At least he knew she was alive. That much gave him hope. Arwin did not speak of her, not to Hod, though Hod knew he sought out news in the villages when he thought Hod was out of earshot. If Hod concentrated, he could hear great distances, especially if the speaker had a voice he was accustomed to and the conversation took place out of doors. He could hear a flock of birds a mile away. He’d tested the distance. Crickets and all crawling creatures were quieter, but the more distinct their sound, the farther off he could hear them.
People were the easiest to hear. They did not move with the same stealth or suspicion. They were predators instead of prey, and they stomped and sang and spoke loudly, even when they were alone. He’d grown accustomed to the distortions of the wind and the water, to the way both tossed sound about and muted or amplified it. He could hear a leaf fall—that pleased Arwin immensely—though what good it did him, he wasn’t sure.
But he couldn’t hear Ghisla. And for months he waited, doing his best to forgive his teacher for sending her away, and to forgive himself for not fighting harder for her to stay.
8
TONES
Time passed and the days ran together in leaps and lurches. Life was not terrible. Ghisla had lived through terrible. But it was not sweet. She’d lived through sweet too and recognized the absence. The keepers lived in constant companionship, and they expected the same of the daughters. They moved as one through their days—chores, chanting, study, and sleep. Even in meditation or contemplation they were expected to dwell together, though they were instructed not to speak at all. Ghisla had grown up in the fields and in the forest. Even as a child she’d had far more freedom than the cloistered temple life allowed, and it grated on her patience and poked at her frayed nerves. Only in her thoughts was she able to slip away into dark corners and quiet nooks where she could breathe for a moment all by herself.
At least they were in the gardens; the harvest had begun, and all hands were needed. Ghisla had blisters from all the picking and pulling. Bayr and Alba were with them—the old queen had given permission for the princess to be educated alongside the daughters—and Bayr had cut their work in half, but Alba was demanding to be entertained. Dalys had painted her a picture, Juliah had walked on her hands, though her knotted skirts rose up around her knees and embarrassed Bayr. Elayne had wreathed flowers in her hair, and Ghost had convinced a bird to eat out of her palm, but they were all things Alba had seen—and done—before. She wanted something new.
“Liis should sing us a song,” Elayne suggested. “She has a lovely voice. She tries to hide it, but it is obvious. Even when she hums it is beautiful.”
“Yes, Liis!” The princess clapped. “Sing us a song.”
“I do not want to sing,” Ghisla said, shaking her head.
“Are you bashful?” Alba asked. “I am never bashful, am I Bayr?”
“N-no,” Bayr stammered, shaking his head. “N-n-never.”
“Mayhaps it is because I am so smart. I am good at many things. I am good at everything I try. That is what Bayr says.”
“He is right,” Ghost said, smiling at the little girl. “You are very smart.”
“You just need to try harder, Liis,” Alba insisted. “You need to sing more, so it will become easier and you won’t be so bashful.”
“I am not bashful,” Ghisla insisted, stiff with discomfort. “I just do not want to sing.”
“She is not bashful. She is secretive,” Juliah grumbled. “And cross and selfish. She does not want to entertain us, though we entertain her.”
“I will entertain you,” Bashti offered. “I am not the least bit shy.”
“I want to hear Liis,” Alba insisted. “I want to hear her beautiful voice. My mother used to sing to me.”
Any mention of the deceased queen made them all rush to attend to Alba’s every request, especially Bayr, who had endless patience and affection for the child. She’d watched him run for hours with her on his shoulders, her arms outspread like she was flying. But he could not give her music.
Bayr turned pleading eyes to Ghisla, and she wavered under his gaze.
“I . . . do not know what to sing,” she muttered. Since she’d arrived, she’d not dared to sing the songs of Tonlis. Hod and Arwin had known about the Songrs, and she had little doubt the other keepers would know about them too. They would know she was an imposter and not of Leok—or Saylok—at all.
What if her songs made images dance in their heads? What if the keepers cast her out? Where would she go then?
“Sing the song of parting. You know that one,” Elayne suggested. “I heard you sing it with the keepers just last night, though you hardly did more than whisper.”
It was a mournful dirge, a chant with little variation that the keepers sang at dusk. Eight tones, repeated in ascension and descension, to put the sun to bed. It was not of Tonlis, and there were no words. Mayhaps she could sing that one.
She didn’t look at her rapt audience and sang softly, not allowing the sound to fill her throat or resonate in her chest, yet they all fell silent anyway, listening to the rise and fall of the notes.
“Do it again, Liis. Please?” Elayne begged sweetly when she was done. Her lips were trembling. “Your voice is so beautiful, I could cry.”
“I don’t want to cry,” Alba said. Her eyes were wet as well. “Don’t you know a happy song? Please sing a happy song.”
“I know a song about a toad,” Ghisla said. That song too would be safe. She trilled out Gilly’s song about the unfortunate toad, and Bayr and the others laughed, but Princess Alba wrinkled her nose in confusion.
“I don’t think that is a happy song,” she argued. “The poor, squished toad is not happy.”
The bells began to toll, signaling meditation had ended, and saving Ghisla from performing something else.
Bayr scooped Alba up unceremoniously and dropped her on his shoulders. One day she would be too big to ride thus, but that day was still a long ways off. She was never happy to go, but she’d learned not to argue when Bayr signaled the end of the day. It did no good to argue with him. He never said anything. His tongue was hopelessly tangled, and he only spoke when there was no way to avoid it.
Alba waved goodbye as Ghost ushered the girls from the gardens to join in evening worship. The keepers had moved from the sanctum and out onto the temple steps in a long purple line to sing their songs of supplication after the bells tolled.
Ghost and the daughters did not stand among them, but behind them in the shadow of the temple columns. The keepers sang the song of supplication, the one most commonly raised in evening worship. The daughters raised their voices in obedience as well, as they had been instructed to do, but half-heartedly.
Mayhaps singing in the garden had broken through a layer of fear and ice, but for the first time, Ghisla let herself sing with them—truly sing—her voice piercing the air the way her silence usually deflated the room.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies, divine.
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
Open my eyes to see, make me at one with thee,
Gods of my father and god of my soul.
Give me a home in hope, give me a place to go,