apparent he had not been wasting his time at court, reluctant as he had been to go there. The Jarl had a thrall in his household who had been a scholar far off in hot eastern lands, and from this man Somerled was learning to draw charts and interpret the stars, to fashion verses and to play games. At Hammarsby, he found a willing partner in Eyvind’s eldest brother. Karl loved games—not the Battlefield kind, but the sort one played with a small, square board and a set of finely carven pieces. His opponent was usually one of the senior housecarls, who had a shrewd eye for such pastimes. Karl had tried to teach Eyvind the knack of it over the long evenings of several winters, but somehow Eyvind could not get his mind around the intricacies of the strategy; he did not know how Karl could see three, four, seven moves ahead and plan cunning attack and counterattack. In the end Karl gave up, telling his brother with a grin that he’d never learn because he thought like a Wolfskin, his only tactic being to charge straight in, axe whirling, and mow down the opposition. This remark was probably intended as criticism, but to Eyvind it seemed like praise.

Karl was delighted, then, when Somerled expressed a willingness to play. They started with the game that had pegs in little holes, seven by seven, and before long Karl was maneuvered off the board. They played the one with pieces in black and in green; Karl had the sixteen small soldiers, and Somerled the eight, lined up behind a tiny king in gleaming soapstone. That game took longer; at first Karl grinned and joked, then he frowned and mopped his brow. Later he drank ale, cursing, and finally he admitted defeat. Somerled did none of those things. He played games as he did everything else: silently, watchfully, his dark eyes giving nothing away. At the end, he gathered up the pieces neatly, putting them back in their small calfskin bag. He nodded at Karl, unsmiling.

“You play well, for a farmer,” said Somerled.