wary and demanded silence and separation whenever they halted or slept. His mood grew more and more fretful, and by the time they reached the village around Lothgar’s keep, he was bristling with impatience.
“We should wait for the morn to approach him,” Hod suggested. “It will be safer for Ghisla when the keep is empty.”
“We will go now,” Arwin snapped. “I have not rested well in a week. I will take the girl to the edge of the wood and point her to the chieftain’s lodge.”
“Master . . . you must see if the way is clear. She will not make it ten steps in a crowded square. And what if Lothgar is not there?”
Arwin grumbled, folding his arms with indecision.
“Wait here.” He looked from Hod to Ghisla, pointing a long, crooked finger at her nose. “I won’t be gone long. No singing!”
As soon as he was gone, Hod reached out his hand. “Don’t be afraid, Ghisla.”
She ignored it and sank down to the dirt. Hod sat down beside her.
He handed her his flask and she drank deeply, hoping the water would wash away the despair bubbling up in her throat. She drank every last drop and handed it back to Hod.
“I . . . have been thinking,” he said.
She said nothing, and he reached for her again, following her arm down to her wrist and tugging her hand into his lap. She pulled it away. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“It is forbidden for anyone but the keepers to call on the runes,” he began, hesitant. “But these are strange times, and Arwin says I am being trained for a wise purpose. Mayhaps . . . this is it.”
“What are you talking about, Hody?” she whispered, and she thought for a moment he was going to weep.
“I want to put a rune on your palm.”
“Why?” She made her voice hard. Her own emotions threatened to spill over, and it was easier to be cold.
“If you trace the rune with blood and sing, I think I will be able to . . . hear you. And mayhaps you will be able to hear me. Would you like that?”
“I will hear you . . . always?”
“I don’t know. I think so. As long as the rune remains.”
“How long will the rune remain?”
“If it is a scar . . . it will remain forever.”
She gasped. Then she set her hand on his knee, palm up. He smiled, encouraged.
“It is called a soul rune. Soul runes require blood—as all the most powerful runes do. It will hurt. I will have to cut you. But if I put it on your palm, the lines will not be noticeable. Our palms already have runes imprinted on them. See?”
He traced the line from the base of her hand as well as the lines that intersected it.
“All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Cup your hand so I can better follow the grooves,” he said. She obeyed, curving her hand so the skin creased. With the sharp tip of his knife, he scored her palm, drawing a thin ridge of blood in the wake of the blade. It stung, but she did not protest. The promise of connection was too great. She would have severed her hand if he’d asked.
He made the same mark on his own hand and pressed it to hers, mixing their blood and curling his fingers through hers. “Now . . . sing to me.”
She frowned. “You are sitting right here, holding my hand. You will be able to hear me without a rune.”
“I mean . . . sing to me with your mind. Sing the song in your thoughts . . . and I will tell you what I hear.”
It was hard to hear a melody in her head when his hand was pressed to hers. She was distracted by the warmth of his skin and the sadness in her chest and the wailing in her soul that had not quieted since she’d realized she was alone in the world.
“I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can,” he said softly. “Do songs not stay in your head when you wish they would not?”
“Yes,” she sighed. A song had already started to wriggle free. She screwed her eyes shut and focused her thoughts, hearing a melody without making a sound.
“That is lovely . . . but where are the words?” he asked after a moment. His voice was hollow, like it originated in her head and not from his mouth.