He laughed, though she was half-serious. “It will happen soon.”
“How soon?” she asked, too cautious to give in to the excitement she sensed bubbling beneath his words.
“I am coming to the Tournament of the King. I am coming to Temple Hill.”
Ghisla watched for him all day. He’d said he would be here, in the square, when the temple doors were opened to the people of Saylok on the third day of the tournament, but when Ghisla, Elayne, Bashti, Dalys, and Juliah were escorted onto the dais in front of the temple, she could see nothing but the same endless crush of people trying to position themselves to obtain an audience with the keepers and see the daughters.
A platform had been erected between the columns to the left of the heavy temple doors. Their hair was twisted with ribbons and wrapped around their heads, and each daughter wore a new robe in the color of her clan. Princess Alba had even joined them for a while, wearing a yellow gown to represent Adyar.
Elayne of Ebba wore orange; she looked like a tall, thin flame with her red hair and fiery robes. Juliah complained about the brown of Joran, though it was the same chocolate as her eyes and echoed the richness of her hair. The color contrasted with the cream of her skin and complemented the ruby of her lips.
“Brown is like soil—deep and warm and rich. You look like the goddess of the harvest,” Elayne soothed, always knowing what to say. But she was right. Juliah was now fifteen, and she’d become a beauty overnight, though she seemed confused and even resentful of it.
They were all a little resentful and more than a little apprehensive. They were looked on differently, and there was new tension in the temple. Ghisla was eighteen, Elayne sixteen, and Bashti thirteen; Dalys and Alba were the only daughters who still looked like children, though Alba at almost ten was already tall and towered over tiny Dalys, who was a year older.
Master Ivo had grown exceedingly pensive as the tournament had approached. The chieftains would be assembling, the people gathering, and the changes in the daughters would be well noted.
The new robes were his idea.
“We cannot hope to hide you in purple any longer, not at the tournament. You are not keepers of the runes . . . You are kept by the runes. You are becoming women, but we must remind the people that you are their ambassadors. That you are symbolic, like the goddess Freya herself, separate and unattainable. You are women . . . but you will not be wives. That must be made abundantly clear.”
Bashti wore the red of Berne and had stained her lips to match, much to Ghost’s horror. She looked too fierce and too . . . female, but the Highest Keeper said to let her be.
“She looks like she’s sipped the blood of her enemies . . . and enjoyed every drop,” Ghost argued.
“I know. That is good. Better that people fear her, in my opinion. They will keep their distance.”
Dalys wore the blue of Dolphys and looked as delicate as Bashti looked immortal. Ghost put tiny white flowers in her hair and demanded she stand nearest the guard, afraid that someone would swoop her up like in years past and try to escape with her. As always, Ghost remained inside the temple throughout the tournament, watching from shuttered windows, hiding her pale face from public view.
The green of Ghisla’s robe was not the silvery green of pines or the yellow-green of the autumn grass. It was the green of fields after days of rain, the green beneath the mists of Hody’s eyes, and she loved it. She couldn’t wait to tell Hod all about it—to show him—while he sat beside her. Soon they would be together, and she could hardly contain the horrible joy and dread that swelled in her breast.
It was hot beneath her new green robe; the platform was shaded by the temple, but the heat from the continually burning Hearth of Kings made the square too warm in the waning summer sun. They stood in the square for hours. Master Ivo and the king were agreed on that.
“You give the people hope that there will be daughters again . . . that daughters can still thrive in Saylok,” Dagmar said, though standing in the heat being observed for hours on end did not feel like thriving.
During the tournament, people came from every clan and swarmed the mount for days. Beggars, peddlers, musicians, and thieves were all welcomed. The crippled and the sick were brought to the temple as well, hoping to be healed. Criminals seemed more prevalent than ever; to be pardoned by a keeper meant a clean slate in the new year, and the keepers collected coins and confessions from the condemned in body and spirit. The crowd was filled with both the piteous and the dangerous, and Ghisla feared for Hod, moving among them.
And then she saw him.
Her gaze should have bounced over him, but it caught and stayed. He too wore a robe, but the hood was pushed back from his face, and it hung open over his tunic and hose. He held a staff like he’d done years before, but he did not prop his weight against it or let it fall loosely at his side. It was as straight and upright as he was, his touch upon it light, like he was prepared at any moment to jab it or swing it round.
He lifted his head like he was tasting the air, and her heart leaped and her thoughts sang in a jubilant chorus.
Hody, Hody, Hody, Hody.
His hair was still shorn. He looked like the keepers—no braid swung between his shoulders like the warriors from the clans. He didn’t wear their colors either. All around him was a sea of bouncing colors, and he should have been drab, standing among them, but the absence of color, the gray of his clothes, the rough brown stubble of his hair, and the stillness of his form served as a beacon for her eyes.
He was tall, but not terribly so, and he was still thin, though his shoulders had widened and his neck was corded with strength.
Hody, Hody, Hody, Hody.
She dare not sing his name out loud; her sisters would hear. And she could not prick her finger to trace the rune on her hand. Her palms were wet with perspiration, which might be enough, and she pressed her right hand to her heart, willing him to hear her summons, as close as they were.
Hesitantly his right hand rose, though he did not turn toward her, and he copied the motion, pressing his palm to his chest. Almost immediately, she heard a muted drumbeat in her head, steady and strong, like his heart said her name: ghis LUH, ghis LUH, ghis LUH.
There was no way he could approach her. No way they could speak. Not now. The keepers encircled the daughters, and temple guards were posted to keep the clansmen and villagers from being too familiar. He would not be able to get any nearer.
And she could not approach him.
A surge of despair welled with the heat. She could see him. He was so close. And yet . . . there was nothing to be done but wait. Wait. Until when? Her despondency grew.
“I am ill,” she insisted, drawing the startled gaze of her sisters. “I feel faint.”
“It is very hot,” Elayne agreed.
“Dagmar,” Ghisla raised her voice, adamant. “I am ill. I must go inside.”
“We will all go inside,” Dagmar said, his voice revealing a note of relief. “You have been on display long enough.”
The day was interminable and made even longer by the reluctance of her sisters to retire when the evening deepened. Alba had spent the afternoon in their company, not yet old enough to preside over the festivities or observe the events, and not nearly as well protected as she had once been. The king put a cadre on her every time she moved about the grounds, but his guard was spread thin across the hill. Many of them were competing in the events as well, which meant the daughters and the princess stayed behind locked doors when they were not on display.