says our Liis is not of Leok at all. She is a Songr. Did you know that, archer?”
Hod should not have been surprised; Ghisla had told him the Highest Keeper knew, but Dagmar’s query startled him, and he did not like the way he called her “our Liis.”
“Yes. I know . . . she is a Songr.”
“Did you know her before . . . before she ever came to Temple Hill?” Dagmar pressed.
“Yes.”
“Ahh. I see,” Dagmar breathed.
“Do you?” Hod whispered. He wished he did. The gates had closed. Ghisla was within the walls, and he could no longer hear her heart. She was too far away.
“Master Ivo says you have an affinity for the runes. You have been trained to use them . . . though their use . . . is forbidden to all but the keepers.”
“The Highest Keeper sent me to be trained. My knowledge was sanctioned . . . and yet . . . he has rejected me.” Hod could not keep his attention on the conversation at hand. He was in agony.
“He does not trust you, Hod,” Dagmar said, his tone like a whip. It stung, and Hod snapped back to attention.
“Does he trust you, Keeper Dagmar?” he shot back, defensive.
Dagmar’s heart stuttered, his conscience clearly tweaked, and Hod continued. “I’ve done nothing to warrant the Highest Keeper’s distrust or suspicion. I was born blind and clanless, the son of a harlot. And I am strange. Those are my crimes.”
“Those are your crimes?” Dagmar scoffed, incredulous. “You . . . slept . . . with a daughter of the temple. You took her from the mount during the tournament. The countryside is crawling with the clanless and the depraved. Have you any idea how much danger she was in? How much danger she is still in?”
“You must tell Master Ivo,” Hod murmured, his tone sardonic. “Tell him I am in love with a temple daughter, and I have used a forbidden rune. Tell him so that I will be banned from the temple, banished from the mount, and my eyes burned out of my head.”
“Have you no remorse? You are lucky you are not swinging from the north gate,” Dagmar said.
Hod straightened his staff, signaling his readiness to leave. “Be that as it may . . . It is a long way back to Leok. I would appreciate it if you would tell my teacher that I will wait for him along the route. Unless . . . unless you would like me to accompany you back to the mount to stand trial?”
“I did not think you a villain or a fool, blind archer. But now . . . I’m not so certain. I thought you like my nephew. But I realize now . . . you are more like . . . the king.” Dagmar sounded genuinely flummoxed, and his heartbeat underscored his distrust and dismay.
“I want the robe,” Hod insisted. He wanted it, and they were past pretense.
Dagmar turned to go, dropping Ghisla’s robe at Hod’s feet as he did.
“This robe condemns you. If you love her . . . as you say you do . . . you will not return to the mount. Ever. And you will pray to Odin she does not suffer for your selfishness.”
His disapproval was more than Hod could bear.
“There are two runes beneath this tree. The rune of strength and another, one that I don’t recognize. When I touched it, it rattled like a snake. Do you know anything about them, Keeper Dagmar?”
He regretted his words immediately.
His anger had caused him to lash out. His knowledge—Ghisla’s knowledge—should not have been used thus. He was not in control of himself, and every word from his mouth oozed menace. He was acting like a threat, and Dagmar treated him as such.
“If you come back to the mount, I will see that you get the punishment you deserve. Do you understand, Hod?” he whispered.
“I am not who you think I am,” Hod said, repentant, but even his contrition sounded ominous.
“No . . . I fear you are far worse.” Dagmar spoke the words with such conviction, Hod almost believed them true.
With that, Dagmar left the clearing, giving Hod his back.
Ghisla didn’t climb the hillside to the east gate but ran along the edge of the wood, searching for the horses and men Hod had heard. She needed to be seen, and she didn’t stop to consider or fear what was to come.
A cry went up. A watchman on the wall