taken to the temple . . . for safekeeping. She has been there ever since. She is known for her song. The king . . . values her, and he will not be inclined to let her go. But I want her.”
For a moment, Gudrun was quiet, sucking on his teeth the way he was prone to do when considering. “Does this woman, this Songr . . . does she want you?” he asked finally.
“No.”
Gudrun laughed at his honesty.
“She wanted me . . . once,” Hod said. “But it has been many years. And she has given me no reason to hope.”
“You have been of great use to me,” Gudrun said. “But mayhaps—if she is a Songr—I will want her for myself.”
Hod could hear Gudrun’s exaggerated shrug in the repositioning of his body and the shift in the air. He was goading him, and Hod did not rise to the bait. Gudrun needed him, but he liked to remind Hod who was servant and who was king. Hod also knew if the North King heard Ghisla sing, he would most decidedly want her for himself. Hod was staking his claim. His only claim.
“The Songrs belong to the Northlands,” Gudrun added.
“That is where I intend to take her. It is where I have always intended to take her. But I did not think I would . . . meet her again . . . here.”
“You thought you would have to go to the temple . . . and get her,” Gudrun surmised slowly, the truth dawning.
“Yes. And I knew I could not go alone.”
Gudrun did not suck his teeth or worry his lips, and Hod suspected from the shape of his inhalations, his jaw was gaping. “How long have you been planning this?” he whispered.
“Since I threw myself—and my treasure—at the feet of nineteen Northmen.”
Gudrun gasped and stood. He drew his blade and twirled it over his fingers as he strode from one end of his commandeered headquarters to the other. With no warning, he pivoted and threw it at Hod, grunting with exertion. Hod swung his stick and lunged to the side, knocking the blade from the air. It clattered and spun back toward Gudrun, across the floor. Gudrun bent, picked it up, and sheathed it at his belt. Hod waited, tensed, ready. In six years, he’d evaded death at least once a day.
“I do not like being taken by surprise,” Gudrun stressed. It was the only justification Hod would get for the sudden attack.
Hod nodded once, acknowledging his complaint. It would not be the last time Gudrun would fling something sharp or heavy at him.
“I have always believed it was . . . hate . . . that drove you. Now you tell me . . . it is a woman.”
“I have no use for Banruud, and I have no use for the keepers. Both have failed Saylok.”
“So you will help me overthrow the king—who is your father—and take his lands . . . and you want only the girl?” Gudrun scoffed. “Your ambition disappoints me, Hod.”
“I am a simple man.”
The North King laughed and shook his head, making the bones that ran down his matted braids click and clack. He had allowed Hod to touch them once, even hacking one free so he could “see” it better. Gudrun was not a simple man; he could be kind one moment and kill a man in the next, and Hod had not allowed himself to form an attachment or expect one in return. He also had no illusions about the risk he had just taken. He’d told Gudrun about his father, King Banruud, in the early days of his captivity. It had helped Gudrun understand him—and trust him—even though Hod hardly understood himself.
“No. Not simple,” Gudrun grunted. “Not at all. You are far too clever, and I do not trust you, Blind Hod. Not completely. But I understand you better now. Tonight . . . we will feast with your father. And we will see what can be done about retrieving the Songr.”
20
THORNS
Ghisla and Alba were escorted to a well-appointed chamber on the back corner of Chief Benjie’s keep and told to enjoy a brief respite before dinner. Berne rose up from the water’s edge in green shelves, and the chieftain’s keep occupied the perfect vantage point, with water on one side, meadows edged in forest on the other. The windows of their room were guarded by huge trees, and Ghisla thought if they were so inclined, they could climb