“We all live under the oppression of these circumstances,” he whispered. “All of us.”
“I am not comforted by our collective suffering,” she shot back.
“The population is frantic, and the chieftains are frenzied. It is not just a famine or a drought. People fear it is permanent, the end of Saylok.” She could not tell if he was trying to convince her or himself.
“I do not care about Saylok.”
“If the scourge does not end, there is no hope for us, Ghisla,” he said, and for the first time in her memory, his voice was sharp. Bitterly so.
“There is no hope for us anyway,” she mourned.
He pressed his forehead to hers, gripping her face like he could make her believe through the force of his will.
“Promise me you will not give up,” he ground out. “Promise me.”
“Oh, Hody.” It was what he always said, and he always said it with such conviction, like it was enough to just say the words.
“Promise me you will not give up, Ghisla.”
“Give up on what, Hod?”
“Give up on life. Give up on . . . me. Give up on us.”
“Will there ever be an us?”
“There is an us now. There has been an us for four years.”
His voice echoed the anguish in her breast. “But you are leaving,” she groaned. “And I cannot bear it.”
“I will come back.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But I will return. I promise.”
She did not believe him, and the agony in her chest screamed louder.
He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and the tip of her chin before he settled his mouth on hers, trying to extract the meaningless pledge from her lips. She kissed him back, hungry. Frantic. Hopeless.
She broke away, panting, and twisted her hands in his tunic. He could give her fifteen promises and countless kisses, and it would change nothing.
“You have destroyed me,” she whispered, the realization so sharp and sudden she gnashed her teeth to keep from crying out.
Hod flinched.
“You have destroyed me. You have made me long for a life I cannot have. You have made me love you. What a fool I’ve been. What a fool!” she said, shuddering. “Tomorrow you will leave, and I will be here, wanting you. Wanting what you cannot give me and what I cannot give myself.”
He did not even defend himself, and his willingness to shoulder her condemnation, to bear her irrational wrath broke her all over again. She clawed at him, crazed, and sank her teeth into his shoulder. He moaned and buried his face in her hair, and she bit him again, so angry she did not even know herself.
“You are right. I have nothing to give you but my heart, Ghisla,” he ground out. “But it is yours. Every beat. Every bloody inch. You have ripped it from my chest. If I have destroyed you, you . . . have . . . obliterated . . . me.”
He rolled so she was pinned beneath him, trapping her flailing fists and bruising hands. Then his mouth captured hers, and he held her face in his hands as she raged and railed against him. She snapped at the softness of his lips, but he did not retreat. Instead, he bathed her mouth in gentleness, in worship, and slowly . . . softly . . . her terrible rage became crippling remorse.
He must have tasted her contrition, for when she pulled away to beg his forgiveness, he simply drew her back, taking her penitence and turning it into redemption.
They did not speak for a long while, their mouths communing, their bodies shuddering with need and desperate devotion. Beneath his hands, her pain became unbearable pleasure, and agony gave way to awe.
Suddenly, there was no tomorrow. No parting. No pending farewell.
She dare not speak for fear he would stop; she dare not open her eyes, afraid it would end. But when Hod hesitated, his mouth hovering over hers, his body cradled in the well of her hips, she looked up at him, at his shuttered eyes and his beloved face, and she begged him for the only thing he could give her.
“There is no joy but this, Hody,” she whispered. “I have no joy but you.”
His mouth returned, and he sank into her, giving her what she asked of him, and she did not close her eyes again.
A humming grew beneath her skin, and the stars above her winked and grew as Hod moved. Their brilliance pulsed and pressed in concert with the swell inside her, and with each breath, she pulled their shining tails into her chest and down into her belly.
“I can see you. I can see you, Ghisla,” Hod moaned into her mouth, and his moan became part of her symphony.
“Those are stars, my love. Those are stars,” she thought, but she was past speech. She was shooting across the sky, part of the firmament, leaving a trail of light behind her.
Finished.
Spent.
“Master Ivo, Liis is gone.”
Elayne of Ebba stood on the threshold of the sanctum, her red hair streaming around her shoulders, her feet bare. The higher keepers assembled for early blessing and confession gaped at her, bleary-eyed. The Tournament of the King wreaked havoc on the enclave, and the day ahead would be as long as the day before. The lines had already formed outside.
Master Ivo rose from his chair and motioned Elayne forward.
“Come, Daughter.”
“I saw her leave not long after we retired and thought the king must have summoned her. I went back to sleep. But when the cock crowed, I woke, and saw that her bed had not been slept in at all.”
“I will go to the castle,” Dagmar offered, his lips hard and his countenance dark. “I have feared this.”
“I will go with you,” Ivo whispered. “The rest of you, search the temple. Liis of Leok has been known to seek out her solitude.”
“We have looked, Master. All of us. We did not want to tell you until we were sure,” Elayne said, pointing toward the door of the sanctum. Bashti, Juliah, and Dalys stood watching, their toes as bare, their eyes as wide. Juliah had not stopped for her shoes, but she’d strapped on a sword.
“Your weapon will not be necessary, daughter of Joran,” Ivo said, but it was evident from her frown that she did not believe him.
“I will keep it until Liis is found,” Juliah said.
Five of the higher keepers, including Dagmar, accompanied Ivo to the castle to find the king. The crowd in the square cried out and clamored, thinking the keepers had come to attend them, but the temple guard closed in around the purple-robed men, keeping the congregants at bay, and they moved as one, up the steps and into the palace without mishap.
“Say nothing to anyone until we know. It will do no good to alarm the mount if she is . . . here,” Ivo instructed the keepers around him. No one stopped them as the procession climbed the stairs to the king’s chambers. A guard stood beside the door.
“I need to see the king, sentry,” Ivo demanded. “Is he inside?”
“What has happened?” the guard asked, fearful. The death of Bilge of Berne was a result of the Highest Keeper’s last early morning visit to the king, and none of Banruud’s men had forgotten it.
“Did you escort Liis of Leok to the throne room last night?” Ivo asked.
“No, Highest Keeper. She was not here last night. The chieftains were assembled . . . some are still assembled . . . in the hall, though most are not . . . awake. The king retired to his bed not an hour ago . . . and he is not . . . alone.” The guard was doing his utmost to be discreet.