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.
Hod could not find it within himself to care.
Men powered the runes with their blood and their belief. The runes should not power man, and he would not sit by, waiting for the fates to tell him what to do. Arwin had believed in prophecy, but Hod did not want to be the blind god, brother of Baldr the Beloved. He did not want to be son of the king or a keeper of the cave. And he did not want to harm Bayr.
He had promised Ghisla he would return . . . but he had nothing to give her and nowhere for them to flee. And until he did, he would not come back.
He heard the moment he was spotted and tossed the small chest of treasure he’d brought with him down onto the sand. The casing ruptured and the contents spilled, clinking and clattering at his feet. He unsheathed his staff, not bothering with his sword. If they decided to kill him, he would die. If they decided to poke at him, he would do better with his stick.
“I am Hod. The treasure is yours. And there is more where it came from,” he yelled. “You can kill me, but then you won’t find it. You also won’t get out of this cove. But if you let me come with you, I will help you do both.”
PART THREE
19
NORTHMEN
“I do not like coming to Berne,” Alba sighed, peering out the carriage window. “Just once, I would like to go to Dolphys.”