“She is glorious. And loved . . . and best of all, she loves.”
“That is good.”
“Yes. She is nothing like her father.”
“The king. The mighty Banruud. You will have to tell me more about the king. Is his hair like moonlight too?”
“No. His hair is like midnight. And his skin is pale. She looks nothing like him. He is a beast. He loves no one but himself.”
“I cannot see midnight.”
“Midnight is darkness. King Banruud is darkness.”
“Ah . . . I am well acquainted with darkness.”
He was silent for a moment, and so was she. Their time had come to an end, and her fingers ached from pricking them, though she’d smeared the rune with spittle too, to make the blood last longer.
“Next time, I will sing a song about the chieftains. And about the king,” she promised. “I have many more verses. I’ve been saving them for you.”
“Next time,” he agreed, wistful, though he did not ask her when that would be. “And . . . next time . . . you must sing me a song about Ghisla of Tonlis, so I can see your face.”
9
DAYS
Ghost was always watching, always wakeful, and nine days went by without Ghisla reaching out to Hod again. When she did finally seek him, late at night, he answered immediately, though he warned her not to despair when he didn’t.
“Arwin cannot know. If I do not answer, it is because I cannot, not because I want not.”
But he had not failed to answer her yet.
They grew more accomplished at the connection each time. Hod said he could only see the things she sang about, and even then he did not see them with his eyes but with his thoughts. She became adept at crafting songs to describe her world.
She always called out to him with a song—any song, though the anthems of the Songrs seemed to work best, and he saw those images most clearly. Mayhaps it was the ancient words or the melodies that had been sung so many times they became part of the wind that moved over Saylok, songs soaked up by the clouds and released again in rain, the cycle continuously renewing. Mayhaps it was just Ghisla herself, and the heritage in her blood and bones, the heritage of a people that had sung the songs for centuries and passed them on through life and death.
She and Hod never spoke as long as they wanted to. They were both terrified of discovery. The daughters were, by design, shut off from the men of Saylok. Fraternizing with a boy—even one who lived far away—would not be tolerated. She also knew that the rune on her hand and the gift that made the connection possible would bring devastation down upon both of them.
The keepers had their work and their runes and the companionship of the brotherhood. The daughters were expected to limit their companionship the same way and were kept isolated from everyone but the keepers, the king, and, of course, each other. The chieftains demanded to see them whenever a council was called, and the daughters would be paraded in front of them like cattle so the chieftains could report back to their clans on their welfare.
After one such visit, Ghisla complained to Hod, “Chief Lothgar says I am fattening up nicely. He seemed so proud, like it was his doing.”
“You were the size of a tiny bird. I cannot imagine it. You must show me.”
Ghisla imagined sheep, thick with winter wool, shuffling into the temple enclosures and used a gruff voice, mocking the big Chieftain of Leok. She wasn’t as good at mimicry as Bashti, but she tried.
Liis of Leok,
How you’ve grown,
Since you left your long-lost home.
Let me pinch your puffy cheeks
And watch you waddle like a sheep.
Hod laughed as she expected him to, but he wanted to hear about the council in detail.
“I cannot tell you much more. We are brought in, looked upon—sometimes I sing—and then we are escorted out. We are not privy to the conversations of the men, though Keeper Dagmar tries to answer our questions when we ask. He is the only one who does.”
She sang the lines she’d crafted for Dagmar, his pale eyes, thin face, and patient ways.
“Keeper Dagmar reminds me of you. He is wise and kind. Mayhaps it is his mannerisms more than his appearance.”
“I remember. Keeper Dagmar is of Dolphys. He is the uncle to Bayr, the Temple Boy, who watches the princess,” Hod recited. Hod was fascinated with the Temple Boy, and they talked of him often—his strength, his size, and his stuttering tongue. It seemed to comfort Hod that a boy so gifted had such a weakness.
“Two sides of the same sword. Just like Arwin always says.”
“He is so powerful, yet he can hardly speak. His tongue is cursed. I have thought perhaps . . . if he would learn to sing it would help loosen his words.”
“You must teach him,” Hod pressed. But Ghisla doubted such an opportunity would present itself.
“Tell me more.”
“Dagmar is his uncle, yet no one talks of his mother or father. Juliah says he is the son of Thor, and someday he will kill the king and break the curse upon the land.”
“Juliah of Joran. The daughter with the warring spirit.”
“Yes. She does not want to be a keeper. She does not like being a woman either, I don’t think, though Bayr has taught her how to throw a spear and shoot a bow and wield a sword. He has tried to teach us all, but Dalys is so small she can barely lift one off the ground.”
“Smaller than you?”
“Much smaller. I am growing, remember? And I am mean. Both seem to have helped me in swordplay.”
“You are mean? This is not true. You are simply irritable. Like Arwin. He is quite skilled at swordplay as well, though I have begun to defeat him regularly. He says he will bring me a new teacher to teach me what he cannot.”
“You are skilled with a sword?” Ghisla gasped.
“I am skilled with a sword and a spear and a bow, though I will never be a warrior.”
“You will be a keeper. And someday you will come here, to the mount. Just like we planned.”
He was silent in her head, and she thought for a moment she had lost him.
“Arwin says there will be no more keepers from the clans as long as the daughters are in the temple.”
“What?”
“The king has decreed it. There will be no young male supplicants until the drought is over. I will not . . . be going to the temple any time soon, though I am seventeen now, and I am of age.”
She was too shocked to respond immediately. She did not know all the ways of the keepers or of Saylok. It had not occurred to her that there were no young keepers entering the brotherhood.
“It used to be that one supplicant was selected each year from the clanless and one from each clan. All were not young, but all were willing. Some years, no supplicants were sent because there were no men who wished to be keepers. But since the drought began, more men have become warriors, and the clans have lost their belief in the keepers and the runes. Now the king has forbidden it altogether.”
“But . . . what does Master Ivo think? Can he not override the king on matters of the keepers?” she cried. Hod had to come to the temple.
“You would know better than I.”
“The Highest Keeper does not tell me what he thinks, Hody.”
“Yes . . . but he is your teacher, is he not? Does he think Bayr is a god? The son of Thor? Does he think Bayr will break the curse upon the land?”