“I am not your enemy, child.”
“I am not a child, Master.”
“No. You are not. And you have caught the king’s eye. That is not good.”
“I have not caught his eye. I have caught . . . his ears.”
“Yes. This is true.”
She closed her eyes and willed him to be finished with her.
“Why were you in the cellars, Liis? So late, and all alone.”
She had not expected the question, and her eyes snapped open.
“I was not in the cellars, Master. Bilge of Berne summoned me from my bed.”
“No. Months ago . . . when you were attacked. You were in the cellars in the wee hours of morning. Why?”
“Sometimes I want to sing, just to sing. It comforts me. I don’t want to wake anyone, and often I don’t want company.” It was a poor excuse, and it fell from her lips with a disingenuous ring.
“It is hard to know who to trust, isn’t it?” the Highest Keeper mused.
She did not answer him.
“It is even harder to know what is right,” he added.
“I am not sure there is . . . right. Only . . . good.” Bayr was good. Hod was good. Elayne, Alba, and her sisters were mostly . . . good. But everything else—everyone else—was a roiling pot of secrets and self-preservation. Including Ghisla herself.
“But there is truth. The truth is right. The truth is good. And that is what I seek.”
He held out his hand, his gnarled fingers trembling. She had never touched the Highest Keeper before. She was afraid to do so now. She didn’t want to hear his thoughts. She didn’t want him to hear hers . . . and she knew, somehow, he would. But she took his hand, unable to resist the pull of his will. He stilled, and his eyes fluttered closed.
“Will you tell me the truth, Liis?”
“Will you use it to harm?”
He seemed taken aback by the question.
“For every truth you give me, I will give one back.”
“I don’t want your truths, Master.” She had pockets full of cold, hard truths. They were heavy. She did not want more.
He laughed. “And yet . . . you have just given me one.”
She had, and she felt lighter for it.
“You are not from Leok . . . are you, child?”
She wanted to release his hand, but his fingers were a vise, and her walls began to crumble. Whatever he asked, she would tell him. She would tell him about Desdemona and her blood rune. She would tell him about Ghost and Alba. She would tell him about Hod.
“Do not be afraid,” he soothed. “My father was from Ebba. That is where I was born—a lifetime ago. But my mother was a Songr. Have you ever heard of the Songrs, Liis of Leok?”
“Yes,” she breathed, almost weeping the word.
“My mother could sing . . . not like you . . . but well. Her song comforted. But her scream was deafening. She leveled grown men with her scream. Just like you.”
Was that all he wished to know?
“Are you a Songr, Daughter?” He asked so kindly . . . so easily . . . and she gave him the answer he already seemed to know.
“Yes. Will you send me away?”
“Of course not. We are all from somewhere else. From other clans. No one is born on the temple mount. No one, that is, but Bayr. He is a true son of Saylok.”
“And he has been sent away.” She should tell Master Ivo. She should tell him about the blood rune now, but Bayr’s face swam in her thoughts.
“He will return one day.” He released her hand, and Ghisla released her breath on a sob. The only secrets she’d revealed were her own, and she suspected they were things the Highest Keeper already knew.
“Mayhaps, if the blind god wills it, you will return home too,” he said, a hint of a smile around his lips.
“I am confused, Master.” She was more than confused. Her throat was tight and her eyes burned, and the strain of the last twelve hours was suddenly more than she could bear.
“I know, Daughter. The blind god listens . . . but he cannot see. Odin sees but he does not speak. I do not have the answers, though I have sought them all my life.”
“I am weary,” she whispered. She rubbed at her arms, chilled, and Ivo dipped his fingers into a goblet of water beside him as if to wash her truths away. He seemed weary too.
“Things are not always as they seem, Liis. They seldom are. Do not trust the king. Today he appeared a hero, a protector, but he only protects himself.”
13
MAIDENS
Ghisla did not tell the Highest Keeper about Desdemona’s runes. Not the next day, or the next, and not in the weeks after that. Her indecision eased, though not entirely. In the eighteen months that followed, her knowledge plagued her. She dreamed about it, her mind conjuring the odd symbols and characters from Dagmar’s tortured thoughts. But she did not tell Master Ivo, and though she told Hod about everything else, they did not speak of Desdemona’s runes again.
It was too troubling, and they avoided discussing their worries and their woes, though they had many. It was not that they kept them from each other; they simply chose to speak of better things: musings and meanderings that were not pressing but felt essential, because in them lived beauty and hope. What they spoke of seemed to grow, and so they spoke of their dreams and not their doubts, their joys and not their pain. They were even careful not to let the discussion of others intrude upon the time they had, though sharing their lives sometimes meant sharing the people in them.
Hod knew Ghisla sang for the king. He knew she dreaded the encounters but had managed to survive them unscathed since Bilge was skewered and hung from the north gate. He also knew she’d grown closer to Elayne and her sisters but was still leery of everyone else—even Master Ivo, Dagmar, and Ghost—because she knew too much, and everyone was sheltering enormous secrets.
“I don’t trust anyone. And they don’t trust me. I can’t blame them. They don’t understand me . . . and I can’t explain myself. To do so would only make things worse. They would trust me even less. It is better that they dislike me than they reject me altogether.”
She didn’t have to explain herself to Hod. She told him everything, and in return, he bared himself to her, giving her everything he could in the snippets of time and space they spent together.
Ghisla knew all of Arwin’s foibles and faults. She knew of his tests and his tricks and the way he tutored and trained Hod, convinced that someday the blind god would complete his penance and rise again.
“I fear his disappointment will be great if I simply end up being a man with sharp ears, a good nose, and a steady hand,” Hod said one evening.
“What does he want you to be?”
“He wants me to be a hero.”
“What kind of hero?”
“He is convinced someday I will be the Highest Keeper.”
“Is that what you wish?”
“I thought it was, once. I had no ambitions of my own. I was happy to let Arwin dream for both of us.”
“And now?”
“Now . . . I have my own aspirations.”
“Tell me.”
“I dream of breaking the curse. And I dream of being near you.”
“Will that ever happen? Will I ever see you again? I know nothing about runes. But I speak to you through a rune on my hand. Sometimes I think I am crazy. Am I crazy, Hod? I hear voices. I hear your voice. But are you even real? Or are you just a figment of my imagination?”