“I have failed you, Hod,” he said again and reached for Hod’s hand. This time Hod let him hold it, sinking back down into the chair beside him. It was clear that Arwin wanted to talk.
“You have not failed me. You have been the only family I have ever had, and you have cared for me all these years.”
“They have failed us.”
“Who, Master?” But he knew who. When Arwin was lucid, he talked of little else.
“The Keepers of Saylok. The mighty Keepers of Saylok. They have failed us all,” Arwin murmured. “They have failed my little boy.” He brought Hod’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his palm, his tears pooling again. The gesture was something he’d done when Hod was small, a way to reinforce pride in his work. It’d been years since he’d kissed Hod’s hand; but these days Arwin was lost in the past far more often than he resided in the present.
But his lips stilled and he pulled his face away, his thumbs smoothing Hod’s palm, over and over, like he worried a rabbit’s foot or summoned wishes from a rock.
“You have a rune on your palm,” he gasped. “It is a soul rune.”
Hod sighed. It revealed the fragile state of his own health that he could summon no excuse for his teacher.
“Yes, Master,” he said. “I do.”
When he tried to withdraw his hand, Arwin clung to it, drawing it back to his face. He pressed his right eye into Hod’s rune, the act a similitude of Odin dropping his eye into the well of Mimir in exchange for the wisdom of the runes.
“Take my tears in lieu of my blood, and show me your other half,” Arwin beseeched the rune. Hod did not stop him or yank his hand from his trembling grasp. He had begged the rune for the same thing, day after day, in hopes to simply hear a heartbeat or sense Ghisla there on the other side.
“There is nothing there,” Arwin said. “I see only frayed tendrils.”
“No . . . there is nothing there,” Hod answered, and his voice broke.
“It is forbidden. Have I not taught you this? It is forbidden. What if the Highest Keeper had seen this?”
Hod rose and washed his hands. He could smell Arwin’s breath on his skin, sickly and sour, and there was nothing more to say.
“She is the king’s witch now,” Arwin hissed. Hod froze, his hands dripping, his hackles raised.
“Who, Arwin?”
“Ghisla the Songr. The girl who sang to you. She sings to the king now. She has addled his brain. He is mad. We have a mad king and the keepers put him on the throne. They put him on the throne and brought daughters into the temple.”
“What do you know of Ghisla, Arwin?” he pressed, trying to keep his tone even. He dried his hands, keeping his back turned to his teacher.
“She is the king’s witch now,” Arwin repeated. “He has marked her.”
“Marked her how?”
“He will make her the new queen. I have seen it.”
“You have seen it?” It was an old manipulation. Arwin always claimed to have “seen” something when he tired of Hod’s questions, and Hod had always resented it. Mayhaps it was because he could see nothing and thus had no use for visions meant to mold belief or obedience.
“How has he marked her?” Hod insisted, refusing to be distracted by Arwin’s prophecies.
“She wears his emblem. She is his.”
Arwin was trying to wound him; Hod could hear it in the words he chose. Arwin did not lie . . . but he evaded, and his erratic heartbeat exposed him.
“I am going out, Master. I am going to hunt. I won’t be far,” he said, retrieving his staff.
“I told the king he has a son . . . but he does not care,” Arwin shouted. He did not want Hod to leave yet. “He did not believe me. Just like you do not believe me.”
“When did you speak to the king?” Hod gasped.
“I spoke to him in the square when he brought the Songr back. I warned him about her. And I told him about you. But he just laughed.”
“You warned him about her?” Hod fell back into the bedside chair.
“The king did not believe me. He is mad. She has addled his brain.”
“Oh, Arwin,” Hod said. “What have you done?”
“He put me in the stocks. No one would listen to me. The Highest Keeper told me to leave. They have let us down. They have let us all down.”
Months passed.
Five months. Six. Seven. Arwin’s condition continued to deteriorate. He orated the eighteen spell songs of Odin one day, reciting them without mistake, only to forget his own name the next. And through it all, Ghisla failed to sing. Hod grew more and more desperate, going so far as to ask his master on a more lucid day to draw the rune of the seeker and tell him what he saw. Arwin did not seem surprised, nor did he argue the wisdom of such a request. He simply sighed and stroked the rope of his beard.
“I cannot . . . remember . . . the rune, my boy,” Arwin whispered, regretful and almost sweet.
“I will draw the rune. I need only for you to tell me what you see,” Hod reassured him.
“But I have been banned from the mount, and you have been shunned by the Highest Keeper.”
“I know, Master. They have shunned us both, and yet . . . I still know the runes.”
Arwin cackled, pleased at this truth. “They cannot strike the knowledge from our minds,” he crowed, the irony lost on him.
Hod nicked his finger and drew the seeker rune on Arwin’s palms, careful to be precise.
“Just . . . hold the runes to your closed eyes.”
“Yes. Yes. I remember now.”
“Find Ghisla, Arwin.”
“You seek the Songr. The little girl washed up on the shore,” Arwin said slowly. His voice was low and the sound came from just above his heart, as though he’d tucked his chin to study the runes Hod had drawn.
“Yes, Master. Do you remember her?”
“I shunned her. She begged me to let her stay. But I was afraid. I was afraid she would make you weak.”
“Yes,” Hod said, trying not to weep.
“We sent her to the temple . . . and now . . . the temple is barred from us.”
“They cannot bar your eyes, Master.”
“No. They cannot bar my eyes,” Arwin sighed, and lifted the runes to his lids. “Show me . . .”
“Ghisla,” Hod finished for him, and Arwin repeated the plea.
“Show me Ghisla,” he asked.
He stiffened and swayed, and Hod feared he would drop his hands. Then he stilled and his breath whooshed from his lips.
“She is there.”
“Where, Master?”
“She is . . . on the temple steps. I can see the castle and the square and the spires . . . The columns are behind her. She sings the song of supplication. All around her are the keepers . . . the keepers and daughters . . . all around.”
Hod wished he could hear her, but he did not interrupt, barely breathing as Arwin continued.
“She has . . . grown. She is not a waif anymore . . . but a beautiful woman.” He sounded confused. “She was so small . . . bones and blue eyes . . . when I took her to Leok. And now she . . . she is grown.”
“Is there a babe in her womb?” He had to ask. He had to know.