Guard’s whine came faintly from somewhere far below. He was surely no farther up the path than he had been that first time, and now she was near the top, and must go on. How could she fetch him? He was a big dog, and her own strength was ebbing even as his had. He whined again, and now there was an answer from above her, a strong, spirited barking ringing out from the clifftop. Nessa’s heart clenched tight with alarm. Somerled’s men, with dogs: they had somehow followed her, and now waited up there to seize her as they had Eyvind. The harp would be lost, the one chance gone, for the fragile instrument would fall in pieces if it were dropped or manhandled. Somerled’s people thought her a witch, working her spells to harm them. They would surely destroy what she bore before ever its voice might be heard.

The barking continued, deep and vibrant, and now there was a scrabbling, sliding sound of claws on the slippery rocks of the path, and all of a sudden Guard was right behind her, the noise he made surely not a warning but a call of recognition, a joyous greeting. Against the odds, he had made the climb in a fraction of the time it had taken Nessa.

“Good boy,” she breathed, and since there was no other choice possible, she took the last few steps up to the clifftop. The moment she set foot on level ground she was all but bowled over, for the hound that bounded up to greet her was healthy and strong, and it came close to sending her straight down to the ocean far below in its frenzied excitement. Now Guard reached the top, and the two of them, like as peas in a pod, ran and chased and sniffed in ecstasy, tails thrashing furiously in the delight of reunion. Shadow. Shadow had disappeared with Rona, that was what Eyvind had said. But it seemed Shadow had come here alone. There were no warriors, there was nobody at all, only the moonlight and the stones.

“Good girl,” she murmured, setting the wolfskin down a moment to rest her arm. She stroked the bitch’s head, feeling the wet warmth of its tongue against her fingers. “Well done. Now we must move on. I need a horse, and I’ll have to catch it in the dark. And then…” She could not dwell on the difficulty of doing this, on the impossibility of riding thus burdened. What would Rona say? She imagined her old friend by the fire, stirring a pot of something fragrant—gods, she was hungry—and gazing at her wryly. You’re a priestess. Make things happen. Some help that was.