“Huh!” Sigurd snarled. “Blood brothers, aren’t you? You’ll always be blind to what he is.”

After that, Eyvind’s misgivings began to plague him so badly that he broke his brother’s orders and asked Somerled outright, one morning when the two of them were alone together.

“About Ragna, what was done to her—was it you?” The question was bald; there was no other way to ask such a thing.

Somerled’s brows shot up in astonishment. “Me? Hardly. Why would a fellow mess about with children when he could have a real woman? The idea’s laughable.”

Eyvind did not like his friend’s manner, but he accepted his words as truth, and slept a little more easily. Somerled would not lie to him. The oath they had sworn in blood made that impossible.

Sigurd grew more and more aloof as the summer drew to its close. He ceased to help with the sheep, and seemed instead to be practicing axe hurling and spear throws, and sharpening knives. For a boy who had never wanted to be other than a housecarl like his father, this was surprising behavior. Eyvind suggested if he felt the need to strangle somebody, he might try it on him, since a Wolfskin could never have too much combat practice.

The summer passed, still sunny and warm, but no longer bathed in that glorious sense of innocent freedom with which it had begun. They did their work, and the days went by, and at length they drove the flocks and herds back down to the farm, for it was haymaking month. All were pressed into service, even Eirik who was back from the spring viking looking bigger and wilder than ever, his full beard and long plaited hair a match for the bright gold of the corn ripening in its sheltered field behind the longhouse. With some ceremony, they mowed the lush grasses of the homefield, where the best of the season’s hay was grown. The homefield boar, sole tenant of this verdant domain, stood in a corner watching, his small eyes thoughtful.

Ulf came, and Somerled went back to court. Whether the events of the summer were discussed, Eyvind did not know, and he did not ask. Ragna was very quiet these days; she stayed close by the other women, solemn and pale, and she no longer spoke to Eyvind or to any of the boys. There were no secrets by the fire, no gifts of flowers or whispered words in quiet corners. Indeed, it seemed to be Sigurd she avoided most of all; she would not even look him in the eye. And Sigurd was still angry. Somerled’s departure had, if anything, fueled whatever burned inside him, and he seemed compelled to violent activity, as if his rage must be made into action lest it break him apart. Ingi set him to scything, but it was Eyvind who slaughtered the homefield boar when it was time, for he had the steadiest hand. Nobody liked this job. While they were careful not to give this pampered creature a name, for all knew his destiny was to provide ham and bacon, bristles and soup bones, it was hard not to befriend him over the growing months, with a scratch behind the ear here, and a kind word there. Eyvind understood that drawing the knife across the pig’s throat was, in its way, another test. Before long it would be a man who screamed and shuddered thus under his hands, and he must think of it no differently, or he could never do Thor’s work. He made the killing an act of mercy: swift, clean and final.