“You will have to have a name, daughter of Leok,” Lothgar murmured. “What shall we call you?”
She had no idea what a daughter of Leok would be called, and she held her tongue.
Lykan spoke up again. “We should call her Liis. For our mother. Surely she sent her to us,” he said.
“Liis of Leok,” Lothgar grunted. “It is fitting.”
“Come here, girl,” Lykan demanded. She did as she was told, halting directly in front of the chieftain’s chair.
Lothgar removed a blade from his boot and nicked the side of his thumb.
“The gods have spoken, and I will not refuse a gift so obvious.” He smeared his blood across her forehead and rested his big palm over her head.
“Liis of Leok it is.”
Chief Lothgar turned her over to his wife, a handsome woman about the age Ghisla’s mother had been. The wife took one look at Ghisla and called for “Lagatha and Lisbet,” two old women who came quickly, skirts swishing. They drew up short, tripping over one another in their surprise.
“Oh, Lady Lothgar! It is true, then? We were certain Ludlow was telling stories,” they babbled, almost as one.
“We will draw a bath and find the child something to wear,” Lothgar’s wife instructed, and the women bobbed and nodded, accompanying Ghisla and the lady up a flight of stairs to a bedchamber with a small iron tub. A winch lowered a platform near the bath to the floor below. Buckets of hot water from the laundry were set on the platform and it was sent up again, and the old women had the tub filled in no time.
“Get in, child,” Lady Lothgar instructed.
Ghisla tried to do so without removing her clothes, and the women clucked and scolded, descending on her like thieves, and Hod’s tunic and hose were whisked away. She scampered to the tub and threw herself into the water, embarrassed by her nakedness. Her shoulders, ribs, and hips jutted out sharply, and her knees were the widest part of her spindly legs. She’d changed into Hod’s tunic and hose in a rush. She had not looked at herself without clothes since . . . since . . . She could not remember when. It was before death had come to Tonlis.
“She’s no meat on her bones!” Lagatha—or maybe she was Lisbet—exclaimed.
“Yes . . . and these clothes will not do,” Lady Lothgar fretted. “Nothing I have will fit—there’s not a gown in the village that will fit—but surely we can do better than these. We can’t send her to the temple dressed as a boy.”
The rune Hod had carved into her hand smarted as she sank into the water, but she didn’t dare inspect it. Hod had said to keep it hidden, so she would. Just knowing it was there was a comfort.
“Surely not, Lady Lothgar. Surely not. She should be dressed in the colors of the clan,” Lagatha said.
“But that will take time. When will the lord present her to the king?” Lisbet argued.
“Word is already spreading. Lothgar will take her to the temple in the morn. He says we will have no peace until she is gone, and I suspect he is right,” Lady Lothgar worried, wringing her hands. “Where in the world did you come from, child?” she asked, her voice ringing in disbelief.
“I am from Leok,” Ghisla said. Lady Lothgar waited, blue eyes searching, but when Ghisla refused to offer more, even after persistent questioning, the lady of the keep left her in the care of the old women and promised to return with suitable clothes.
“Do your best to untangle her hair. She must remain in here. Lothgar has put a guard outside to keep the curious away,” she said, closing the door behind her.
The old women spoke excitedly as they soaped and scrubbed at her hair. They conversed as though she couldn’t hear—the way grownups tended to do with children—about what it meant to have a girl child of Leok.
“She just appeared out of nowhere!” Lagatha marveled.
“She is a gift from the gods, surely,” Lisbet added. “She looks like the daughters of Leok—she is not from one of the other clans.”
“Yes, yes. Though she’s a mite bit sickly looking.”
“Nothing a bed and a few meals can’t fix. And look at those eyes! She’s a little beauty. Who are you, child?” Lisbet pressed.
“I am Liis of Leok,” Ghisla said numbly, and the women grew quiet for all of ten seconds.
“Mayhaps she is touched in the head,” Lagatha murmured.
“In these times, we are all touched in the head,” Lisbet answered.
When she was sufficiently clean, Lagatha urged her from the tub and wrapped her in a blanket, directing her to a stool in front of a fire Lisbet had built. They rubbed oil into her hair and let it sit before picking their way up the length with combs and careful fingers. It lay shining against her back when they were finished.
They even cleaned between her fingers and her toes and buffed her nails with a small stone. She’d accidentally hissed when Lagatha grabbed her hand, but the women didn’t seem to recognize the rune. They thought she’d defended herself against a whip. They clucked and murmured all over again, their sympathy stoked once more. They put a salve on it and bandaged it up when they finished with her hair.
Lady Lothgar returned with stew and bread and a nightshirt borrowed from someone’s young son. It was clean and white, and it’d been worn into softness. They pulled it over her head and told her to eat.
By the time Ghisla was done she was so weary she could not keep her eyes open, and they tucked her into the bed in the corner of the room.
“Sleep, Liis of Leok,” Lady Lothgar urged, and the awe was back in her voice. “No one will harm you here.”
They left her for a time, and she was grateful for the solitude, though she knew they lingered outside the door.
She tried to sing a song for Hod, to reach out and test their connection, but she was asleep before humming a single note.
The women had found her a frock in what they called “Leok green” and dressed her like she was to be married to the king. Her hair was braided and coiled and her cheeks pinched for color, though they had days of riding ahead of them. The people of the village gathered to see them off and cheered and waved like she was a princess. Mayhaps they were simply grateful their own daughters had been spared.
Lothgar asked her if she could ride alone, and when she nodded, he placed her on an old horse so docile that the only thing that differentiated wakefulness from sleep were its plodding legs. Chief Lothgar rode in the lead. His long braid matched his horse’s tail, one long rope running into another. It was even the same color.
All of Lothgar’s men had long braids. Lykan explained that when the king of Saylok died, it was tradition for the men of the clans, in recognition of his passing, to cut their hair. The long, tight braid they wore down their backs was removed—a braid that had been allowed to grow for the entire reign of the king—to signify the end of one era and the beginning of another. In Saylok, one could ascertain the longevity of a king by the length of his warriors’ hair.
“King Banruud has been the king for five years, but he is young; he will be king for decades more,” Lykan said, and Lothgar grunted in displeasure.
“Easy brother,” Lykan warned. Ghisla got the impression that Lothgar did not care for the king.
“The Keepers of Saylok never grow their hair at all,” Lothgar said, throwing the words over his shoulder so she knew they were intended for her. “They keep their heads smooth. To grow a braid would be to show fealty to the king. Their duty is to remain separate. The daughters will be kept separate as well. In the temple.”