It was a strangely assorted company that stood on the hillside above Hafnarvagr, where the sweep of sheltered water spreads out before the dazzled viewer like an ever-changing shawl of lustrous blues and grays and greens all the way across to High Island. In springtime, that stretch of sea is a vessel of light whose loveliness quiets the heart. They watched in silence as the oars dipped and rose, and the fleet moved farther and farther away across the silver of the bay, threading between the isles on the perilous journey back to the home shores of Rogaland. One might have looked at these people, Nessa thought, and wondered what future the islands could have under their care. There was pale, silent Margaret with her woollen shawl hugged around her, and beside her a small, tight circle of protectors: young Gunhild, pink-cheeked and anxious, and the two stalwart guards, Ash and Bjorn. Behind them were two other men of Ulf’s household. All had convinced Eyvind of their worth and loyalty. To Nessa’s right stood Rona, tall and straight with her iron-gray plait and her shrewd, far-seeing eyes, and beside her the slight, unassuming figure of Brother Tadhg. Thank all the powers he had not followed his first instinct and jumped into that boat with Somerled. How would they ever have managed without this brave, calm little man? On the sloping sward below Nessa, Thord stood with wolfskin on shoulders, a hand lifted in salute as the Golden Dragon hoisted her sail to catch the westerly wind. Thord’s woman, Zaira, watched the ships pass with a dimpled smile. She had it in her to give, that one; Nessa had seen it. And she loved the place: already, among the island women, Zaira had a wide circle of friends. Even thus, quietly and without any fuss at all, is the torn fabric of community mended. Give us time, Nessa prayed, closing her eyes. Give us long enough, so this can be.

Eyvind was not standing alone this time. He had a lad on either side, and his arms around their shoulders. At his feet the two dogs stood, guardians, companions, messengers—who knew what they were, in truth? Close by, seven of her own men, clad in island colors, sky blue, sea green, blood red, stood in a watchful group. And Grim was there: a surprise defection, this, which had not pleased Magnus at all, but he had made the most of it, seeing this most hard-bitten of warriors would not change his mind again. One of the young men from Sandy Island seemed to be glancing at Gunhild rather often, and Gunhild’s pink cheeks were positively glowing. Time, Nessa begged again. It is not so much to ask for.

“Make time.” Rona had come up beside her, and spoke in a manner Nessa had grown used to over the years. Rona could not read minds, exactly; she simply seemed to know things without needing to be told. Maybe that was the Sight, maybe just an old woman’s acute powers of observation. “For him, especially. Take him away a while; space and quiet, he needs now. Time to grieve and time to be comforted. You can give him that, and take some for yourself as well.”