dared to touch his plate. As a result, he finished before everyone else. Ghisla ate as quickly as she could, knowing at any minute she would be called upon and her opportunity to fill her stomach would come to an end, but the king noticed her hunger and her haste and rose to his feet, ever spiteful, ever small. She put down her knife and fork and gulped from the tepid wine in her cup. She wanted water. Her throat was dry and the room was too warm.
“We will have some entertainment,” Banruud said, raising his goblet. “As requested by King Gudrun. This is Liis of Leok, a daughter of the temple. She will sing to you.”
Banruud offered her his hand, insisting she rise.
She took it but released it immediately, and the king settled back into his chair. All eyes lifted to her face, including those of the North King, who sat directly across from Banruud at a similarly high table, surrounded by warriors with similarly furrowed brows. King Gudrun wore his eyes rimmed in black like the keepers, but his hair hung in braided coils down his back. The top was gathered into a knot pierced by animal bones to keep it from falling in his eyes. His men wore variations of the same thing. Leather hose and tunics studded with metal, swords strapped across their bodies, and blades bound to their boots with long leather straps.
They were a frightening lot, but not at all unfamiliar. She’d been raised in the Northlands, and men like these had roamed Tonlis and every village that had dotted the landscape. She was not unacquainted with the North King either. His name had visited many a charred memory. Once he had let her live, though he had made no attempt to assist her. She doubted he would remember.
She began with the song of Saylok, as was the tradition. Had the chieftains and warriors of the other clans been the audience, they would have pounded their fists and clasped their braids, but Gudrun yawned when she finished, unimpressed. She felt much the same way about the song and could hardly blame him.
“I fear your woman attempts to sing us to sleep, Banruud,” Gudrun said, his mouth twisted in mockery. “And I do not wish to have my throat cut while I slumber.”
“Mayhaps the lady knows a song of the North?” someone suggested from the table behind King Gudrun. The voice was low, a quiet suggestion for his sire, but Ghisla’s heart stuttered in recognition. She craned her neck, breaking her own rule, and then caught herself. She was being foolish. She had stopped hearing Hod long ago.
“What song would you like to hear, King Gudrun?” she asked, her eyes trained on his brow so she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes.
“Sing the begetting song,” a Northman belched off to the left, and the men around him laughed.
“Yes. Let us hear that song,” the North King said, nodding. “I’ve been assured you know many of the Songr songs.”
“It is hardly appropriate for the occasion,” she demurred. Who had assured him of such a thing?
King Banruud waved his hand, dismissing her reservations. “Give the king what he wants, Daughter.”
She raised her chin and lifted her eyes to the back wall. The head of a giant, black bear was mounted on a column, his teeth bared, his snout wrinkled, performing even in death. They had a great deal in common, she and that bear. She took a deep breath and sang the old song, divorcing herself from the memory of the last time she’d sung it, holding Hod’s hand on the hillside, letting him see her people dance in his thoughts.
Men who need kisses
Make babes who need kisses.
Babes who grow up
Become men who need kisses.
Men who need kisses
Chase women for kisses.
“And . . . begetting begins again,” she sang, folding her hands primly in front of her.
She sang it again, faster, as it was designed to be sung, and the Northmen all joined in on the last line. “And . . . begetting begins again.”
“Again!” the North King brayed.
She sang it once more, her tongue skipping over the words so quickly she had no space to breathe, and the whole room clapped and joined in on the ending, cheering the effort.
She inclined her head in a little bow and took a cleansing breath, waiting for his next request.
The demands came, one after the other, all songs of the Northlands, and she sang them, as she’d been