“And if Ivo had allowed you entrance . . . what then? Keepers are not allowed to love. We are not allowed wives or families. Your feelings would have been immediately discovered.”
“Have yours been?” Hod asked. Turbulence trembled in his chest, but his voice was mild.
Dagmar hissed in surprise, and Hod continued, unable to bear the hypocrisy.
“You love the ghost woman. She loves you. And yet you live, year after year, pretending otherwise. I could have pretended too.”
“Who are you?” Dagmar whispered. Hod had revealed too much, and he tried to gather his thoughts and calm the anxious bubbling in his veins.
“I am just a blind man with an exceptional pair of ears.”
Dagmar was silent, as though he considered this. “Must we talk thus? Or do you trust me to come closer?” he asked.
Hod cast his senses to the mount, to the song that was Ghisla. She was on horseback now, a warrior at her back. They were climbing the hill and the bells were clanging again, though the cadence had changed from frantic clamor to sedate signaling.
“All is well,” Dagmar said, exhaling. He could hear the difference too.
“All is far from well,” Hod whispered.
Dagmar closed the distance between them, his breathing cautious, his gaze tangible, and Hod lowered the tip of his staff toward him, warning the keeper not to come too close. His nerves were raw, his emotions frayed, and the numbing effects of his euphoria were fading the higher Ghisla climbed. Soon she would be behind the walls.
Again.
And they would be apart.
Again.
“She left her robe,” Dagmar said softly.
Ghisla had left her robe? Oh, gods. She’d left her robe.
He heard Dagmar stoop to retrieve it from the ground.
“How is it that you came here?” Hod asked. “Of everywhere you could look, you came here. To this spot.”
“The runes can be useful,” Dagmar said.
“Ahh. So that was you. I thought I felt someone . . . watching.”
“We were afraid for her.”
“Afraid . . . of me?” Hod asked. The irony was laughable. He was powerless against the enclave. He had nothing. He was nothing.
Dagmar ignored the question. “Master Ivo says our Liis is not of Leok at all. She is a Songr. Did you know that, archer?”
Hod should not have been surprised; Ghisla had told him the Highest Keeper knew, but Dagmar’s query startled him, and he did not like the way he called her “our Liis.”
“Yes. I know . . . she is a Songr.”
“Did you know her before . . . before she ever came to Temple Hill?” Dagmar pressed.
“Yes.”
“Ahh. I see,” Dagmar breathed.
“Do you?” Hod whispered. He wished he did. The gates had closed. Ghisla was within the walls, and he could no longer hear her heart. She was too far away.
“Master Ivo says you have an affinity for the runes. You have been trained to use them . . . though their use . . . is forbidden to all but the keepers.”
“The Highest Keeper sent me to be trained. My knowledge was sanctioned . . . and yet . . . he has rejected me.” Hod could not keep his attention on the conversation at hand. He was in agony.
“He does not trust you, Hod,” Dagmar said, his tone like a whip. It stung, and Hod snapped back to attention.
“Does he trust you, Keeper Dagmar?” he shot back, defensive.
Dagmar’s heart stuttered, his conscience clearly tweaked, and Hod continued. “I’ve done nothing to warrant the Highest Keeper’s distrust or suspicion. I was born blind and clanless, the son of a harlot. And I am strange. Those are my crimes.”
“Those are your crimes?” Dagmar scoffed, incredulous. “You . . . slept . . . with a daughter of the temple. You took her from the mount during the tournament. The countryside is crawling with the clanless and the depraved. Have you any idea how much danger she was in? How much danger she is still in?”
“You must tell Master Ivo,” Hod murmured, his tone sardonic. “Tell him I am in love with a temple daughter, and I have used a forbidden rune. Tell him so that I will be banned from the temple, banished from the mount, and my eyes burned out of my head.”
“Have you no remorse? You are lucky you are not swinging from the north gate,” Dagmar said.
Hod straightened his staff, signaling his readiness to leave. “Be that as it may . . . It is a long way back to Leok. I would appreciate it if you would tell my teacher that I will wait for him along the route. Unless . . . unless you would like me to accompany you back to the mount to stand trial?”
“I did not think you a villain or a fool, blind archer. But now . . . I’m not so certain. I thought you like my nephew. But I realize now . . . you are more like . . . the king.” Dagmar sounded genuinely flummoxed, and his heartbeat underscored his distrust and dismay.
“I want the robe,” Hod insisted. He wanted it, and they were past pretense.
Dagmar turned to go, dropping Ghisla’s robe at Hod’s feet as he did.
“This robe condemns you. If you love her . . . as you say you do . . . you will not return to the mount. Ever. And you will pray to Odin she does not suffer for your selfishness.”
His disapproval was more than Hod could bear.
“There are two runes beneath this tree. The rune of strength and another, one that I don’t recognize. When I touched it, it rattled like a snake. Do you know anything about them, Keeper Dagmar?”
He regretted his words immediately.
His anger had caused him to lash out. His knowledge—Ghisla’s knowledge—should not have been used thus. He was not in control of himself, and every word from his mouth oozed menace. He was acting like a threat, and Dagmar treated him as such.
“If you come back to the mount, I will see that you get the punishment you deserve. Do you understand, Hod?” he whispered.
“I am not who you think I am,” Hod said, repentant, but even his contrition sounded ominous.
“No . . . I fear you are far worse.” Dagmar spoke the words with such conviction, Hod almost believed them true.
With that, Dagmar left the clearing, giving Hod his back.
Ghisla didn’t climb the hillside to the east gate but ran along the edge of the wood, searching for the horses and men Hod had heard. She needed to be seen, and she didn’t stop to consider or fear what was to come.
A cry went up. A watchman on the wall had seen her. A trumpet blared, then another and another, and before long, sixteen mounted warriors, including three chieftains and the king, thundered toward her, shields raised as though they expected a volley of arrows from the trees.
She halted and squared her shoulders. She would not run toward them as though she fled a conquering army, and she would not behave as though she’d escaped a murderous horde, though she probably looked it.
Her cheek felt bruised and there was a long scratch across her brow that she’d acquired in one of her tumbles down the hillside. She tried to smooth her hair and found it adorned with sticks and bits of grass, too many to remove in the seconds she had. The tie that gathered her neckline was gone, making the round neck hang too low on her breasts. She gathered the extra cloth in her hand and noticed a tear at the seam where her shoulder met her left sleeve. Her skirts were speckled with drops of blood and a dirty handprint at her thigh.