The two men stared in silence at the sea. The sailing master spoke.
“Were honour, too, for a man who felt gratitude for a deed done for his realm-and by a foreigner at that!-to assume that those two heroes I have mentioned are dead.”
“They surely are,” the youth beside him said, in a choked voice.
After another silent time of gazing on the quiet sea, the merchant shipmaster said, “Your sword and mailcoat are yours when we land, and I am proud to hold them for ye till then, Art’s son of Connacht.”
Cormac stiffened. He continued staring seaward. His jaw was very tight.
“Art’s son of Connacht is dead, Captain.”
“Aye. So too is Othna’s son of Ulster. I never saw either of them, but have great feeling for them both. So too is Calba’s son of Athaircthech dead, off a fever in the bloom of manhood. My son.”
“Sadness seems to rule the world, Captain, not kings and not justice.”
“Aye, philosopher. An it’s a name ye’ll be needing in Alba, it’s mac Calba ye be welcome to call yourself.”
“I… I will… remember,” Cormac choked out.
And then he turned and moved the length of the ship, to turn those cold, cold eyes ahead, up toward fog-shrouded Alban Dal Riada. For there lay the future and behind him was Eirrin and the past, and the past was dead.