She looked at Hadros thoughtfully. He too looked almost himself again. While she emerged from a fevered dream, he was waking up from a furious nightmare.

“Be glad I did not let you marry him, little princess,” he said with a visible effort at good humor. “You would not want to be coming home to your father to tell him you had married a man who ran at the first challenge.”

“He did not run,” she said, then wondered if she had already said this. If so, the king had apparently not heard it.

“He ran from me, to save his skin if not his honor,” said Hadros, looking grimly out across the waves, “and he had best not come back with a wheedling tale in search of forgiveness.”

Karin wondered if this was an admission by the king that he had indeed intended to have Roric killed-even if he had regretted his intent. If he did run, Hadros, she thought, it was so he would not have to kill you. “The Wanderers want him,” she said, “and no one can refuse a summons from the lords of voima.”

“Do you actually believe the boy’s story?” he asked with a frown. “Valmar should try to be more consistent with the stories he concocts.”

“Of course I believe him,” she shot back. Valmar was up in the prow. She had a vague memory of him looking miserable, but now he eagerly strained to see the distant line of land ahead. “All the housecarls-your younger sons-support his story.”

“Crazy stories,” growled the king. “Glad he’s gone.”

Karin thought without saying that Hadros did not seem glad he had driven Roric away. Instead she said, “Do not think of Roric as someone who ran. Think of him as someone who has gone to use his strength and his courage to win renown for himself.”

And who went without saying farewell.