The men sat in a circle around the fire. One or two of them were humming under their breath, a strange, monotonous sort of tune that rose and fell, rose and fell. He could not understand the words. A third man had a little drum, cowhide stretched across a wooden frame, and his fingers tapped in time with the chant. Nobody spoke. Above and around them the forest was still, as if listening. The sound was like a tiny whisper in the vastness of the chill autumn night, no more significant than the chirp of a single cricket in a whole field of corn.

Eyvind sat cross-legged. He wanted to ask, What must I do? When can I start? Mindful of Thor’s presence, he kept silent. In time, no doubt, the answers would become clear. Still, this was not at all what he had expected. Combat, challenges, hunting: all these things he excelled at. When would they allow him to show his strength?

“Here.” Hakon was passing a drinking horn; Eyvind took it and swallowed gratefully. The ale was very cold and very strong. He passed it to the man on his left.

“Eyvind?”

Eirik was giving him something now, a wad of some kind of gum or resin, sticky and pungent-smelling.

“What…?”

“You must chew this. And drink more ale. Pass the horn around again, men.”

Eyvind eyed the lump of gray matter dubiously. It seemed more the kind of substance one might use to plug a hole in a bucket, or mend a wall, than an item of foodstuff. He might be hungry, but he wasn’t sure he was as hungry as that.

“Chew slowly,” Eirik said. “Don’t swallow it. The ale should help.”

“What’s in it?”

Hakon grinned. “It won’t poison you. Look.” He reached out, pinched off a corner of the insalubrious-looking mess, and put it in his own mouth. “Herbs, mushrooms, pine gum. Harmless. Good for you. Drink some more ale; you’re a man now.”

Eyvind put the lump in his mouth and chewed. It tasted worse than it smelled; still, they were right, the ale took the worst of the bitterness away, and soon he was feeling much better—quite warm in fact, and at ease in the warriors’ company. The drum beat on, keeping time with his heart; the odd little chant ebbed and flowed, ebbed and flowed like his own breath, in and out, in and out. It was dark. Beyond the ring of torches was a profound deep blackness that even the moonlight could not penetrate. It was a darkness of between: the instant of nothingness before outward breath becomes inward, the point of balance between life and death. What was it Somerled had once said? The moment…the moment when it all turns to shadow.

“You must sleep now.” It was his brother’s voice, and Eirik’s hand easing him down to lie on a blanket near the fire.

“Sleep?” Eyvind was dismayed, though indeed he could not stop the convulsive yawning that suddenly overtook him. “But—”