“He loves Bayr . . . All the keepers do. He was brought to Temple Hill when he was a babe and he has been raised among them ever since. He is their child, the only child, the only son any of them will ever have. He is beloved. Ghost says that is why he is loathed by the king. The king hates anyone who could challenge his authority or his throne. He wants to dispense with the keepers and continues to blame them for the lack of daughters. He claims they have not lifted the curse or healed the scourge. The people . . . the clans and the chieftains . . . have started to listen to him. Master Ivo fears at some point they will turn on the keepers and the temple will be destroyed.”
“If there are no more keepers, the chieftains and the king will have sole power over Saylok. There will be no balance or ballast. No checks on the authority of the king. And there will be no one to use or protect the runes.”
It was more than Ghisla could comprehend. She was only a girl from Tonlis, after all. The machinations of the king and the keepers made her head spin. But one thing was perfectly clear in that moment, and it filled her with hopelessness.
“If you cannot come to the temple . . . I will never see you again.”
It was not uncommon for the keepers to clasp hands during one particular song at the end of the day, though they did so only with each other and invited the daughters to do the same behind them. Ghisla always resisted the ritual and kept her own hands together so no one would reach for her. She and her family had often clasped hands as they sang; it was common among all Songrs, and she did not want to sing with anyone else. Deep down, she was also afraid Ghost or one of the daughters would feel the scar on her palm. It was a silly fear. The scar was well hidden among the lines of her hand, just as Hod said it would be, but it was a fear nonetheless.
Since the day she’d reduced everyone to tears at worship, the other girls had started jostling each other in order to stand beside her when she sang, even though she’d reverted back to barely singing at all.
“We want to hear you,” Elayne had explained when Ghisla protested the new attention. “If you would sing out, we wouldn’t have to stand so close.”
Ghisla just kept moving away from them until Ghost put an end to the constant repositioning and assigned spots to stand during worship, putting herself at the end of the row. That evening, Ghisla was distracted when the song changed, and when Ghost reached out and took her right hand, Ghisla did not pull away.
The clasping song was not much more than a drone, a collective amen sung with conjoined hands, but it had a way of centering the mind and calming the spirit. The keepers would break off into harmonies above and below the melody line, but the word sung never changed.
“Amen. Ah ah ah men. Ah ah ah men,” Ghisla sang, keeping her voice muted, and her eyes forward. If Ghost sang, Ghisla did not hear her, but she did not release Ghisla’s hand.
“I love him. I love him. And I wish that I didn’t,” Ghost said.
Ghisla looked up at her, confused, but Ghost was mouthing amen, as her eyes drifted over the keepers. Keeper Dagmar stood a full head taller than the old men around him, and her gaze stopped on his face.
It was forbidden to converse during worship, and Ghost was not one to break the rules . . . at least with the girls. Ghisla began singing once more, but she watched Ghost from the corner of her eye.
“Ah ah ah men. Ah ah ah men,” Ghisla sang.
“It hurts to love him.” Ghost’s voice bounced between Ghisla’s ears, but her mouth did not move. “Just as it hurts to love Alba. I loved her from the moment I felt her in my womb, and I will love her until I die. I fear it will be the same with Dagmar. That the pain will continue to grow, and he will never be mine. Just as Alba will never be mine. Some days, I cannot bear it.”
Ghisla jerked again, and Ghost frowned down at her, unaware that she’d just poured her private thoughts into Ghisla’s head.
“Ah, Liis. What a strange, sad girl. She reminds me of myself,” Ghost thought, and Ghisla gasped, dropping Ghost’s hand like it had burned her.
“Liis?” Ghost questioned. Her voice no longer had the hollow effect, and it was muffled by the droning all around them.
“I don’t want to sing anymore,” Liis murmured. Her legs wobbled and she sank down to the steps.
“Are you ill?” Ghost asked. The keepers had started to turn, their faces wreathed in frowns and disapproval.
“Are you unwell?” Ghost pressed, stooping down beside her. Her silvery eyes were concerned, and Ghisla saw herself reflected in the twin mirrors. Her short blond hair stuck up in tufts around her head, and her blue eyes were rimmed in dark circles. She hadn’t slept well for so long. She looked almost mad.
“Yes . . . I am unwell,” she whispered, afraid that she truly was.
She’d heard Ghost’s thoughts, and as alarming as that was, the content of her thoughts was just as disconcerting.
Ghost loved Dagmar, and Ghisla was not greatly surprised. They were careful around each other, but they were always aware, as though they danced without touching and watched without looking.
But the revelation about Alba was shocking.
It occurred to her that perhaps Ghost was using the word the way it was applied to all the girls—Daughters of Freya, daughters of the temple—and they were nothing more than a cast-off assortment of females. But Alba was rarely included in their number. She was the princess, not a daughter, and there was always a distinction.
Alba’s eyes were so different from Ghost’s. Her skin too. But when Ghisla studied Alba through new eyes, the resemblance between them was there to see if one only knew where to look. Moonlight hair and bow-shaped mouths and smiles that dimpled their cheeks. Ghost so rarely smiled . . . but she smiled when Alba was near.
Ghisla did not want to know Ghost’s secrets. She was horrified by the knowledge, and for several days she wouldn’t touch anyone, bristling when someone sat beside her or settled a hand on her sleeve. She refused to hold hands at worship and sang so softly no one could hear. They all thought she was being selfish and silly and whispered about her among themselves. She didn’t need Hod’s superior hearing to know she was being discussed. The whispers made her angry. She was trying to protect them, and they complained about her. That evening at worship she sang a little louder and extended her hand to whomever would take it. If she heard their secrets while she sang, why should she care?
But Elayne’s voice was one of only concern.
“Liis is troubled. We all are troubled. I wish she would sing. I think if she would sing . . . it would soothe us all. We are all so afraid. I miss my mother. I wish I could go home.”
Ghisla was overcome with guilt, and she stopped singing, squeezing her eyes shut and willing the door to close.
Just like Ghost’s, Elayne’s thoughts tumbled in a disjointed stream, one slipping into another, but all were spoken in her voice, and as long as Ghisla kept singing and holding her hand, the stream continued. It was the same with all the girls. And one by one, she heard them too.
During evening meditation, when Ghost left them in their room, she approached Juliah and held out her hands as though she sought her forgiveness. Mayhaps she did, for what she was about to do.
“I will sing to you,” she said stiffly. “Choose a song.”