At least Somerled was talking, though keeping up the conversation was a little like making one’s way across hot coals. It was ever thus when Somerled was upset. His way of dealing with hurts was to lash out, to use his tongue as his weapon. To be his friend, close by in times of trouble, was to invite wounds. Helping Somerled was a special kind of battle.

“It seemed to me you had grown fond of Margaret, and that today’s festivities might have upset you.”

“Fond.” It was a good attempt at a scathing tone.

“It seemed to me you might have preferred her for yourself. She likes you; you have a lot in common. I imagine that makes it hurt more.”

“You’d better go on, since you have decided to explain me to myself. What did you think would happen, that I would step up to Margaret and suggest she choose a man who has no better inheritance than his own wits? Ulf is his father’s son, the Jarl’s kinsman. He’s wealthy. He’s building a ship. Ulf has hopes and dreams; men speak of him with respect. Fondness is no basis for marriage, Eyvind. I would think less of Margaret if she chose me, for to do so would be the act of a fool.”

There was a silence. It was as if years slipped away, and they were alone in the woods again, in the immensity of the dark. Nobody cares, Somerled had said. Nobody cares what happens to me.

“You had high and noble aspirations,” Eyvind said quietly. “You impressed me, so strongly did you believe in yourself. A boy who would be a king. When you first said that, you shocked me. Yet you convinced me it would be so. I still see that strength, and so does Margaret, I believe. Ulf has hurt and angered you. But you still have friends, Somerled, and you still have a path ahead of you. You are clever and able; sometimes it seems to me you move like moonlight, too quick and subtle to follow. You say Ulf has hopes and dreams. What about your own dreams?”

“For my brother, this voyage is a new beginning.” Somerled’s tone was bleak. “For me, it represents something rather different: my final repudiation by my own kin. Forgive me if I find it somewhat beyond me to summon a mood of confidence in my future.” He spat on the ground at their feet.

“We are too solemn, perhaps,” Eyvind said wearily. “Will you come to the drinking hall with me? One can at least seek the oblivion of strong ale, when all else fails.”

“Spoken like a true Wolfskin,” said Somerled. “And what act of friendly generosity comes next? Do you plan to share your whore with me, so I can look for consolation between her open thighs?”