marveled. She was holding his hand so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers.
“Yes . . . and I heard you. Try again,” he pressed.
In Tonlis there is music. In the ground and in the air. In Tonlis there is singing even when no one is there.
Hod repeated the words of the song, though he did not sing them, and she heard each one inside her head, echoing in his voice.
She laughed but immediately sobered. “But . . . I will not be able to hold your hand when I am gone.”
He released her and walked several steps. He extended his staff, rapping it against a tree to gauge its size and girth. Then he stepped behind it.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“No.”
“Good. Now sing inside your head again.”
My heart will be in Tonlis even when I leave her shores. My spirit will not sing again ’til I am home once more.
He repeated the words, and even in her head, his voice was sad.
“I hope your spirit will sing again, Ghisla.”
She flinched. It was one thing to hear him, it was another to converse, to open her thoughts to respond.
“Must I keep singing? Or can I simply talk to you?” she said, speaking out loud. He stepped out from behind the tree and returned to her side.
“Arwin is coming,” he said, his voice hushed, anxious.
Her heart galloped. She was not ready.
“Your hand will heal, but the mark will still be there,” he whispered, rushing to get through the words before Arwin appeared.
“It will scar.”
“Yes. Trace the rune with a drop of your blood and sing your song, wherever you are. Once you hear me, and I . . . hear . . . you, keep tracing the lines of the scar. It will keep us connected for a few moments, even when you cease to sing. And don’t tell Arwin. Tell no one. I fear they will use your gift against you.”
A moment later, Arwin’s figure was visible through the trees, and Hod ceased speaking.
“He is there,” Arwin said. “It is not yet time for the evening meal, and he has a man posted at the door. Let’s go, girl.” He wrapped his bony hand around her arm, pulling her up. Arwin arranged the blanket around her shoulders so her hair was once again covered as Hod rose too.
“Stay here, Hod,” Arwin bade and urged her forward.
Ghisla didn’t look back at him. She couldn’t. She thought he said goodbye, but the thundering in her ears was too great. If he followed, she did not know, and Arwin gave no indication that his order had not been heeded.
Lothgar’s keep was the biggest lodge on the square, and it was surrounded by stables and smaller dwellings on every side.
Arwin pointed at the man who stood beside the huge door, leaning on his sword, his long braid swinging as he turned his head from side to side.
He instructed Ghisla, “Go to that man. Ask for Chief Lothgar. Ask loudly. Insist. Tell him that you are answering Lothgar’s summons.”
“How will I know which one is the chief?”
“He sits on the biggest chair, and his hair and his beard make him look like a lion. He is loud, and large. He looks like a chief. The other men defer to him.”
She hesitated, terrified.
“Tell him you are of Leok. Tell him you want to go to the temple. Insist. He has no one else to send. He will be relieved. And he will keep you safe until you are delivered there.”
“And what about after I am delivered there?”
“You have nowhere else to go, child,” he growled.
She had nowhere else to go.
“Let them believe you are young,” Arwin reminded her. “It is better to be young. It will give you time.”
The buds of her breasts were like rocks, hard and sore, so sore she could not sleep on her stomach as she preferred to do, and her legs ached with the pangs of growth. She would not be small—not this small—forever, and she would not pass for nine or ten much longer. Blood had begun to seep from between her legs. Not much. And not often. But she knew what it meant.
“Please let me stay with you.” Her plea shamed her, and it did nothing to change his mind.
“I can’t,” he said, firm, and she knew he would not relent. “There will be questions if I accompany you. Questions I cannot answer. It will go better for you if you are alone. Do not speak of me