“We’re all tired,” said Somerled, rising to his feet. “Tired and distressed. You men can sit down.” His eyes passed over the tall figures of Erlend and Holgar; there was a chill in his gaze that made Eyvind shudder. To speak out as his fellow Wolfskins had done was to place one’s whole future at risk. He did, indeed, have friends here, brave friends.

“This part of the proceedings is closed,” Somerled continued. “We’ll discuss the evidence in private, and return with a verdict. Meanwhile, I want you all to enjoy some ale and a bite to eat; you’ve been patient. Let’s finish this and allow Eyvind here to return to his cell and rest those shaky legs. Unless anyone else has a mind to jump up and say their little piece in his defense.”

Surely, Eyvind thought, the edge in the king’s voice and the glint in his eye must be enough to deter the most determined of advocates. This was over. Harald Silvertongue began to rise, somewhat creakily, for he was getting on in years and the cold weather hurt his joints. The knarr’s captain was already up and talking with some animation to those of his crew who stood nearby.

“I’d like to speak in Eyvind’s defense, if I may.” It was a mild, inoffensive voice, which nonetheless carried right down the length of the hall, over the hubbub of chatter.

“Quiet!” barked Olaf Sveinsson, and silence fell. In the hush, the man who had spoken moved on his sandalled feet to the center of the hall, facing the table. He gave Eyvind a courteous nod. The curiously tonsured head was held high, the shoulders square; the little man in the threadbare brown robe made a strangely dignified figure amidst this company of tall warriors and richly dressed courtiers. There was a livid bruise on his left cheek and a deep, oozing cut over his eye.

“I have some words to add to the case, before you conclude,” Brother Tadhg said. “I came in late, of course. It’s quite a way from Hafnarvagr, and my journey was interrupted. But I think I follow the thrust of your arguments. May I speak?”

Margaret dismissed the two guards with a few crisp words, then reached out a hand to guide Nessa up the steps and into the cottage. A savory smell wafted out the door; supper was cooking. Nessa’s mouth watered.

“Here,” Margaret was saying, “let me take that,” and her hand came out toward the bag Nessa held.

“No!” Nessa started in alarm, her grip tightening instinctively. Within its covering, the bone harp shivered and spoke. I am…I am…

Margaret froze in the doorway, her hands at her throat, her face blanching to a sickly white. “What is that?” she breathed.