hear him. Afraid he wouldn’t hear her. Afraid he would not answer. She kept singing, out loud, and traced the rune again.
“I am here, Ghisla.”
His voice was as clear and discernable as her own, as though he sat with her in the macabre chamber, with only candlelight between them. She laughed in wonder.
“I have been waiting. Hoping.”
“I am never alone. I called out as soon as I could.”
“You must tell me everything.”
She could not keep the words in her head, the way they’d done in the clearing. Her thoughts were filled with his voice, and it was easier to speak naturally than to waste time and concentration on forming silent sentences.
“They call me Liis. Liis of Leok.”
“To me you will always be Ghisla of Tonlis. I know who you are.”
“Yes.” Emotion rose suddenly in her throat. “And you are the only one.”
“Are you well?”
She hesitated. What was well? She had not been well for a very long time. She doubted she ever would be again.
“I am fed. I am clothed. I am taught. I am learning to read. Do you know how to read, Hody?” She did not want to talk about herself.
“I cannot see the words on the scrolls . . . but I can make them, the way I make runes. I see the shapes in my mind and in the sand.”
“I am learning the runes, though the runes we have learned are simple and meaningless.”
“You have rune blood. Surely they know that by now. One only has to hear you sing.”
Talk of blood reminded her to prick her finger again.
“Ghisla?”
“Arwin told me to guard my gift. So I have. No one knows I am a Songr. I’m afraid they would cast me out or . . . worse. I must be Liis of Leok now.”
“You are happy there?” he pressed.
“I am happy now.” And she was. In that moment, she was perfectly, serenely happy.
“I am happy now too, Ghisla.” His voice was warm and pleased, flooding her mind and dripping down into her chest. For an hour they talked of the temple, of the people in it, and she sang him the songs she’d composed. She had a verse for each of the clan daughters, as well as Ghost and Alba.
“I can see them, Ghisla,” Hod exclaimed. “I can see them all.”
“Princess Alba is a beautiful little girl. Her hair is like moonlight.”
“You have shown me moonlight.”
“I have shown you moonlight and sunlight.”
“Your hair is like sunlight.”
“Yes.”
“Like grain,” he added.
“Alba’s hair is pale . . . but her skin is not. It is warm . . . like bread.”
“Like bread?”
“We knead and roll and twist and pull and let it sit upon the stone,” she sang slowly, reminding him of a song she’d sung in their days together in the cave.
“Ah yes. I remember now. Bread is . . . brown.” He said the word with the confidence of a child mastering a new skill, and her heart grew in her chest.
“She is glorious. And loved . . . and best of all, she loves.”
“That is good.”
“Yes. She is nothing like her father.”
“The king. The mighty Banruud. You will have to tell me more about the king. Is his hair like moonlight too?”
“No. His hair is like midnight. And his skin is pale. She looks nothing like him. He is a beast. He loves no one but himself.”
“I cannot see midnight.”
“Midnight is darkness. King Banruud is darkness.”
“Ah . . . I am well acquainted with darkness.”
He was silent for a moment, and so was she. Their time had come to an end, and her fingers ached from pricking them, though she’d smeared the rune with spittle too, to make the blood last longer.
“Next time, I will sing a song about the chieftains. And about the king,” she promised. “I have many more verses. I’ve been saving them for you.”
“Next time,” he agreed, wistful, though he did not ask her when that would be. “And . . . next time . . . you must sing me a song about Ghisla of Tonlis, so I can see your face.”
9
DAYS
Ghost was always watching, always wakeful, and nine days went by without Ghisla reaching out to Hod again. When she did finally seek him, late at night, he answered immediately, though he warned her not to despair when he didn’t.
“Arwin cannot know. If I do not answer, it is because I cannot, not because I want not.”