“What would you like me to sing, Majesty?” Ghisla cried, stepping in front of Bayr, and the king frowned down at her, his eyes ringed with exhaustion and shot with blood.
“You would cower behind a woman, Temple Boy?” he spat.
“Bayr says you want me to sing,” she rushed. “I will sing anything you wish.”
He glowered at her, his brow shining with perspiration, and turned away from them. Bayr’s face had already begun to swell.
The king threw himself onto his throne, rubbing at his temples and pulling at his hair, and Ghisla almost pitied him in his misery. She pitied Bayr more.
“Come here, Leok,” the king ordered, addressing her by the clan she represented. “Stand here. Next to me. Sing until I tell you to shut up.”
She looked up at Bayr and he nodded at her, trying to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. He did not trail behind her when she did as the king ordered, but he did not depart either.
She began with the song of parting, the mournful dirge that seemed most soothing, but the king swore and threw a wine-filled goblet against the floor, the deep-purple liquid dousing her feet and the strip of bare leg extending from her nightgown.
“Not keeper song,” he yelled.
“If not keeper song . . . what?”
“I do not want words. Only sound. I need bloody sound,” he ground out.
She formed her mouth in the shape of an O and pealed out the melody of several songs before the king’s head started to droop and a sigh of relief escaped his mouth. When she faltered, he lunged for her, dragging her closer.
“Do not stop,” he insisted.
She started over, her voice a wordless harp, and his hand remained a manacle around her wrist, keeping her going. The base of his big palm pressed to hers, and his mind opened like the stone wall of the tunnel.
She could hear him.
He’d had too much to drink. The wine smeared his thoughts and scattered his internal dialogue. And beneath the mess was the tinny bleating that was driving him mad.
It would drive her mad. She fixed her eyes on her wine-spattered feet and pushed onward, her voice moving over the melodies, no words, only sound, as the king had requested.
Ghost’s face and Alba’s name bounced through his dream. And another woman. Desdemona. Desdemona . . . Dagmar’s sister. Bayr’s mother. Her hair was a black tumble and her eyes were blue and filled with scorn. Desdemona’s face became Bayr’s, and Ghisla faltered again, shaken.
Banruud’s hand tightened around her wrist. She sang louder, trying not to see what was in his tormented head.
There were other names. Other faces. Flickering like flames, licking at the king’s dreams, and then . . . the ringing in the king’s head faded, bit by bit, like it too had fallen asleep. His fingers became lax and his hand fell away, dangling over the arm of his throne.
Ghisla finished her song, her final stanza so light it barely caressed her lips. She stood, staring at the slumbering king for several minutes, afraid to move and too weary to continue singing. When he did not wake, she eased away from his throne.
Bayr had fallen asleep sitting against the wall, his arms propped on his knees, his head against the frame of the door. His cheek had blackened while she sang. She walked toward him with a careful tread, but he opened his eyes when she drew near. Without a word, he rose, his gaze flickering beyond her to the sleeping king, and together they entered the tunnel in the wall and walked in the darkness back to the temple.
Someone had lit fresh candles in the sanctum, though it was well past midnight; it was closer to dawn. Ghisla guessed it was Ghost and hoped the woman had gone to bed.
“P-please do not t-tell,” Bayr whispered, pointing at his face.
“Why?”
“It w-will only c-cause them p-pain. They c-can do n-nothing.” He was fourteen years old, two years younger even than she, yet he was the protector of everyone on the mount.
“Is there anyone who can do something?” Her anger and helplessness welled again.
“Y-you d-did,” he whispered. “Y-you sang. You f-fixed him.”
“For now, but I wish I hadn’t.”
He cocked his head, his brow furrowed in question.
“He will need me again.”
He nodded sadly, admitting the truth. “Y-you are of u-use.”
“I have drawn attention to myself. That is never a good thing.”
“I w-will n-not t-tell if y-you d-don’t.” The swelling on his left cheek made his smile crooked.
“You are wise, Temple Boy. I am not fooled by your stutter.”
“And I am n-not f-fooled by your s-size, L-Liis of L-Leok. Y-you are p-powerful.”
“If you sing . . . mayhaps your words will not stick to your tongue,” she suggested.
Bayr laughed and shook his head. He touched his throat while he raised one brow and made a yodeling sound that cracked and creaked.
“I didn’t say it had to be beautiful,” she laughed.
He shook his head again and turned to go.
“My mother sang away my bruises,” Ghisla said. “It might . . . help.”
He looked back at her, hesitant, but then he nodded.
“All r-right. S-sing.”
She closed the distance between them and laid her right hand on his cheek.
Cry, cry, dear one, cry,
Let the pain out through your eyes.
Tears will wash it all away,
Cry until the bruises fade.
“Her song is like a rune,” he thought, and his inner voice did not stumble at all. She tried not to be distracted by it as she continued with her tune.
I’ll sing until you’re whole again,
No more ache and no more pain.
Bayr’s eyes immediately began to stream, just as hers had always done when her mother sang this song. He pulled away, embarrassed by his weeping, and she scowled up at him.
“It will not work so quickly,” she snapped. “Come here.”
“It f-feels b-better,” he admitted. It already looked better. “You h-have r-rune blood,” he said.
“It is not me,” she protested. “It is you. It is your tears. It is you who has rune blood.” She didn’t know if what she said was true, but he allowed her to put her hand back to his cheek and sing the song again.
Bayr’s thoughts were as kind as Elayne’s.
He was grateful that he would not have to hide his face from Alba and Dagmar, that they would not see the king’s mark. He also wanted to ask about Liis’s mother, but his reluctance to talk kept him blissfully silent. She decided his stutter was one of the loveliest things about him. It made him especially good with secrets.
Ghisla sang the tune a third time, softly, swiftly, and his tears tumbled over his cheeks and dripped off his chin, taking the swelling and the angry color from his face.
“There,” she said, dropping her hand. “It will not work for illness or serious wounds . . . but it is a tonic for the little aches. Next time . . . you can sing it yourself.” She hoped there would not be a next time but feared the king’s treatment of him was all too common.
“Th-thank y-you.”
“You will not tell?” she pressed, though she knew he wouldn’t.
He shook his head.
“Good. Master Ivo might try to make me a keeper . . . and I would like to keep my hair.”