someone would swoop her up like in years past and try to escape with her. As always, Ghost remained inside the temple throughout the tournament, watching from shuttered windows, hiding her pale face from public view.
The green of Ghisla’s robe was not the silvery green of pines or the yellow-green of the autumn grass. It was the green of fields after days of rain, the green beneath the mists of Hody’s eyes, and she loved it. She couldn’t wait to tell Hod all about it—to show him—while he sat beside her. Soon they would be together, and she could hardly contain the horrible joy and dread that swelled in her breast.
It was hot beneath her new green robe; the platform was shaded by the temple, but the heat from the continually burning Hearth of Kings made the square too warm in the waning summer sun. They stood in the square for hours. Master Ivo and the king were agreed on that.
“You give the people hope that there will be daughters again . . . that daughters can still thrive in Saylok,” Dagmar said, though standing in the heat being observed for hours on end did not feel like thriving.
During the tournament, people came from every clan and swarmed the mount for days. Beggars, peddlers, musicians, and thieves were all welcomed. The crippled and the sick were brought to the temple as well, hoping to be healed. Criminals seemed more prevalent than ever; to be pardoned by a keeper meant a clean slate in the new year, and the keepers collected coins and confessions from the condemned in body and spirit. The crowd was filled with both the piteous and the dangerous, and Ghisla feared for Hod, moving among them.
And then she saw him.
Her gaze should have bounced over him, but it caught and stayed. He too wore a robe, but the hood was pushed back from his face, and it hung open over his tunic and hose. He held a staff like he’d done years before, but he did not prop his weight against it or let it fall loosely at his side. It was as straight and upright as he was, his touch upon it light, like he was prepared at any moment to jab it or swing it round.
He lifted his head like he was tasting the air, and her heart leaped and her thoughts sang in a jubilant chorus.
Hody, Hody, Hody, Hody.
His hair was still shorn. He looked like the keepers—no braid swung between his shoulders like the warriors from the clans. He didn’t wear their colors either. All around him was a sea of bouncing colors, and he should have been drab, standing among them, but the absence of color, the gray of his clothes, the rough brown stubble of his hair, and the stillness of his form served as a beacon for her eyes.
He was tall, but not terribly so, and he was still thin, though his shoulders had widened and his neck was corded with strength.
Hody, Hody, Hody, Hody.
She dare not sing his name out loud; her sisters would hear. And she could not prick her finger to trace the rune on her hand. Her palms were wet with perspiration, which might be enough, and she pressed her right hand to her heart, willing him to hear her summons, as close as they were.
Hesitantly his right hand rose, though he did not turn toward her, and he copied the motion, pressing his palm to his chest. Almost immediately, she heard a muted drumbeat in her head, steady and strong, like his heart said her name: ghis LUH, ghis LUH, ghis LUH.
There was no way he could approach her. No way they could speak. Not now. The keepers encircled the daughters, and temple guards were posted to keep the clansmen and villagers from being too familiar. He would not be able to get any nearer.
And she could not approach him.
A surge of despair welled with the heat. She could see him. He was so close. And yet . . . there was nothing to be done but wait. Wait. Until when? Her despondency grew.
“I am ill,” she insisted, drawing the startled gaze of her sisters. “I feel faint.”
“It is very hot,” Elayne agreed.
“Dagmar,” Ghisla raised her voice, adamant. “I am ill. I must go inside.”
“We will all go inside,” Dagmar said, his voice revealing a note of relief. “You have been on display long enough.”
The day was interminable and made even longer by the reluctance