Ivo sighed. “Mayhaps evil is not the right word. He drew the rune of the blind god there, beneath the altar, in the dust. A child. A little, blind boy. Now he is grown, but his eyes are still as empty.”
“The blind god was not evil.”
“No . . . but evil used him. Evil uses the ignorant.”
“And you think evil might use the blind archer?”
“That is what I have not decided. I know it is foolish to ignore the signs. And there are many.”
“But the woman—I remember her now—she said you blessed him. She said you blessed her. When she left the temple, she was greatly restored.”
“No thanks to you,” Ivo grumbled.
“No thanks to me,” Dagmar repeated, a smile in his voice. They both grew quiet, thoughtful, and Dagmar stood, as though the matter was done.
Ghisla wanted to sink a blade into both of them. Her hands trembled with her rage. She would scream until their ears wept with blood, until they begged her for the mercy they had not shown Hod. How dare they? How dare they reject him? How dare they judge him?
“I will rest better when he is gone,” Master Ivo grumbled.
“He has unsettled you that much?” Dagmar asked, his interest piqued again. “I am surprised, Master. I sensed no darkness in him.”
Master Ivo harrumphed. “That may be . . . but I cannot ignore the signs.”
“So you have sent him away.”
“I have sent him away. There is no place for him here.”
Ghisla turned back to the tunnel and fled, not caring whether she was too loud, not caring whether she was discovered, not caring whether she ran headlong into a stone wall and ceased living altogether. By the time she reached the hillside and tumbled out through the hatch, her lungs burned, and her eyes were as blind as Hod’s, but she did not stop.
The Temple Wood stretched out at the base of the hill, and she staggered toward it, not even pausing to take the trail to ease her descent. The mount rose and ran in grassy shelves, and she tumbled over one side and down another before she thought better of her decision and picked her way across a clearing to the well-beaten path that led to the bottom of the hill. She didn’t know where she was going, but when she reached the woods she continued on, losing herself in the trees.
I cannot see, my tongue is a traitor.
My flesh is a foe, my heart a betrayer,
My eyes will I blacken, my lips will I close.
And let the runes lead me down paths I must go.
No man can follow. No man can lead. No man can save me, no man can free.
It was the Prayer of the Supplicant, the prayer of all keepers, and a verse that Hod had always felt was written just for him. He had learned it at an early age, preparing for this day.
He had gone before the Highest Keeper and pled for entrance into the brotherhood. He’d sung the song, said the words, and he had been rejected.
Arwin was as devastated as he. His teacher had been so convinced it was time and that Ivo would make an exception. He’d petitioned the Highest Keeper in Hod’s behalf, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.
“You cannot refuse him, Master Ivo,” Arwin had argued. “I cannot teach him anything more. I have not been able to teach him for ages. He knows far more than I. You sent him to me more than fifteen years ago. How long will he be made to wait? He should be here, learning from you, a keeper in truth.”
“The temple has become a sanctuary. It is no longer what it was. We have new challenges, Arwin. And I have no place for him here. Not now.”
“But . . . Master. It is what he has been trained to do. All these years. I have done what you asked. You said he was special. Chosen.”
“I cannot see the future, Arwin. I did not see this future. In sixteen years, not a single girl child, save the princess, has been born in Saylok.”
“Yes, Master, I know.”
“Do you know why, Arwin?”
“No, Highest Keeper,” he whispered, dejected.
“Nor do I. I have petitioned Odin. I have looked into the well. I have carved runes into the dust and runes into my skin. I have sheltered daughters in the temple where there were no daughters before. But still . . . there are no daughters in Saylok. And I have no answers.”
The Highest Keeper was adamant and unbending. And Hod had accepted the verdict with hollow resignation. It permeated him still, and he knew Ghisla had felt his despondency.
He had not told her why they’d come. He’d been afraid to raise her hopes, to raise his own. He’d used the tournament as cover, but the contest would end on the morrow, and he would have no excuse to stay.
He should have remained with her longer. He should have soaked up every second and kissed her until the cock crowed. But he had not trusted himself in her presence. He did not even trust himself on the mount.
Arwin had drowned his disappointment in a bottle and lay dreaming about a path that would never be.
“When the scourge has ended, we’ll come back,” he’d mumbled, patting Hod’s shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll go home. We’ll go back to the cave. It is better there. Your purpose will be made clear. The time has not yet come.”
He walked aimlessly, erratically, listening for Ghisla even as he tried to steel himself for the farewell to come.
And then he heard her crying. The wail was no more than a droplet in the sea of sound that was the mount, but it was Ghisla, and he halted, finding her in his mind.
The crying was not centralized; it bobbled and weaved, like she was walking—falling?—and getting farther away. Dread pooled in his belly and apprehension rippled down his spine.
She had left the mount.
15
PROMISES
Ghisla did not hear Hod until he was almost upon her, and she was too despondent to cry out when she saw his shadowy form. She sat in a clearing with her back to a tree, her legs sprawled out in front of her, her head down. She’d not gone far; the stars she’d counted the night before still littered the sky above her, framed by the circle of trees that ringed her resting place. She’d grown tired an hour ago, and once she stopped, she could not find the will to keep going. Her sobbing had ceased, but somehow her anger had not ebbed. It burned, hot and sour, in the pit of her stomach.
Hod knelt beside her and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her into his lap as he stole her position against the tree. He made her drink from his water flask until her stomach sloshed and her skin cooled. Then he washed the salty streaks from her cheeks and smoothed her tumbled hair. Finally, he asked where she was going.
“I am going home,” she said.
He did not argue that the Songrs were gone, that Tonlis had been reduced to ash.
“Where is home?” he asked gently.
“Home is wherever you are,” she whispered. “And Master Ivo has denied you. He cannot decide whether you are good or evil.”
He sighed, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead. He didn’t ask how she knew, and he didn’t deny it.
“You must go back to the temple,” he said, but his voice broke on the words.
“I want to go with you.”
“The women are protected by their clans . . . And I have no clan to protect you.”
“You have no clan, and I am the property of the temple. The property of the king,” she said, her voice as shattered as his.