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