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must lay them down side by side,” I said, wondering who would take the terrible news back to the mother of these dead seafarers. It might be years before she heard it. She might never know that her sons had drifted in distant waters and would lie forever among strangers. Kind strangers, certainly. I would make sure it was done with respect. But a man wants to go home, in the end.
    A big, black-bearded man: Mord Asgrimsson. A very young one with a terrible wound to his head: Starkad Thorkelsson. A broad-faced, burly fellow: Sam Gundarsson.
    We came to an older man, gray-bearded, who had been clad in a robe of good quality wool. The sea had treated him harshly; his skin was mottled yellow-white, his right temple bruised. Knut stood by him and shook his head.
    “He doesn’t know the name?” I asked my interpreter.
    It seemed not. “Not a crewman,” Kalev translated. “A passenger. Knut knows nothing about him.”
    “And what is this man’s name?”
    The last in line was of strapping build, youngish, brown-haired. I touched his chill hand, turning it to see that he bore what might have been a line of blisters on the swollen and discolored palm. Rowing for their lives, with nothing between them and death but the strength of their arms.
    “No name,” Knut said in Irish. “I not know.”
    I was surprised; of them all, this powerfully built young man looked most like a crewman. “Why not?” I said without thinking.
    Knut did not respond.
    “Kalev, ask Knut if this man was a crewman or a passenger.”
    “A passenger.” Kalev translated Knut’s response. “With the other man, yes. I know nothing about them. My job was to row, not ask questions.”
    I thought Johnny was going to make a comment, but he only nodded, keeping his own counsel. “Thank you, Knut,” he said, coming over to put a hand on the Norseman’s shoulder. “You’re a brave man. You and your wife will be looked after here. When she’s recovered from her ordeal we can arrange passage home for you. We need to speak about the voyage soon. With so many lost, there are messages I must send.”
    Knut’s lips quivered as Kalev rendered this speech into Norse. A tear rolled down his cheek. He put up a hand and dashed it away.
    “It’s all right to weep,” Johnny said quietly. “You’ve lost your son, so they tell me. You’ve lost your comrades. As for talking, it can wait until you’re ready. Come, let’s find you something to eat and drink. You’re among friends here, Knut.”
    I was suddenly on the verge of weeping myself. I felt exhausted, drained of all energy. So much sorrow. So much pain. And Svala . . . I did not know what to make of her. She was a mystery, a bundle of wild emotions not fully contained in the form of a beautiful woman. As the men headed off toward the dining hall, I returned to my little chamber. I took off my robe and lay down to rest, the rags and tatters of the day’s sad story making a tangled web in my mind. I closed my eyes, willing it away. Breath of the winds; dancing flame . . .

    I woke suddenly, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. Gazing at the runic markings on the wall, at first I could make no sense of them. Something was wrong. Somewhere, something was awry.
    I sat up and worked to calm my breathing. Awareness of time and place crept back to me. Had I dreamed? If so, I could recall none of it, only the panic it had left behind. I focused on the runes, seeing in them messages I had not intended when I wielded the charcoal. This was the nature and purpose of such characters—they provided a wealth of interpretations. Eoh . Yes, that was apt, since it could signify a staff of support in times of darkness, and this chamber had no doubt seen more than its share of those. Gyfu . Its wisdom was uncomfortable to face, an insight Ciarán believed I had yet to grasp: that spiritual growth must always come at a price. You will not be ready until you understand the true worth of what you must relinquish. There had