Nessa closed her eyes. Eyvind moved in his sleep, tightening his arm around her; she could feel his heartbeat against her cheek, steady and strong. Later he would wake, and they would laugh and whisper and make magic together in the darkness. It was a miracle, surely, that out of such bitter losses, such depth of sorrow, could come transcendent joy. Are you strong enough to lose all you have, and still go on? It seemed she had been, and for that, the ancestors had granted her a gift that was truly beyond price. Smiling, Nessa drifted into sleep.

The little boat bobbed onward across the dark sea, escorted by gulls and seals. Somerled’s expression was blank; it told nothing of what was in his mind as the wind and the swell bore him ever farther into the realm where great whales breach and dive in the spray, and long-armed creatures slither and move in the ocean’s tides like tangles of creeping sea wrack. On such a journey, a man has time for thinking. There was the exile itself, a sentence cruel in its kindness, a decree both curse and redemption. There was the irony of it, that his long-sought prize had been snatched from him by the very man who had once believed in his vision when all others scoffed in scorn. Somerled’s bitter laughter flew up to blend with the harsh voices of the seabirds. Eyvind some kind of leader? The Wolfskin a father of kings? He could no longer say his friend would never surprise him. There was a sort of amusement to be found in that. And there were tears, here where nobody could witness them; he bowed his head and let them fall into the pitiless surge of the ocean, salt on salt. He had loved Eyvind, and Eyvind had betrayed him. He had loved Eyvind, and Eyvind had saved him. Which was the truth?

Westward, ever westward, the small boat moved, passing on to the edge of the world. Dusk came, and dolphins danced at the bows. Night came, and stars awoke in a vast blackness of sky, such a sky as can be seen only when a man is alone on a midnight watch. Somerled gazed at them, and waited. What was to be done but wait? Sometime, this voyage would have its ending.

Historical Note

Orkney’s history exists in the very bone of the islands. Culture overlays culture: Neolithic houses, chambered cairns, and stone circles, Bronze Age burial cists, Iron Age brochs lying cheek by jowl with remnants of later settlement by those elusive and independent people, the Picts, whose most stunning legacy is their symbol stones. After them came the Vikings, and with their arrival, the rapid establishment of a Norse culture in the islands. By A.D. 880 Orkney had become a Norse earldom ruled by Rognvald of More.