good to argue with him. He never said anything. His tongue was hopelessly tangled, and he only spoke when there was no way to avoid it.
Alba waved goodbye as Ghost ushered the girls from the gardens to join in evening worship. The keepers had moved from the sanctum and out onto the temple steps in a long purple line to sing their songs of supplication after the bells tolled.
Ghost and the daughters did not stand among them, but behind them in the shadow of the temple columns. The keepers sang the song of supplication, the one most commonly raised in evening worship. The daughters raised their voices in obedience as well, as they had been instructed to do, but half-heartedly.
Mayhaps singing in the garden had broken through a layer of fear and ice, but for the first time, Ghisla let herself sing with them—truly sing—her voice piercing the air the way her silence usually deflated the room.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies, divine.
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
Open my eyes to see, make me at one with thee,
Gods of my father and god of my soul.
Give me a home in hope, give me a place to go,
Give me a faith that will never grow cold.
Her voice was crystalline and cutting, sitting above the tenor tones of the complacent keepers. It grew and climbed, and she did not rein it back. It felt good to sing. It felt right, like rebirth, and she sang the prayer, beseeching the gods to protect her secret even as she revealed herself. The voices of the keepers, raised in habit, became voices hushed in awe, and still Ghisla sang, hating the words for making her ache yet reveling in the musical resurrection within her breast.
No one stopped her or cried out, and many continued to sing with her, though their voices softened as hers rose. Those around her listened and even marveled, but they did not seem shocked or afraid or even entranced, and the reticence that had been her constant companion for months abated. She let her eyes drift closed, surrendering to the music. One song rolled into another, the song of supplication followed by the plea to Odin, a song they’d sung in Tonlis too. She’d sung it for Hod, but she’d not dared to sing it since, even though the keepers knew it and regularly sang it. She sang it now as though she were alone.
Father Odin, are you watching? Do you see me down below?
Will you take me to the mountain, where the brave and glorious go?
I’m not strong and I’m not worthy, but I trust you’ll make me so.
Father Odin, are you watching? I am lost and I’m alone.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
When she finished, dulcet tones still piercing the air, she breathed deeply, momentarily freed, and then she opened her eyes.
The keepers’ faces were slick with tears, and Ghost and the daughters were weeping with bowed heads.
None of them would look at Ghisla.
Guilt and fear rocked her, and for a moment her knees weakened beneath the weight.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, gazing in horror at the trembling lips and streaming eyes. They hid their faces and mopped at their cheeks, as if they were embarrassed by their emotion.
What had she done?
“There is no reason to apologize,” Dagmar said, climbing the steps and stopping beside her. Master Ivo followed him, his black gaze boring into her, and Ghisla’s knees buckled again. Dagmar’s pale eyes were wet, but he smiled and steadied her. “Weeping is good, Liis. It eases the pain.”
“Then why will no one look at me?” she said, searching for reassurance and finding none. Ghost had disappeared into the temple without a word, and Juliah sat with her head on her knees. Elayne, tears dripping from her chin, was wiping the eyes of the younger girls, who cried like their hearts had been torn from their chests.
“There has not been enough weeping among us. None of us are accustomed to the relief of tears. But you have given us a beautiful gift. You have lightened our hearts.”
“It is true. So you must sing to us again, songbird,” Master Ivo rasped, the claw of his hand curling around his scepter. If there were tears on his cheeks, they had lost themselves in the creases of his skin,