“What happened?” Alba asked, almost fearful.
“He never did.”
Hod’s heart cracked and bled, knowing Ghisla spoke of him. No, he never had . . . and she’d given him no reason to believe she would welcome him.
“You’re not angry?” Alba asked.
“Sometimes I am angry. But most of the time, I simply miss him,” Ghisla answered.
He was angry too. The anger had become a constant companion. But he had missed her more than he hated her. He had loved her more than he hated her. And right now, he could not hate her at all.
Eventually, Alba fell asleep, the cadence of her breathing and the tempo of her heart signaling she’d succumbed to slumber. But Ghisla did not sleep. She cried. Her weeping was not a moan or a wail. It was a catch in her chest and an ongoing, valiant attempt to breathe quietly so Alba would not hear her distress.
A soft knock on her chamber door came after she’d just begun to drift off, her tears finally abating, her weariness deep. She woke immediately, her pulse quickening.
“The king is asking for you, Liis of Leok,” the guard murmured.
Her heart raced, but she rose and, after a moment of shuffling, followed the guard down the corridor to the king’s chambers.
Hod’s anger rose again, so palpable it flooded his mouth. He should have left then and saved himself the agony of their interaction. But he couldn’t pull himself away. He couldn’t bear not to hear her, even if it meant burning himself alive while he listened.
Their voices were obscured by walls and the patter of rain that had just begun to fall, making his perch in the tree even more precarious, but he did not leave.
“Lie beside me,” the king demanded.
She did not protest and her heartbeat did not alter; the king’s request was not out of the ordinary. The taste in Hod’s mouth became metallic, like he’d licked his blade and cut his tongue. Mayhaps he had. It felt forked behind his teeth.
“What will happen on the morrow?” Ghisla asked the king.
“It does not concern you.”
“The North King thinks it does.”
“Shall I give you to him?” Banruud hissed. His heartbeat echoed oddly, like it ricocheted in his head, and his breaths were harsh with pain.
“If you wish.” Her words were devoid of emotion.
“He would not make you his queen; he seeks only to goad me.”
“I do not wish to be his queen. I do not wish to be your queen.”
He grunted, like he was all too aware of her wishes, and she didn’t press him further. She began to sing, no words, just music, her voice a harp to the anguished, and the bitterness in Hod’s mouth became longing in his veins.
She carried on for half an hour before the king slept, the odd echo in his head fading with her song. She eased herself off the bed, moving slowly, painfully, and walked back down the corridors, twenty-one tired strides to her chamber door. The creak of the handle told him she’d entered, but she didn’t cross the floor and crawl into her bed. She drank two glasses of water, her throat working; she’d cried and sung herself into a great thirst. Then she washed her face, cleaned her teeth, and dressed, shrugging off one gown for another and pulling on her shoes.
Her movements were almost as intoxicating to him as her voice. To hear her swish about, to breathe, to simply be, when she’d lived only in his memory for so long was irresistible.
She stopped in front of her window and unlatched the shutters, and he froze, realizing he’d been careless. He’d lost himself in listening, and though he’d climbed high enough in the tree to escape detection from the ground, he was directly across from her window. She would see him, resting in the tree like the bat in her song.
She opened the shutters inch by inch, as if guarding against the screech of hinges, and he swung down, dropping from the lowest limb an instant before she leaned out into the dark coolness and inhaled deeply. He hugged the wall of the keep directly below her, listening, always listening.
She was climbing out. A tiny huff of exertion, a rustling of leaves, and a murmur in the tree signaled that she had cleared the ledge and settled herself on the branch nearest the window. She breathed for a moment, plotting her course, and he inched back, sliding along the wall until he turned the corner.
Where was she going? The woods were full of Northmen and Bernians, neither of which would hesitate to harm—or kidnap—her. It was not safe in the trees. It was not safe anywhere.
Then she said his name.
She could not see him; he was almost certain of it. He would have heard the moment of sight and the change in her breath. He would have felt her eyes.
“Hod?” she said again, but the word was a moan. “Where have you been?”
His answer hovered on his lips. He would reveal himself. Right now. He would tell her everything and plead for her to come with him. He would take her to Gudrun and insist that he give them safe passage to the Northlands. His hopes soared . . . and immediately sank.
Gudrun would not help him.
When he discovered her gone, Banruud would most likely declare war, which the Northmen were not yet prepared for. They’d brought a small contingent for this meeting with King Banruud and the Chieftain of Berne. They had a plan, and Ghisla was not part of it. Gudrun would probably kill him, and Ghisla would be at the mercy of yet another king.
Hod clenched his teeth and made fists of his hands, denying himself. Denying her. He dared not even speak. Alba slept mere feet away, and the king’s men patrolled nearby, bristling at every sound. Nothing would be accomplished in the chieftain’s keep, not tonight, and mayhaps not for some time to come.
She sat in the tree until just before dawn, as if she waited for him, but he did not show himself. Instead he stayed, crouched beside the wall, holding his vigil until she slid back along the heavy branch and returned to her chamber, barring the window behind her.
“Have I made you angry, my blind warrior? Are you sulking because I have attempted to trade you for the Songr?” Gudrun became affectionate and magnanimous when he thought he had won. He was eating like he’d just been through battle, slurping up the grease on a platter of lamb with great hunks of bread, one of which he tossed to Hod. He’d insisted Hod join him for breakfast, but Hod didn’t eat with Gudrun for the same reason he didn’t sit among his men. He needed his hands free and his senses sharp. He would break his fast when Gudrun left the table.
He doubted the North King had slept. The sun had not yet begun to warm the air, and the mist from the water sat thick on the ground, muting the early morning chatter of the birds and the movement of Gudrun’s men in and out of the chateau and back and forth to the docks. They were preparing to sail. A settlement had been reached.
“I am not angry. I simply do not understand your strategy, Sire,” Hod responded, voice even.
“I met with King Banruud last night. After the feast. Where were you?” Gudrun’s tone changed, suspicion tinging his words. “I sent men to fetch you, but you had disappeared. You could have witnessed the drafting of a momentous agreement.”
“I was sitting in a tree, listening to a woman sing.”
Gudrun snorted, but the pathetic confession seemed to reassure him. “He will not give me the Songr.”
“Imagine my surprise.”
“Ahh. You are angry.” Gudrun tsked as he hacked off a large piece of lamb and fed it to his teeth.