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boards that formed the small decks fore and aft had been replaced last autumn when squalls drove a handy supply of pine trunks up on the beach at Skaill. The mast could be lowered to rest on a low, crutch-like frame, though Sam never undertook this maneuver at sea; the mast remained in place save when the
Sea Dove
was hauled up for work in winter. Every year Sam’s pride and joy was recaulked, her hull scraped clean, her thwarts rubbed down with coarse sand then oiled against the saltwater. In the right conditions the boat could be handled comfortably by two, at least in the coastal waters around Hrossey, which were not without their challenges. All in all, Thorvald thought the
Sea Dove
seemed up to a longer voyage. He hoped very much that his friend would agree.
    Sam had a passenger today. The gray-haired priest stepped out neatly onto the jetty while Sam and the deckhand tied up the boat and began to unload their catch in a seamless sequence of well-practiced moves. Of all the brothers, it was Tadhg who was best known in the islands, for it was his practice to travel widely, telling his tales of the Christian faith. Tadhg was an old friend of both Eyvind and Nessa. A long time ago he had known Nessa’s uncle, the last great king of the Light Isles. His appearance now was remarkably convenient; Thorvald must make the most of the opportunity it offered.
    â€œGo on up to the house, Thorvald!” Sam yelled as he hefted a crate of fish onto his shoulder. “Take Brother Tadhg with you, and stir up the fire for me. I’ll be done here soon.”
    Thorvald made his way up to the settlement and let himself into Sam’s neat cottage, main room open and light with a shuttered window to the east so you could read the moods of the sea, back room housing sleeping platforms and a separate small hearth, and a snug little shelter beyond for stores of various kinds. Today there appeared to be a broody hen in there, grumbling to herself in a cozy basket of straw. Brother Tadhg came in behind Thorvald, the skirts of his brown robe blown crazily about him by the fierce wind. He shut the door with some difficulty. Thorvald raked out the embers of the fire, fetched turf, set a kettle to heat. Because there was limited time, he decided to dispense with the niceties.
    â€œI want to ask you something.”
    â€œGo ahead,” said Tadhg, seating himself by the fledgling fire and reaching down to warm his hands.
    â€œI found out about Somerled. That he was my father. My mother told me. You must have known him back then. I want you to tell me what sort of man he was. I want to find out why he killed his brother. And . . .”
    â€œAnd what, Thorvald?” The brother did not sound at all perturbed by this volley of difficult questions.
    The fire was starting to pick up now. Thorvald put on more turf. “And I want you to tell me where you think he would have gone, when Eyvind set him adrift. On Holy Island you’ve got men who sailed here from far away, men who must know the pattern of the currents out there in the western ocean, and where the islands and skerries lie. Tell me what you think. Could he have survived?”
    Tadhg did not reply immediately. It looked as if he were rehearsing the words in his head, choosing each one with care.
    â€œTell me!” Thorvald demanded. “Don’t bother to couch it in comforting terms. If you think he would have died, just say so. If you think he was evil and depraved, tell me straight out. My mother held back the truth for eighteen years. I’ve no patience for falsehoods nor for polite half-truths. Whatever you have to say, it can be no worse than finding out I’ve lived a lie my whole life.”
    â€œYou’re a young man, Thorvald,” Tadhg observed, regarding him gravely. “You have many years ahead of you. It is those years that matter, not the ones that are past. What your father was, and where he went, makes no real difference.