connection each time. Hod said he could only see the things she sang about, and even then he did not see them with his eyes but with his thoughts. She became adept at crafting songs to describe her world.
She always called out to him with a song—any song, though the anthems of the Songrs seemed to work best, and he saw those images most clearly. Mayhaps it was the ancient words or the melodies that had been sung so many times they became part of the wind that moved over Saylok, songs soaked up by the clouds and released again in rain, the cycle continuously renewing. Mayhaps it was just Ghisla herself, and the heritage in her blood and bones, the heritage of a people that had sung the songs for centuries and passed them on through life and death.
She and Hod never spoke as long as they wanted to. They were both terrified of discovery. The daughters were, by design, shut off from the men of Saylok. Fraternizing with a boy—even one who lived far away—would not be tolerated. She also knew that the rune on her hand and the gift that made the connection possible would bring devastation down upon both of them.
The keepers had their work and their runes and the companionship of the brotherhood. The daughters were expected to limit their companionship the same way and were kept isolated from everyone but the keepers, the king, and, of course, each other. The chieftains demanded to see them whenever a council was called, and the daughters would be paraded in front of them like cattle so the chieftains could report back to their clans on their welfare.
After one such visit, Ghisla complained to Hod, “Chief Lothgar says I am fattening up nicely. He seemed so proud, like it was his doing.”
“You were the size of a tiny bird. I cannot imagine it. You must show me.”
Ghisla imagined sheep, thick with winter wool, shuffling into the temple enclosures and used a gruff voice, mocking the big Chieftain of Leok. She wasn’t as good at mimicry as Bashti, but she tried.
Liis of Leok,
How you’ve grown,
Since you left your long-lost home.
Let me pinch your puffy cheeks
And watch you waddle like a sheep.
Hod laughed as she expected him to, but he wanted to hear about the council in detail.
“I cannot tell you much more. We are brought in, looked upon—sometimes I sing—and then we are escorted out. We are not privy to the conversations of the men, though Keeper Dagmar tries to answer our questions when we ask. He is the only one who does.”
She sang the lines she’d crafted for Dagmar, his pale eyes, thin face, and patient ways.
“Keeper Dagmar reminds me of you. He is wise and kind. Mayhaps it is his mannerisms more than his appearance.”
“I remember. Keeper Dagmar is of Dolphys. He is the uncle to Bayr, the Temple Boy, who watches the princess,” Hod recited. Hod was fascinated with the Temple Boy, and they talked of him often—his strength, his size, and his stuttering tongue. It seemed to comfort Hod that a boy so gifted had such a weakness.
“Two sides of the same sword. Just like Arwin always says.”
“He is so powerful, yet he can hardly speak. His tongue is cursed. I have thought perhaps . . . if he would learn to sing it would help loosen his words.”
“You must teach him,” Hod pressed. But Ghisla doubted such an opportunity would present itself.
“Tell me more.”
“Dagmar is his uncle, yet no one talks of his mother or father. Juliah says he is the son of Thor, and someday he will kill the king and break the curse upon the land.”
“Juliah of Joran. The daughter with the warring spirit.”
“Yes. She does not want to be a keeper. She does not like being a woman either, I don’t think, though Bayr has taught her how to throw a spear and shoot a bow and wield a sword. He has tried to teach us all, but Dalys is so small she can barely lift one off the ground.”
“Smaller than you?”
“Much smaller. I am growing, remember? And I am mean. Both seem to have helped me in swordplay.”
“You are mean? This is not true. You are simply irritable. Like Arwin. He is quite skilled at swordplay as well, though I have begun to defeat him regularly. He says he will bring me a new teacher to teach me what he cannot.”