She brushed her hand across her face, wiping at them, and Hod’s voice became even clearer still. Tears worked in the rune! Tears and spittle and blood, the stuff of life.
“Arwin is coming. I must go,” he said, regretful.
“Oh no. Not yet,” she begged.
“Promise me you will not give up.” His voice was fading.
“I will not give up today,” she said, the joy and grief still warring.
“And promise me you will sing to me again.”
“I will sing to you again. I won’t be afraid to try.”
“Liis?”
She jerked, pressing her hand to her heart.
“Hody?” she squeaked, disoriented all over again.
“Liis of Leok, who are you talking to, child?”
Master Ivo stood near the doorway to the sanctum, his hands wrapped around his scepter. She hadn’t heard him enter. She’d been too lost in her miraculous conversation.
She rose in respect, her hands clasped before her, her mind scrambling. What had he heard? What had she said?
“I see none of the other daughters. They are at supper where you should be. So . . . who . . . were you talking to?” He enunciated the word who like a whip.
“Only to myself, Highest Keeper,” she said. “To myself . . . and . . . to Hod.”
He gaped. “To Hod? The blind god?”
“Yes, Master.”
She’d stunned him. She’d stunned herself. She’d told the truth, but it wasn’t the truth at all, and she feared the old wizard would hear her lie.
“Of all the gods, why do you speak to him?” he asked.
“Because he . . . he is the best . . . the best listener, Master.”
The Highest Keeper stared and then he laughed, a cackle that made him sway with its power. He laughed, bent over his scepter, and she waited, trembling, and held her tongue.
“He is the best listener,” the Highest Keeper crowed, still snorting with laughter. “This is true. Imagine. Such a thing had never occurred to me. Hod hears better than Odin himself.” He laughed again. He shook a clawed finger in her direction. “You are a clever girl.”
“Thank you, Highest Keeper.”
“Now go. You should not be in the sanctum. You can pray to Hod elsewhere.” He laughed again, and she curtsied and fled, his chortle following behind her.
It was only after midnight on the following day, when the temple and all its occupants had retired to their quarters and the watchman on the mount wall cried out that all was well, that Ghisla dared to creep down to the stores beneath the kitchen and summon her friend. It was the only place in the temple where she trusted no one would hear.
The mice and spiders would hear, and some might come out to inspect. The thought made her shudder, but she wasn’t deterred. She lit a candle in the kitchen before pulling the door closed behind her and descending the stone steps to the nethermost chamber where meat was hung, dried, and salted before being stored. She’d thought about sitting in the room where the jarred fruit was shelved and casks of wine were kept but thought that room was more likely to attract late-night visitations. The hooks that extended from the ceiling were adorned with unrecognizable carcasses, and the room smelled of flesh and blood, but the keepers were nothing if not fastidious, and every surface had been scrubbed and every corner swept. It would do.
She was deep enough beneath everything else that no one would hear her, and she didn’t want a repeat of the episode with Master Ivo in the sanctum. She had no excuse—conversations with a blind god would not work again—for being out of her bed. With two doors and earthen walls between her and the floor above, she perched on the workbench and used a needle to prick her finger. She didn’t let herself think or doubt. She simply smeared the blood into the lines of her palm and called out.
“Hody?” she sang softly. She suspected one word was not enough, and she began to chant his name using the eight tones of the song of parting, hoping it would suffice.
Ho dy, Ho dy, hear me, Ho dy.
Ho dy, Ho dy, hear me, Ho dy.
It was no longer a name but a pealing summons. She closed her eyes and waited for the darkness behind them to merge with his. Her heart was banging so loudly she was afraid she wouldn’t hear him. Afraid he wouldn’t hear her. Afraid he would not answer. She kept singing, out loud, and traced the rune again.
“I am here, Ghisla.”
His voice was as clear and discernable as her own, as though he sat with her in the macabre chamber, with only candlelight between them. She laughed in wonder.
“I have been waiting. Hoping.”
“I am never alone. I called out as soon as I could.”
“You must tell me everything.”
She could not keep the words in her head, the way they’d done in the clearing. Her thoughts were filled with his voice, and it was easier to speak naturally than to waste time and concentration on forming silent sentences.
“They call me Liis. Liis of Leok.”
“To me you will always be Ghisla of Tonlis. I know who you are.”
“Yes.” Emotion rose suddenly in her throat. “And you are the only one.”
“Are you well?”
She hesitated. What was well? She had not been well for a very long time. She doubted she ever would be again.
“I am fed. I am clothed. I am taught. I am learning to read. Do you know how to read, Hody?” She did not want to talk about herself.
“I cannot see the words on the scrolls . . . but I can make them, the way I make runes. I see the shapes in my mind and in the sand.”
“I am learning the runes, though the runes we have learned are simple and meaningless.”
“You have rune blood. Surely they know that by now. One only has to hear you sing.”
Talk of blood reminded her to prick her finger again.
“Ghisla?”
“Arwin told me to guard my gift. So I have. No one knows I am a Songr. I’m afraid they would cast me out or . . . worse. I must be Liis of Leok now.”
“You are happy there?” he pressed.
“I am happy now.” And she was. In that moment, she was perfectly, serenely happy.
“I am happy now too, Ghisla.” His voice was warm and pleased, flooding her mind and dripping down into her chest. For an hour they talked of the temple, of the people in it, and she sang him the songs she’d composed. She had a verse for each of the clan daughters, as well as Ghost and Alba.
“I can see them, Ghisla,” Hod exclaimed. “I can see them all.”
“Princess Alba is a beautiful little girl. Her hair is like moonlight.”
“You have shown me moonlight.”
“I have shown you moonlight and sunlight.”
“Your hair is like sunlight.”
“Yes.”
“Like grain,” he added.
“Alba’s hair is pale . . . but her skin is not. It is warm . . . like bread.”
“Like bread?”
“We knead and roll and twist and pull and let it sit upon the stone,” she sang slowly, reminding him of a song she’d sung in their days together in the cave.
“Ah yes. I remember now. Bread is . . . brown.” He said the word with the confidence of a child mastering a new skill, and her heart grew in her chest.