“I can go anywhere,” she said aloud, trying to buoy herself up. She was strong. She was brave. Arwin snorted in his sleep, and tears pricked her eyes.
“I can. And I will.”
She rose from the pile of furs. Arwin did not wake.
She paused at the table where the knives were lined up in a neat row and took one, slipping it into the rope belt at her waist. Then she fled from the cave, out into the moonlit night, out into the trees that stood as a silent sentry. She would hide somewhere. Mayhaps she could find her own cave. Or mayhaps she would simply walk until she was too tired to think. She picked her way down the hill, back toward the beach where Hod had found her days ago. She would walk along the shoreline; it would be easier than going higher into the hills. She had made it to the shore when Hod spoke from behind her. She jumped but muffled her scream just in time.
“Don’t go,” he said.
She caught her breath, panting, but then continued on, out toward the place where the rocks became sand. Hod followed.
“It is not safe.”
“He will not let me stay,” she said. Her voice rang with accusation, and Hod did not defend himself, nor did he argue the truth of her statement.
“You must let him take you to Lothgar,” he said quietly. “Lothgar is an honorable man, and a good chieftain. He has daughters of his own and a wife. He is loved by his people. You will be safe under his guardianship.”
The tears were back, prickling and pushing against her eyes.
“I would rather stay with you.” It was the darkness that wrenched the confession from her. She would not have said such a thing in the light.
“That is what I wish as well,” he whispered. “But mayhaps . . . that is not what is best for either of us.”
“I promise not to sing,” she said, and the tears escaped, dripping down her cheeks and hiding in her borrowed tunic. She had promised the same to Arwin, and he had not believed her.
“I would not let you keep that promise. I would beg you to sing to me all day. And Arwin knows it. He is afraid, Ghisla. I am afraid too. Not of you . . . but of myself.”
“Then I will go. Why have you followed me? Why did you not just let me go?” she cried, swiping at her cheeks.
“It is not safe for you out there. The only safety is in the clans or in the temple . . . and even then . . . there is no safety.”
“I don’t care what happens to me.”
“If you don’t care . . . then let Arwin take you to Lothgar. A life in the temple will be a better life,” he insisted.
“A better life than a life in a cave?”
“I will not always dwell in this cave. Someday . . . I too will go to the temple. Arwin is teaching me about the runes. I am to be a keeper one day.”
“And you will go to the temple?”
“Yes. I will come to Temple Hill and ask to join the keepers there. And we will see each other again.”
“Do not promise me, Hody,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hate you.”
“You don’t?” Hope rang in his question.
“No,” she sighed. She stopped walking. She could go no farther. The tide flirted with her feet.
“If there are no girls in Saylok, will I not be valued? Surely someone will want me. Why must I go to the temple?”
“Have you ever seen wolves fight over a rabbit?”
She was silent, shocked.
“Now imagine the wolves are starving and there are hundreds of them. Thousands of them.”
“I found you, didn’t I? You are not a wolf.”
“No, I am a blind boy who has no way to protect or provide for you. Not yet.” He sighed, the sound so heavy she staggered beneath its weight. “Mayhaps not ever.”
“If I agree, if I let Arwin take me to this Lothgar, will you come with us? To Leok?”
“Arwin will not want me to come.” He inhaled. “But he cannot stop me. I will come.”
“How far is it to Leok?”
“We are in Leok now,” Hod said. He crouched, and in the wet sand he made a shape like a star—fat and six-legged and rising at the center.
“We are here, where Leok begins to curve into Adyar. Adyar is the top of the star, Leok lies to its