He’d held her in his arms while she’d talked to him—not in his head, but mere inches away from her. He could hardly believe it had happened. That it was real. They’d had so little time, but every second had exceeded his expectations.
He had not worried that they would have nothing to say; they had never struggled with that in the four years they’d conversed. His love for her was not the fondness of a new friend or the novelty of a forbidden relationship. It was deep and abiding. For four years, he had beseeched the fates for her welfare and begged the gods to watch over her, but he had wondered if his love for her would manifest itself differently now that they were older. Now that they knew each other so much better.
If anything, his feelings had grown. She had grown.
The little bird she’d been was gone; he’d been almost afraid to touch her when he’d found her on the beach that first day. She was still slender, still dainty, but her hips were rounded, her breasts well formed, and her legs long. A man noticed such things when a woman wrapped herself around him.
He berated himself and halted, needing to put her out of his thoughts. She was too distracting, and he could not afford to have his attention elsewhere while he crept among the camps. He breathed deeply, attempting to clear his mind, but her words rose up, unbidden.
The sky is dark but he is light,
And though his eyes aren’t blessed with sight,
His joy is full, his wings are strong.
He dances to a distant song.
For four years, she had been his distant song. Now he was here, and he didn’t know how he would part with her again.
14
STARS
“I see nothing . . . and you see so much. I can hear a nest full of little birds, calling for their mother from the wood below, but I cannot hear a man’s thoughts,” Hod said as they sat together the next night, tucked into a natural alcove on the hillside. He was subdued and troubled, and he kept asking questions about the king.
“It is more confusing than clarifying most of the time. I only see pieces . . . parts . . . and those pieces don’t tell the whole story. I hear Master Ivo’s dilemma. I hear Dagmar’s determination to protect Bayr, and Ghost’s loyalty to Alba. I hear my sisters’ worries and the keepers’ fear.”
“And their troubles become yours.”
“Yes. Each piece of knowledge is like an invisible sliver in my hand or a stone in my shoe—something I feel but can do nothing about.”
“I know,” Hod said, taking her hand. “I am sorry.”
“No one knows how to end the scourge . . . or if it can even be ended. Everyone is plotting and maneuvering and keeping secrets. But not out of hate, out of love.” She sighed. “Everyone but Banruud. There is no love in him.”
“What do you see when you hold the king’s hand?” he murmured, tracing the rune on her palm.
“His thoughts are twisted and blurred, like listening to someone through water. Sometimes a thought will be perfectly clear—his irritation, his desire, his rage—but when he’s riddled with headaches and bad dreams, his thoughts are muddled and tangled, and I try my best to ignore them. Most of the time, I don’t touch him at all. My songs are usually sufficient.” King Banruud only touched her when his pain was intolerable, and he was afraid she would depart too soon. Then he kept his hand wrapped around hers, keeping her at his side until sleep swept him away.
“I do not wish to speak of the king,” she murmured. “You must tell me how you fared in the competition.”
“I won the day of competition,” he said. “Keeper Dagmar was among the spectators. He spoke to me afterward. He was very kind.”
“You won the day?” she gasped. “You must tell me everything.”
“The chieftain from Berne and a warrior from Dolphys—Daniel—accused me of cheating . . . though neither could explain how so. Daniel said he didn’t think I was truly blind.” He laughed. “I reminded him that everyone else could see. It would hardly be cheating if I could see too.”
“Why didn’t they believe you? One has only to look at your eyes to know.”
“I think it is because I do see . . . in my own way. I use my ears the way everyone else uses their eyes.”
“How?”
“It is actually quite simple. Every heart sounds different. And every heartbeat is distinct.”
“But . . . how do you remember which heart belongs to whom?”
“I suppose it’s like recognizing a face. We all have two eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose, yet none of us look exactly alike. Or so I’m told.” He grinned. “It is the same with our hearts. It is not strange to remember a face, is it?”
“No. I guess not,” she marveled.
“Dred of Dolphys wanted to know how I accomplished it as well. When I explained I could hear his heartbeat, he spent the hour after the competition ended demanding I shoot at him.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I hit his shield every time. He was quite fearless. I imagine Bayr is much like him. I had hoped the Temple Boy would be here. Though I can understand why he is not.”
In the soil beside him, Hod drew the blind god’s rune: the half circles, back to back, and the arrow that pierced them through. Melancholy had settled on him once again, and she rushed to distract him.
“But a target does not have a heartbeat.”
“No. But if Arwin stands beside the target—two feet to the right—I can use his heartbeat to gauge my shot. I would not be able to do it otherwise.”
“Is he not afraid he will be skewered?”
“When I was young I would warn him before I released the arrow, and he would lift his shield. Now he only worries about the other archers on the course.”
“The king was also in attendance,” he said softly. “His heart is easy to pick out. I thought about killing him. Saylok would be better off. You would be better off.”
He heard the horror in her silence.
“I have upset you,” he said.
“You would be slain. Immediately.”
“Yes.”
“I can endure the king. I cannot endure a world without you in it.”
He sighed heavily, and she searched his face, anxious.
“Hod . . . Tell me you are not serious,” she whispered. “Surely you jest?”
“I have thought of little else since last night. I am scared for you, Ghisla. Mayhaps it is my calling to kill Banruud . . . Arwin is convinced I have one.”
She gripped his hand and forced it back to the rune he’d just made in the dirt. “If this is Hod . . . then this is Ghisla,” she insisted, tracing the two halves of the rune and the arrow that connected them. “You cannot harm yourself without harming me.”
He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in the plait of her hair.
“I am sorry. We have so little time, and I am scaring you. Forgive me.”
“We are bound, Hod.” She pressed her hand to his, feeling the scrape of his scar against her own. “I am yours. You are mine.”
“With this rune, I thee wed,” he said, but his smile was bleak.
“With this rune, I thee wed,” she repeated, urgent, but she could not quiet her racing heart, and he cursed softly, pressing his palm to her chest.