“Forgotten me already?” he joked. “I’m Eyvind Hallvardsson, the same Eyvind you grew up with. Many’s the time we wrestled together, or swam races across the Serpent’s Neck. It’s good to see you. We didn’t know what had become of you after you left my mother’s longhouse.”

The other man looked back at him, eyes carefully blank. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said, and turned away.

Later, Eyvind asked another of the knarr’s crew who the fellow was, for he did not think he had been wrong. The crewman laughed. “Him? Only name he goes by is Firehead, and there’s more than one reason for that. You don’t want to cross that fellow when he’s in his cups. Why do you ask?”

“Nothing,” Eyvind said. “He reminds me of someone I once knew, that’s all. Someone from home.”

“Didn’t think Firehead had a home,” the man grunted. “Been with us a long while. Two or three years at least. Odd sort of fellow. Good worker, though. Strong.”

Eyvind made no further comment, though he thought he was right. Still, if Sigurd did not want to know him, that was Sigurd’s business. Meanwhile, there was Somerled to worry about. Somerled was behaving oddly. He appeared to have abandoned gaming and poetry and music, and instead could be seen restlessly pacing the halls. Often he watched his brother, or his brother’s wife, with a look in his eye that filled Eyvind with a deep unease.

Before the ships set sail, Eirik went north to Hammarsby to bid his mother farewell. Thinking it was well past time for Somerled to be away from court for a little, Eyvind suggested the two of them go too, and Somerled agreed in the manner of a man who cares very little about anything.

The farm seemed different, smaller. His mother had white streaks in her blond hair. And Eirik greeted the thrall-woman, Oksana, with a kiss on the lips, in front of everyone, and went indoors with one towheaded child on his shoulders and two others holding his hands, while Oksana carried the newest baby. Many things had changed. Halla was married and gone. Thorgerd was still there, quite fat now, bustling about with cooking pots and glancing at Eyvind under her lashes.

They did not stay long. On the last day, Eyvind and Somerled went up into the woods under lowering skies, and found the tree house they had made one summer’s day long ago. It was still sturdy enough, though something had nested in one of the corners, and the ropes had begun to rot. On the bole of the great oak, the runes Somerled had carved were as clear as the day he made them.

“Two brothers made this house,” said Eyvind. “See, I remember. Somerled carved these runes. And here below, my own name: Eyvind.”