Arwin the ballad of the Songr, an anthem of her people and the place known for its music.
When she was finished, Arwin was frowning, confused, and even more suspicious. He’d been terrified to hear her sing, convinced she’d render him helpless and kill him in his stupor. He’d held a bow—strung, drawn, and aimed at her heart—throughout her ballad.
“I see images . . . but they are no more powerful than my own thoughts,” he said. “The song paints a story. ’Tis all. It is beautiful, though. Sweet and clear. I should like to hear more.” He frowned again, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Mayhaps that is the trick, to hypnotize. To hypnotize . . . and destroy young Hod.”
“There is no trick, Arwin,” Ghisla said, but he did not believe her, and he guarded her all night, relegating Hod to other chambers, promising that on the morrow he would take her to the man named Lothgar.
She curled in her nest, willing herself to sleep, but could not do so with his eyes boring into her back.
“He is listening, you know. There is no place I can send him where he won’t hear. Yet I walked through the forest and was upon him without him knowing I had returned.”
She waited, uncertain. She didn’t know what he wanted her to say.
“Lothgar will not harm you.”
“I don’t care if he does. As long as it is quick. And final.”
He grunted. “You are an odd child. Lothgar may not accept you.”
She was certain he wouldn’t. She said nothing.
“He will want to know about your home. It would be better not to tell him.”
Burnt fields and a razed village rose in her mind. Was home a country? The land beneath one’s feet? Or was home people? She didn’t ask him.
“I have no home,” she whispered.
“Why are you here?” he asked, suspicious again. Fearful again. It was that note of fear that made her answer.
“I don’t know. I did not choose this place. My family died, so I tried to die, but the sea would not have me. Odin would not have me. Even death would not have me. No one will have me. Not even you.”
She heard the self-pity in her voice and loathed herself, but when Arwin spoke again, his voice had gentled.
“You cannot stay here, Songr.”
“I do not want to stay here,” she said. It was true . . . and it was a lie. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Arwin, but she would very much like to remain with Hod.
“It is not good for Hod,” Arwin added.
“Why?” she asked. But she knew what he was going to say.
“All his senses are dulled when you are near.”
“All his senses?” That wasn’t true.
“All his senses but his sight,” he amended. “When he sees, he hears nothing. He feels nothing. He sits like a thirsty drunk, lapping up what he sees like it is elixir. You cannot sing to him forever. The moment you stop . . . he is in darkness again.”
“Then I won’t sing,” she promised.
He scoffed.
“You keep speaking of runes. Is that what you are afraid of? I don’t know how to write words. I can’t read. I know naught of your silly runes,” she said.
He glared, but she continued, desperate to convince him.
“Hod says you are a cave keeper. I don’t want your cave. I don’t want anything at all . . . except maybe somewhere to sleep and something to eat.” She was hungry. Her appetite was returning. Mayhaps that meant she cared enough about her own life to feed it, which worried her. Caring—about herself and others—was not something she wanted to do. She had done that once before. Never again. But she did need somewhere to live.
“I know nothing of runes,” she repeated. “I know only of songs.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe he had already made up his mind because Arwin’s face was hard and his voice firm.
“You will destroy him. You have to go. You cannot stay here.”
Arwin sat in a chair near the fire throughout the night, guarding her, but he had been unable to keep sleep at bay and snored so loudly she lay awake much of the night, caught between indifference and indecision. Hod was powerless; she could not stay with him if Arwin would not allow it. But she could run away again. Hod might hear her go . . . but he would not bring her back. He had nothing to bring her back