“No . . . they want to marry into the clans. My two sisters chose warriors from the clans, though they had no feeling for them.”
“Protection?”
“Aye. One went to Joran, and one to Dolphys. My father was glad to see them go. It was an endless duty keeping the wolves at bay. He received a fine bride-price for both.”
The two guards did not seem to notice Hod as they walked back to their posts inside the palace; he could usually hear a hitch in the breath or a surge in the blood that signaled awareness, but the guards thought the square abandoned in the wee hours of the morning.
A handful of inebriated warriors approached. He suspected they were from Adyar from the tilt of their tongues over their words, but their voices were slurred and their footfalls stuttered, and they did not react to him either.
He listened for Ghisla, hoping she would call out to him again, but she must have been too afraid . . . or too weary . . . and she was silent. He circled the mount several times, walking the perimeter and winding in and out of the camps of the visiting clans and tournament goers while the world was quiet. He measured distances and determined the dangers, learning the lay of the land and making note of the sounds and scents that marked each footstep. It was what he did in every new place. People presented different challenges than animals. Mountains were harder than valleys. Wind distorted smells, and rain could quickly change the terrain. He was adept—more than adept—at taking it all in stride while listening and learning and altering his course based on experience and instinct, but he always familiarized himself with his surroundings, and he never took his abilities for granted.
He did not allow himself to doubt them either. To doubt was to falter, to falter was to fail, and in almost every situation, he knew what to do. But he did not know what to do about Ghisla.
He whispered her name, just to release it from his thoughts, and a portion of his earlier happiness swelled in his breast. She’d been so thrilled to see him. Overjoyed.
He’d held her in his arms while she’d talked to him—not in his head, but mere inches away from her. He could hardly believe it had happened. That it was real. They’d had so little time, but every second had exceeded his expectations.
He had not worried that they would have nothing to say; they had never struggled with that in the four years they’d conversed. His love for her was not the fondness of a new friend or the novelty of a forbidden relationship. It was deep and abiding. For four years, he had beseeched the fates for her welfare and begged the gods to watch over her, but he had wondered if his love for her would manifest itself differently now that they were older. Now that they knew each other so much better.
If anything, his feelings had grown. She had grown.
The little bird she’d been was gone; he’d been almost afraid to touch her when he’d found her on the beach that first day. She was still slender, still dainty, but her hips were rounded, her breasts well formed, and her legs long. A man noticed such things when a woman wrapped herself around him.
He berated himself and halted, needing to put her out of his thoughts. She was too distracting, and he could not afford to have his attention elsewhere while he crept among the camps. He breathed deeply, attempting to clear his mind, but her words rose up, unbidden.
The sky is dark but he is light,
And though his eyes aren’t blessed with sight,
His joy is full, his wings are strong.
He dances to a distant song.
For four years, she had been his distant song. Now he was here, and he didn’t know how he would part with her again.
14
STARS
“I see nothing . . . and you see so much. I can hear a nest full of little birds, calling for their mother from the wood below, but I cannot hear a man’s thoughts,” Hod said as they sat together the next night, tucked into a natural alcove on the hillside. He was subdued and troubled, and he kept asking questions about the king.
“It is more confusing than clarifying most of the time. I only see pieces . . . parts . . . and those