stolen daughter—that he did not hear the keeper until it was almost too late.
Hod could have eluded him. He could have turned then and slipped back into the trees and hid until it was safe to come out. Arwin would worry about his absence, and he would miss the final day of competition, but there was no help for that. He could not return to the mount now, not yet; he would have to wait until the fervor had died and Ghisla was safely ensconced inside the temple.
Hod recognized the keeper—the sound of him, both the rhythm of his heart and the echo it made in his chest—and he wasn’t afraid. So he waited, turning in the direction of the man’s approach, and kept his staff and his feet planted. He didn’t close his eyes to make his visitor more comfortable. He knew his strangeness disconcerted most people, and he didn’t yet know if Dagmar was an enemy. He hoped not.
Dagmar paused when he was still some distance away. He whispered Odin’s name like he was preparing himself or pleading for intercession. He couldn’t have known that Hod could hear him far better than the Allfather.
“You don’t need to fear me, Keeper. Do I need to fear you?” Hod called out to him.
He heard Dagmar put his hand to the blade at his waist, fingering the handle.
“You are considering your dagger. Mayhaps I do,” Hod said.
“You can hear a man’s heartbeat . . . I suppose I should have known you would hear me approach and . . . reach for my knife,” Dagmar said.
“Aye. You should have known. If I were as evil as Ivo fears, you would be dead, Keeper.”
“I’ve come for Liis.”
Liis. The name did not sit right in Hod’s chest. He didn’t like it, and he was suddenly angry that Ghisla had been made to answer to it.
“Liis of Leok has returned to the mount,” he said, his voice bitter. He did not bother to explain himself or make up a story. He simply told the simplest truth and left it at that.
“But she was here. With you.” It was not a question.
“She came here alone. She left alone.”
“Was she the reason you entreated the Highest Keeper for supplication?” Dagmar asked.
“I have trained my whole life to be a keeper.”
“That is not what I asked, Hod.”
When Hod did not answer, Dagmar continued as if it was obvious.
“And if Ivo had allowed you entrance . . . what then? Keepers are not allowed to love. We are not allowed wives or families. Your feelings would have been immediately discovered.”
“Have yours been?” Hod asked. Turbulence trembled in his chest, but his voice was mild.
Dagmar hissed in surprise, and Hod continued, unable to bear the hypocrisy.
“You love the ghost woman. She loves you. And yet you live, year after year, pretending otherwise. I could have pretended too.”
“Who are you?” Dagmar whispered. Hod had revealed too much, and he tried to gather his thoughts and calm the anxious bubbling in his veins.
“I am just a blind man with an exceptional pair of ears.”
Dagmar was silent, as though he considered this. “Must we talk thus? Or do you trust me to come closer?” he asked.
Hod cast his senses to the mount, to the song that was Ghisla. She was on horseback now, a warrior at her back. They were climbing the hill and the bells were clanging again, though the cadence had changed from frantic clamor to sedate signaling.
“All is well,” Dagmar said, exhaling. He could hear the difference too.
“All is far from well,” Hod whispered.
Dagmar closed the distance between them, his breathing cautious, his gaze tangible, and Hod lowered the tip of his staff toward him, warning the keeper not to come too close. His nerves were raw, his emotions frayed, and the numbing effects of his euphoria were fading the higher Ghisla climbed. Soon she would be behind the walls.
Again.
And they would be apart.
Again.
“She left her robe,” Dagmar said softly.
Ghisla had left her robe? Oh, gods. She’d left her robe.
He heard Dagmar stoop to retrieve it from the ground.
“How is it that you came here?” Hod asked. “Of everywhere you could look, you came here. To this spot.”
“The runes can be useful,” Dagmar said.
“Ahh. So that was you. I thought I felt someone . . . watching.”
“We were afraid for her.”
“Afraid . . . of me?” Hod asked. The irony was laughable. He was powerless against the enclave. He had nothing. He was nothing.