interminable, though in truth it probably took mere minutes. When Bayr stopped and thumped the stone, the rock rumbled and an opening emerged before them, depositing them in the throne room of the king.
He was pacing and groaning, his advisors and a few of his men standing by, nervous and perspiring. The one named Bilge eyed Ghisla’s bare ankles and her messy hair and smirked as though he liked what he saw.
Bayr tried to announce her presence, but King Banruud cut him off, impatient.
“Go,” he roared, waving at the room. His advisors were eager to be gone, and Bilge swiped a bottle from the table and slinked for the door, shooting another look at Ghisla and her silent escort. Bayr did not leave.
“I w-will s-stay,” Bayr said, firm, though his stuttering tongue made him sound unsure.
“You will go.”
Bayr did not even flinch.
Banruud strode toward him—toward them—and swung at the boy. The air whooshed over Ghisla’s head and Bayr grunted, absorbing the backhand to his cheek, but he did not move. The king tensed to strike him again.
“What would you like me to sing, Majesty?” Ghisla cried, stepping in front of Bayr, and the king frowned down at her, his eyes ringed with exhaustion and shot with blood.
“You would cower behind a woman, Temple Boy?” he spat.
“Bayr says you want me to sing,” she rushed. “I will sing anything you wish.”
He glowered at her, his brow shining with perspiration, and turned away from them. Bayr’s face had already begun to swell.
The king threw himself onto his throne, rubbing at his temples and pulling at his hair, and Ghisla almost pitied him in his misery. She pitied Bayr more.
“Come here, Leok,” the king ordered, addressing her by the clan she represented. “Stand here. Next to me. Sing until I tell you to shut up.”
She looked up at Bayr and he nodded at her, trying to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. He did not trail behind her when she did as the king ordered, but he did not depart either.
She began with the song of parting, the mournful dirge that seemed most soothing, but the king swore and threw a wine-filled goblet against the floor, the deep-purple liquid dousing her feet and the strip of bare leg extending from her nightgown.
“Not keeper song,” he yelled.
“If not keeper song . . . what?”
“I do not want words. Only sound. I need bloody sound,” he ground out.
She formed her mouth in the shape of an O and pealed out the melody of several songs before the king’s head started to droop and a sigh of relief escaped his mouth. When she faltered, he lunged for her, dragging her closer.
“Do not stop,” he insisted.
She started over, her voice a wordless harp, and his hand remained a manacle around her wrist, keeping her going. The base of his big palm pressed to hers, and his mind opened like the stone wall of the tunnel.
She could hear him.
He’d had too much to drink. The wine smeared his thoughts and scattered his internal dialogue. And beneath the mess was the tinny bleating that was driving him mad.
It would drive her mad. She fixed her eyes on her wine-spattered feet and pushed onward, her voice moving over the melodies, no words, only sound, as the king had requested.
Ghost’s face and Alba’s name bounced through his dream. And another woman. Desdemona. Desdemona . . . Dagmar’s sister. Bayr’s mother. Her hair was a black tumble and her eyes were blue and filled with scorn. Desdemona’s face became Bayr’s, and Ghisla faltered again, shaken.
Banruud’s hand tightened around her wrist. She sang louder, trying not to see what was in his tormented head.
There were other names. Other faces. Flickering like flames, licking at the king’s dreams, and then . . . the ringing in the king’s head faded, bit by bit, like it too had fallen asleep. His fingers became lax and his hand fell away, dangling over the arm of his throne.
Ghisla finished her song, her final stanza so light it barely caressed her lips. She stood, staring at the slumbering king for several minutes, afraid to move and too weary to continue singing. When he did not wake, she eased away from his throne.
Bayr had fallen asleep sitting against the wall, his arms propped on his knees, his head against the frame of the door. His cheek had blackened while she sang. She walked toward him with a careful tread, but he opened his eyes when she drew