Her sobbing had ceased, but somehow her anger had not ebbed. It burned, hot and sour, in the pit of her stomach.
Hod knelt beside her and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her into his lap as he stole her position against the tree. He made her drink from his water flask until her stomach sloshed and her skin cooled. Then he washed the salty streaks from her cheeks and smoothed her tumbled hair. Finally, he asked where she was going.
“I am going home,” she said.
He did not argue that the Songrs were gone, that Tonlis had been reduced to ash.
“Where is home?” he asked gently.
“Home is wherever you are,” she whispered. “And Master Ivo has denied you. He cannot decide whether you are good or evil.”
He sighed, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair that clung to her forehead. He didn’t ask how she knew, and he didn’t deny it.
“You must go back to the temple,” he said, but his voice broke on the words.
“I want to go with you.”
“The women are protected by their clans . . . And I have no clan to protect you.”
“You have no clan, and I am the property of the temple. The property of the king,” she said, her voice as shattered as his.
“We all live under the oppression of these circumstances,” he whispered. “All of us.”
“I am not comforted by our collective suffering,” she shot back.
“The population is frantic, and the chieftains are frenzied. It is not just a famine or a drought. People fear it is permanent, the end of Saylok.” She could not tell if he was trying to convince her or himself.
“I do not care about Saylok.”
“If the scourge does not end, there is no hope for us, Ghisla,” he said, and for the first time in her memory, his voice was sharp. Bitterly so.
“There is no hope for us anyway,” she mourned.
He pressed his forehead to hers, gripping her face like he could make her believe through the force of his will.
“Promise me you will not give up,” he ground out. “Promise me.”
“Oh, Hody.” It was what he always said, and he always said it with such conviction, like it was enough to just say the words.
“Promise me you will not give up, Ghisla.”
“Give up on what, Hod?”
“Give up on life. Give up on . . . me. Give up on us.”
“Will there ever be an us?”
“There is an us now. There has been an us for four years.”
His voice echoed the anguish in her breast. “But you are leaving,” she groaned. “And I cannot bear it.”
“I will come back.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. But I will return. I promise.”
She did not believe him, and the agony in her chest screamed louder.
He kissed her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, and the tip of her chin before he settled his mouth on hers, trying to extract the meaningless pledge from her lips. She kissed him back, hungry. Frantic. Hopeless.
She broke away, panting, and twisted her hands in his tunic. He could give her fifteen promises and countless kisses, and it would change nothing.
“You have destroyed me,” she whispered, the realization so sharp and sudden she gnashed her teeth to keep from crying out.
Hod flinched.
“You have destroyed me. You have made me long for a life I cannot have. You have made me love you. What a fool I’ve been. What a fool!” she said, shuddering. “Tomorrow you will leave, and I will be here, wanting you. Wanting what you cannot give me and what I cannot give myself.”
He did not even defend himself, and his willingness to shoulder her condemnation, to bear her irrational wrath broke her all over again. She clawed at him, crazed, and sank her teeth into his shoulder. He moaned and buried his face in her hair, and she bit him again, so angry she did not even know herself.
“You are right. I have nothing to give you but my heart, Ghisla,” he ground out. “But it is yours. Every beat. Every bloody inch. You have ripped it from my chest. If I have destroyed you, you . . . have . . . obliterated . . . me.”
He rolled so she was pinned beneath him, trapping her flailing fists and bruising hands. Then his mouth captured hers, and he held her face in his hands as she raged and railed against him. She snapped at the softness of his lips, but he did not retreat. Instead, he bathed her mouth in gentleness, in worship,