'Yes, lord,' I said, my stomach rolling over with hope. 'If she will come.' Cynethryth was sitting on a rock a stone's throw from Serpent, looking at the glittering sea as she had been for hours. It was as though she expected to find something there.
A gust blew Sigurd's golden hair across his face and he gave a dour grin. 'She'll come, lad,' he said.
I stood there for a long time, staring south across the sea as a wind blew down from the north, whipping the white hair off Rán's daughters and promising to fill Serpent's great square sail.
The Norns of fate were weaving still.