Alba flinched, and Ghost’s face filled Ghisla’s thoughts. It was as if the North King knew all and was quietly enflaming Banruud, ember by burning ember.
“Princess Alba is the hope of Saylok. The pride of our people. But as her father . . . it is my duty to make a match that will aid the country and my daughter. I have great hope for a union between the Northlands and Saylok. One that will benefit both lands.”
“And she is very beautiful,” Gudrun said. “It would not be a hardship to bed her.”
Even Gudrun’s men were stunned into silence at their leader’s provocative disrespect. The North King waited for Banruud to respond, a slight smile around his lips, but his eyes were sharp and his hand was on his sword.
But it was Alba who rose slowly, her shoulders back, her hand still in Ghisla’s. Ghisla rose beside her immediately, and the clatter of steel and the scrape of chairs created a sudden maelstrom in the hall as the men around them also stood.
“I will bid you all good night,” Alba said evenly. “It has been a trying day, and we will be leaving on the morrow.”
The North King stood as well, inclining his head. His men rumbled to their feet around him.
“Of course, Princess. Let us save this talk until we are alone.”
It was another blow, another volley oozing with inuendo, but it was not answered by the king, the chieftain, or their men.
On wooden legs, Ghisla followed Alba from the room, several members of the king’s guard falling in around them, and the earth-shattering summit came to a close.
21
STRIDES
“I have never heard such a song,” Alba said. “The one about begetting.” They lay side by side in the large bed, the chieftain’s keep creaking around them, the wind nudging the trees, and the leaves hissing back. Neither of them had been able to talk about the events that had transpired. They’d readied themselves for bed with nary a word, but the shock had worn off with their silence.
“It is a song for weddings,” Ghisla answered. “For marriage.”
“I’ve never been to a wedding,” Alba mused, wistful, and Ghisla was startled into silence once more. Such a commonplace thing in any culture had become so rare that a sixteen-year-old princess had never witnessed it.
“I did not know you weren’t from Leok,” Alba whispered. “Do the others know?”
“Master Ivo does. I’m sure it has been discussed among the keepers. I once was afraid I would be sent away if anyone found out. But it hardly seems important now.”
“Is it as King Gudrun said?”
“Before I came to the mount—when I was a girl—I lived in a place called Tonlis. In the Northlands. But that was long ago, and I am not a Northlander anymore. King Gudrun has no claim to me.”
“And Father will never give you away.”
The knowledge was not a comfort to her, though she knew Alba sought to reassure her even as she feared it would be her own fate.
“It is not the king or the Northlands or even leaving Saylok that frightens me,” Alba whispered.
“No?”
“No. I am afraid I will never see Bayr again,” Alba confessed. “I do not speak of him because it hurts too much. But that is what I fear most.”
Ghisla reached out and took Alba’s hand. She did not tell her all would be well. She couldn’t. Not when she was convinced all would not be well.
“Will you sing to me, Liis?” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
“Of course. And tomorrow we will go home,” Ghisla murmured. “You have nothing to fear.” Yet.
“Sing the one about the little bat,” Alba begged, sounding like the child she’d been.
“Oh, Alba. Not that one,” Ghisla moaned. She couldn’t sing that one. Not tonight. Not while she clutched Alba’s hand.
“He cannot see, but he’s not scared, he swoops and glides up in the air. His joy is full, his wings are strong. He dances to a distant song,” Alba sang. “I always thought it such a lovely little song. To be free and surrounded by those who love us most. What more could a living creature want?”
“What indeed?” Ghisla murmured.
“Please, Liis. Please sing it. It comforts me,” Alba pled, and Ghisla relented as she always did, but Alba was not consoled. Her misery echoed in her memories, and Ghisla, with their hands clasped and the song reverberating between her and the princess, could not escape them.
Six-year-old Alba sat atop Bayr’s shoulders. Her arms were spread and her hair streamed out behind her. He was running, making her fly, and her remembrance was painted in joy.
“Bayr promised me he would come back,” Alba cried as the song ended. “He promised.”
“Someone I loved once promised me the same thing,” Ghisla said.
“What happened?” Alba almost sounded afraid to ask, as if she knew.
“He never did.” Until now. But had he come back?
“Why?” Alba asked, mournful.
“I don’t know. Some promises . . . are impossible to keep.”
“I fear that’s true,” Alba murmured. “But . . . you’re not angry?”
“Sometimes I am angry,” Ghisla admitted. Sometimes she was so angry she lay facedown and sang her anger into the earth until the grass turned brown and the ground around her cracked with her furious song. “But most of the time, I simply miss him.”
Oh, how she had missed him.
He had lived among the Northmen, that much was evident. But why? And why was he here? How would she see him? How would she tell him she had given up long ago?
“I miss Bayr every day. There is a hole in my heart,” Alba said. “And I fear it will always be there.”
“You were very close,” Ghisla said, her voice strangled.
“And now . . . we are nothing,” Alba said dully.
For a time, they lay together in the dark, their hands clasped, and when Alba finally found relief in sleep, Ghisla allowed herself to grieve.
Hod did not leave the chieftain’s keep with the Northmen but doubled back on his own. In the darkness, everyone was a threat, and he did not want to be seen lurking in the shadows. He found the room where Ghisla and the princess were quartered and climbed a tree where he could eavesdrop without being observed.
The North King had created a spectacle in the hall. He’d dangled Hod like a carrot with his ridiculous talk of a trade, insulted the princess, and tossed Ghisla’s history onto the pyre all to provoke the king. She’d had no warning of his presence, and Hod had heard her distress, her racing heart and her constricted breath, and he’d put up a wall against her, unable to concentrate on his audience—and the things they hurled at him—and still listen to her. But he was listening to her now.
The two women were comforting each other, their voices bleak and their conversation quiet. Alba begged for the song about the bat, and Hod was catapulted back to the temple mount, standing in the shadow of the temple listening to little Alba plead for the same song.
“Bayr promised me he would come back,” Alba mourned.
Bayr had never returned to the mount?
“Someone I loved once promised me the same thing,” Ghisla murmured.
Someone she loved once. Did she love him still?