Eirik’s smile was fierce and proud. “For each of us, it is different,” he said. “For each of us, it is real. You passed, yes, and more than passed, I think.”

“But I saw—” Eyvind broke off. How could he find the words to tell of such wonders, the strangeness of those figures in the darkness, the way the wolf seemed a part of himself, so he knew its thoughts, and yet how it seemed at the same time to be the embodiment of the god? How he had seen death, and for a moment had understood it? And if he had truly slain a wolf, where was it now?

“You’ll be hungry,” Hakon said, “and thirsty. Get some clothes on, and fill your belly, for we’ve a long ride today.”

And when he was sitting, water bottle in one hand and strip of roast meat in the other, he looked across the fire and saw the skin. They had scraped it more or less clean; it hung over one of the extinguished torches, a great, shaggy pelt, the silver-gray hair faintly gleaming in the morning sun. The breeze stirred it; there was a movement in it, a ripple of life, as if the spirit of the forest chieftain still lingered in the mantle he had passed to his conqueror.

“There’s a man at Magnus’s court does a good job of curing and tanning,” said the warrior with the scarred face. “He’ll make it into a fine cloak for you. A good size of skin, that one, big enough even for a little ox of a fellow like yourself. Fit for a king.”

Eyvind nodded, saying nothing. His heart and his mind were too full to allow words. No need to ask; no need to tell. Each of them had passed his own trial; each of them was bound to Thor. That made them a band, a team; yet, in the end, each moved forward alone, for the pacts the god made were as personal as they were unbreakable.

So, in his fifteenth year, Eyvind became a Wolfskin. As one of the twelve, he rode south to Jarl Magnus’s court. He left the forest, and yet he did not truly leave, for he was one with the wolf now, and he carried the fire within him, burning bright and steady. While that flame lived, he would serve the god, strong in arm and will, eager for battle, stalwart against all enemies and true to his oath. His life henceforth would follow Thor’s path, the viking seasons devoted to voyaging, raiding, battle and plunder, the times between spent at the Jarl’s side, guarding his person, escorting him safely on his visits throughout his territories, entertaining him with feats of strength and skill. Visits home to the farm would be few, and at his patron’s convenience, not his own. The familiar faces—his mother’s, Karl’s, those of the household in which he had grown up surrounded by love—would become strange to him. That did not seem to matter. He was made new: a man. He would serve three years, five years, more if he was lucky; then, if the gods willed it, there would be a swift death and a place at Thor’s right hand. It was a glorious future.