“If it is too late,” she said in a whisper, “then why are you here?”

“Ah,” said Nessa. “Will you listen? Will you listen until I am finished?”

Margaret gave a tight nod.

So Nessa told the tale: how they had found Eyvind and sheltered him, how she had spoken to him about Ulf’s murder, and how the Wolfskin had confirmed what the Folk already knew in their hearts for truth. Somerled had killed his own brother because he wanted what Ulf had: land, power, chieftainship. She did not say what trembled on the tip of her tongue: that perhaps Somerled wanted Ulf’s wife as well. That part of it was Margaret’s; the truth of what was between those two would probably never be told. Nessa described Eyvind’s stand against the men who would have captured Rona; she told how he had gone to confront Somerled, and escaped, and how he had given himself up so that Nessa might go free. There was a part of the tale she left out; it was just as well, she thought, that Rona could not follow the details of this narrative, for the wise woman was an acute interpreter of the unspoken. And Nessa could barely utter her warrior’s name without trembling, without feeling such conflict inside her that she was hard-pressed to keep her mind on what must be done. She had made a promise, a deep and solemn one. Just how she would keep it was a matter for later, once the task was complete.

Margaret listened in silence. At one point she bowed her head; later she sat down and put her hands over her face. It was not so much a reaction of shock, more the response of one who sees that her worst imaginings are indeed true.

The hardest part was still to come. “I need to ask you,” Nessa said carefully, “if, in the old tales of your people, the stories of Thor and—and Odin, and your ancestors, there are any that touch on—” She glanced helplessly at Rona, but Rona only shrugged, unable to comprehend the foreign words, though her eyes showed she had an idea of what it was that Nessa wrestled with. “Among our tales, there is one about a princess drowned by her sister,” Nessa went on, her voice shaking. “Her body floats downstream and a miller finds it. He makes a—he makes a harp from her bones and hair and carries it to the king’s court, and there it plays a terrible tune, a song that relates the tale of the wrong that was done.” She was unable to look Margaret in the eyes. “Have you any such stories? Do the people from the snow lands know of the instrument of bone, which speaks only truth? The undeniable witness?”