“Don’t look away.”
She didn’t. Not again. Not when her limbs quaked and her belly trembled. Not when he had to help her stand. She watched him touch her, unblinking, murmuring the song of supplication all the while.
Then he lifted her in his arms and laid her across the bed, needing her mouth more than he needed her eyes, and they forgot about the mirror and the magic of their connection and simply made love, Ghisla and Hod, in the quiet of his humble room.
He covered her with warmth and kisses until she wept his name, and he saw her pleasure and his own in the purring length of her sighs. In the woods she saw stars; in the castle bed, she saw only him, his mouth and his sharp edges, the brow that was lowered in concentration, trying not to take his pleasure too fast when the journey was so sweet. But she wanted to watch the moment he came undone, and she hummed louder and clutched his hips to push him over the edge. He kissed her, mouth open, tongue seeking, and she answered, anxious and eager, before pushing him away again so she wouldn’t miss it.
“Ghisla, I’m waiting for you,” he begged. She laughed and writhed against him, trying to oust his restraint only to lose her grip on her own. She clutched his face in her hands and saw the shudder that rippled past his eyes and down the harsh lines of his face before she captured his mouth and let the tide take them both.
They slept briefly, wrapped around each other in sated exhaustion, only to wake each other again with lovemaking, unwilling to waste their time in sleep, but when Hod stiffened and cocked his head, listening to the castle halls, she held her breath and he rolled away from her to clear his senses. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he turned back toward her, but she saw the ending in his grim expression.
“The cock has crowed. The mount is stirring.”
She sighed but rose and began to dress, and Hod did the same. She braided her hair with flying fingers and wrapped it around her head, tight and neat; if she was seen, she wanted to look like she’d risen early instead of not sleeping at all. She washed her teeth and splashed her face before pushing her feet into her shoes. Hod stood by the door, his head bowed, and she thought he was waiting for the path to clear. She slipped her hand into his, signaling her readiness without speaking. His fingers tightened around hers, and he brought them to his cheek.
“I love you, Ghisla,” he said. They’d whispered the words over and over again through the night, but his tone was different now, and she tensed, expectant, as he continued. “I have thought many times that the gods had forsaken me . . . or never cared to begin with. But I cannot think thus when I am with you.”
“You are my only joy,” she whispered, and pressed her mouth to his, needing for him to believe it. For a moment they were lost again, kissing as if time had stopped beyond the door.
Then he lay his forehead against hers, as though drawing the strength he could not muster.
“When I go, use the star if you must. But only if you must. It is easy to lose oneself to the runes, to stare into them all day, and forget the world around us. And sometimes what we see does not free us . . . but destroys us.”
She thought of the keepers, moldering away in their temple.
“Arwin said you blinded me . . . and it is true to a point. When I am with you, you consume me, my senses, and my attention. But I think it is better to be blinded by love than by the runes. I fear many of the keepers—Master Ivo too—have been blinded by them; they believe every answer is in a rune, and they don’t see what is right in front of them. They have lost all perspective. But the answers . . . are not in the runes.”
“Where are they, Hod? Where are they, my love?” she lamented. She had given up on clear answers.
He brought her hand to his chest, to the heart that pounded steadily beneath his skin, and pressed his other hand against her breast.
“They are almost always right here,” he whispered.
Then he opened the door and drew her out into the corridor, down the rear stairs, and out into the cool predawn, bidding her goodbye before he slipped away.
25
KINGS
Ghisla stood at the window in her room that overlooked the north gate and watched Hod leave. The hazy greens and blues of a distant Adyar were no more than a wistful suggestion, and she watched until the convoy disappeared into the dust. She resisted the urge to prick her finger and trace the star so she could follow his every step. If she gave in to the impulse, she would never be able to stop. Hod was right; she would drive herself mad.
She sang a simple prayer, beseeching the blind god to guard his namesake, and then she turned away.
It was in the same spot, standing at the window a week later, the amber light of the fall afternoon making the world soft, when another rider, this one alone, emerged from the dust and began his climb to the mount.
As she watched, drawn to the ever-nearing approach, the bells began to sound, clanging merrily, joyously, and as the rider drew near on a horse as black as his braid, she recognized him. He had aged and grown—he was a muscled bear of a man—but the Temple Boy was still there in the set of his eyes, the width of his smile, and the peak of his brow.
“I am Bayr, Chieftain of Dolphys, here to see King Banruud,” he boomed to the gate watchman, and though he paused every third or fourth word, he did not stumble.
“Open the bloody gate!” Dagmar bellowed to the winchmen who lifted the grates, and she knew he’d been the one ringing the bells.
“The king is not here, Chieftain,” the gate watchman replied good-naturedly. “But Keeper Dagmar has vouched for you and has bid me open the gate.” With a holler slightly more subdued than Dagmar’s had been, he granted Bayr entry.
Then Bayr was coming through the gate, his eyes trained on Dagmar, who had placed himself directly in his path. He slid off his horse and ran, sweeping his uncle up in his arms, laughing and saying his name.
“I see Dolphys in you—the clan is in your blood—but you are still Bayr, though you are more boar than cub,” Dagmar choked, laughing through his tears. He kissed his nephew’s cheeks as though he were still a child and not a great, hulking man, and Bayr embraced him in return.
“I am no bear. I am a wolf, Uncle. Though I do run a bit b-bigger than most of them.” Bayr’s grin was blinding, and his stutter was much improved.
“Bayr has returned,” Ghisla whispered, flabbergasted. Overjoyed.
Horrified.
“Bayr has returned!” Juliah cried.
Ghisla’s sisters ran from the room, and she ran to catch up with them as they clattered down the stone steps to the wide entry below. They were not the only ones who had heard the bells and witnessed Dagmar’s joyous shouting. From the west staircase, a stream of keepers began to pour, voices raised in welcome, hands clasped in excitement at Bayr’s return.
Master Ivo was waiting in the foyer, watching the reunion through the wide doors. Bayr strode forward and enveloped the Highest Keeper in an embrace that should have reduced him to dust, but Ivo curled his winged arms around the big chieftain and uttered not even a peep of protest.
“We’ve been waiting, Bayr of Saylok,” he murmured as Bayr released him and turned to greet the others hurrying toward him. Ghost reached him first and held out a hand in greeting, her smile as careful and quiet as it had always been. Bayr bowed above it, kissing her pale white knuckles. Her joy was as clear as her gossamer skin.