Give me a faith that will never grow cold.
Her voice was crystalline and cutting, sitting above the tenor tones of the complacent keepers. It grew and climbed, and she did not rein it back. It felt good to sing. It felt right, like rebirth, and she sang the prayer, beseeching the gods to protect her secret even as she revealed herself. The voices of the keepers, raised in habit, became voices hushed in awe, and still Ghisla sang, hating the words for making her ache yet reveling in the musical resurrection within her breast.
No one stopped her or cried out, and many continued to sing with her, though their voices softened as hers rose. Those around her listened and even marveled, but they did not seem shocked or afraid or even entranced, and the reticence that had been her constant companion for months abated. She let her eyes drift closed, surrendering to the music. One song rolled into another, the song of supplication followed by the plea to Odin, a song they’d sung in Tonlis too. She’d sung it for Hod, but she’d not dared to sing it since, even though the keepers knew it and regularly sang it. She sang it now as though she were alone.
Father Odin, are you watching? Do you see me down below?
Will you take me to the mountain, where the brave and glorious go?
I’m not strong and I’m not worthy, but I trust you’ll make me so.
Father Odin, are you watching? I am lost and I’m alone.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
When she finished, dulcet tones still piercing the air, she breathed deeply, momentarily freed, and then she opened her eyes.
The keepers’ faces were slick with tears, and Ghost and the daughters were weeping with bowed heads.
None of them would look at Ghisla.
Guilt and fear rocked her, and for a moment her knees weakened beneath the weight.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, gazing in horror at the trembling lips and streaming eyes. They hid their faces and mopped at their cheeks, as if they were embarrassed by their emotion.
What had she done?
“There is no reason to apologize,” Dagmar said, climbing the steps and stopping beside her. Master Ivo followed him, his black gaze boring into her, and Ghisla’s knees buckled again. Dagmar’s pale eyes were wet, but he smiled and steadied her. “Weeping is good, Liis. It eases the pain.”
“Then why will no one look at me?” she said, searching for reassurance and finding none. Ghost had disappeared into the temple without a word, and Juliah sat with her head on her knees. Elayne, tears dripping from her chin, was wiping the eyes of the younger girls, who cried like their hearts had been torn from their chests.
“There has not been enough weeping among us. None of us are accustomed to the relief of tears. But you have given us a beautiful gift. You have lightened our hearts.”
“It is true. So you must sing to us again, songbird,” Master Ivo rasped, the claw of his hand curling around his scepter. If there were tears on his cheeks, they had lost themselves in the creases of his skin, for he appeared unmoved. Of course, movement of any kind was not his habit. He tended to observe and opine.
“Don’t fear your voice, Liis of Leok,” Ivo insisted, emphasizing the hard ending of Leok. “There will come a time when you will need it, and if you do not use it, if you bury it inside you, it will grow weak and small. There is power in your songs.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. He rapped his scepter on the stone steps, indicating the matter was settled and entered the temple without looking back. It was suppertime, and the keepers moved from the steps to the temple and continued on toward the hall. Ghisla held back, needing a moment to collect herself. She’d sung . . . and she’d survived. Mayhaps she would be able to sing more often.
She released her breath and relaxed her tightly clenched fists. A large blister on her right hand had burst, and blood and fluid had collected in the well of her palm. She hadn’t even felt the sting. She’d been singing. For the first time in months, she’d been singing. She climbed the stairs and stepped through the temple doors.
“Ghisla.”
She stopped and turned, thinking someone had called her name.
All the girls had gone ahead, and the temple doors were now closed behind her.
“Ghisla?”
She started and looked around her again.
No one here knew her name. Not her real name. They called her Liis. Half the time she didn’t even realize they were talking to her. More than once one of the girls had tugged on her sleeve or waved their hand in front of her face to alert her.
“Ghisla? Are you there?”
It was Hod.
“Hod?” For a moment she felt dizzy. Disoriented by the disembodied voice that resonated between her ears.
“Ghisla, I heard you singing.”
Hod.
Hod was inside her head. She needed to be alone. She couldn’t do this standing in the corridor.
The dining hall was filling, so the sanctum would be empty, and she rushed to the door. The candles were always burning in the sanctum, midnight to morn and morning to midnight, and she sank down on a bench in the darkest corner.
“Hody?” she whispered. The blood on her hand was dry and the voice in her head was gone. She screwed her eyes shut and sang the lines she’d sung when he’d first drawn the rune: “In Tonlis there is music. In the ground and in the air. In Tonlis there is singing even when no one is there.”
She said his name again, louder. “Hody?”
“Ghisla?”
His voice was faint, like a voice from another room, but it was there. Dagmar made them use saliva to make the sun rune. She spat on her palm and mixed it with the blood, tracing her scar frantically.
There! She could hear him better now. He was speaking quickly, like he was afraid the connection would be lost, and she held her breath, straining to hear.
“I heard you singing. So much singing! It was so beautiful, Ghisla. I saw the sky and the keepers—they wore purple. I saw purple! It is like the grapes you showed me. I saw things I don’t understand. Shapes and images and people. I think they were people. Girls with shorn hair. Have they made you all supplicants, Ghisla? Where have you been? Why have you not called out to me?”
His voice broke, and she thought he was gone.
“Ghisla?” he moaned, and she realized he thought the same.
“Hody, I can hear you,” she cried. She was almost shouting. She could not speak to him in her head the way they’d done in the clearing. It was too hard to focus, and her heart was hammering too loudly in her ears. “I can hear you.”
“You can hear me.” Joy rang in his voice. “Where are you?”
“I am here. In the temple. I have so much to tell you.” She tried to moderate her voice, but she could not quiet her heart.
“Ghisla, why have you not used the rune? I feared the worst.”
“I w-was afraid it would not work. I did not . . . I did not dare try,” she confessed.
“You promised me you would not give up,” he said, but she heard a smile in his censure.
“I was afraid to hope. But it is . . . it is . . . so good to hear your voice.” She was suddenly flooded with grief and . . . joy. Joy like she’d never felt before. It was like Princess Alba’s hair and eyes: things that should not go together, but somehow did. The two emotions trod hand in hand across her heart, and tears began to stream down her cheeks.