But there were boats and men in the bay now, that much was clear, and Hod would need to investigate.
He hurried into the cavern, dropping his bow and unsheathing his blade without pausing. He carved a rune of cover in the dirt near the entrance and dripped his blood at its center. He did not want a cave full of curious Northmen.
“Arwin?”
Hod could not hear him moving about, but he felt him and knew he was near. He washed quickly, scrubbing his forearms before moving to his neck and his face and running soap and water over the stubble on the sides of his head. He was dirty and his sweat had dried on his skin; he didn’t want his smell cloaking his senses when he left again.
“Arwin?”
His only answer was a gurgling breath and an erratic pulse.
He strode toward Arwin’s chamber, suddenly alarmed. He’d been distracted by the boats and men, and he’d been gone too long.
Arwin was in his bed, but he did not answer when Hod touched his face.
His heart was beating, but his breath was shallow and his time was short.
Hod shoved his nightshirt aside and drew runes across Arwin’s thin chest—one for strength, one for healing, one for his failing heart—and Arwin inhaled, deep and long, and set his hand on Hod’s arm.
“This is not an illness you can drive out or a wound you can close, my boy.” His words were slurred, but he was coherent.
“I can. And I will.”
“You have never been especially obedient,” Arwin sighed. “But maybe that is for the best.”
“Drink, Master.”
Arwin let him lift his head, but the water dribbled from his mouth and soaked the pillows beneath him.
“I am tired, Hod. And your runes will not keep me here long. Sit beside me while I speak.”
Hod collapsed into the chair beside Arwin’s bed, listening to the old man breathe and gather the last of his strength.
“You must go to him and tell him who you are.”
“Who, Master?”
“Banruud.”
“Banruud?” Hod gasped.
“I told him he was your father . . . but he did not believe me. He knows he is cursed. But you can break the curse. It is your destiny.”
“Arwin,” he contended. “I am not Banruud’s son.”
Arwin fell silent, and for a moment, Hod thought he was gone. He took his mentor’s hand, not wanting the king’s name to be the last words between them.
“You were born before Banruud was king. Before the drought. Before the troubles,” Arwin murmured.
“Before Bayr?” Hod pressed, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Before the Temple Boy,” Arwin agreed. He jerked as if he were trying to nod, but he was unable to control the motion. “You are his half-brother. And his . . . other half.”
Hod scoffed, unable to believe what he was being told.
“With Bayr came the curse,” Arwin insisted.
That drew Hod up short.
It was exactly what Ghisla said Dagmar feared.
Bayr’s birth marked the beginning of the drought. What if his death marks the end?
“We are brothers,” Hod whispered, the truth dawning slowly.
Desdemona had cursed the king. She’d cursed all of Saylok, but she had not known about Hod.
“Yes . . . Hod and Baldr . . . two sides of the same sword.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hod mourned. He was sick to the soles of his feet.
“I wanted to protect you. Your mother wanted to protect you. She was afraid your father . . . would reject you because of your blindness. And it wasn’t . . . time.”
“The Highest Keeper rejected me.”
“Yes. He rejected both of us. But you don’t need the Highest Keeper, Hod. He needs you. The king needs you. All of Saylok needs you. You are the blind god.”
The fates were not generous, and they did not honor the runes Hod drew on Arwin’s breast. The cave keeper died quietly, a rattle in his chest and a hopeful fluttering in his breath.
Hod could not bury him, not immediately, and he had no time to grieve him. There were strangers on the beach and crawling up the cliffside.
He added blood to his rune and sat near the opening, listening as men moved beyond the walls, hesitating, and then continuing on, searching for something to bring back to their boats, disappointed by the austerity of the cove. They were Northmen, just as he’d suspected, and they talked of gold and gluttony, but they would find none here. They fished from his creek, roamed his hill, and saw his tracks—he heard their discussion—but they did not find the cave, and they did not leave. They spoke of conquest and combat, but beneath their bravado was a weariness that made him suspect they had not been home in a while.
Hod rolled Arwin’s body in the blankets from his bed and carried him through the main tunnel and past chambers filled with runes to a deep recess bigger than most tombs where Arwin kept his treasure. A ledge stretched from one side to the other, and Hod laid Arwin’s body upon it, covering him with his keeper’s robe. Arwin had been proud of his robes, and should anyone find him, they would know what he’d been.
Arwin had spent his life in the cave. Hod did not think he would care that he was buried in it too. Arwin was a cousin of the late king of Adyar—“Of royal heritage all the way back to Saylok himself!”—but he had a pauper’s heart. He’d spent his life hoarding treasure, tucking it away deep in the cave; for what, Hod never knew. Hod thought it useless. He could not see it, or eat it, or burn it. It had no warmth and it smelled of time and blood. In that way, treasure wasn’t much different from the runes, though in Hod’s estimation, the runes were a thousand times more useful.
He sang one of Ghisla’s songs, his voice bouncing back at him in gentle mockery, and then he said the Prayer of the Supplicant one last time. Mayhaps it was a prayer for Arwin, mayhaps it was a vow to himself.
No man can follow.
No man can lead.
No man can save me,
No man can free.
For five days, the Northmen camped on the beach, their fires sending smoke billowing up the cliff face, warning him away, urging him to stay hidden. They were big men, the sound of their chests and the tenor of their voices like the drums of war beating up from the sand. But they had no one to fight and nothing to take, not here. The tide that had brought them in was making it hard for them to leave. They’d tried to make it out of the cove only to turn back, the bellies of their boats scraping on the bar that kept the sea at bay.
It was Arwin’s treasure, tucked in chambers beneath ancient runes that gave Hod an idea. He spent half a day moving caskets and trunks to the entrance of the cave. He shouldered a chest so rotted, it threatened to burst and rain its contents down his back. But he knew the goblets, chalices, and chains would be of interest to the Northmen. Then he washed and readied himself.
He valued soap more than gold, but he packed some of both. He added two clean tunics, some trousers, and two pairs of wool socks to the pile and wrapped them in Ghisla’s robe before tucking them into his sack. He’d been unable to part with it then and found he could not do so now.
He tucked his blade into his belt, sheathed his sword and his staff across his back, and bled into another rune to obscure the entrance, though the protection would fade in time. When he came back—if he came back—the cave would still be here, though its contents may not. Mayhaps the Highest Keeper would send a new cave keeper to tend the runes and live among the rocks. Eventually, he would discover that Arwin was gone and his blind apprentice too.