“I am here . . . but I know nothing about you . . . or this place,” she said.
“Ask the runes, Master. Then you will know she speaks the truth,” Hod urged.
“Silence, boy!” Arwin yowled. He reacted thus with every mention of the runes, as if he thought she had come to take them . . . or see them. Or learn them.
“How old are you, girl?”
“Fourteen summers.”
“No,” Arwin scoffed as if she’d lied, though she had no reason to do so.
“Yes,” she answered.
“You are small. You haven’t a woman’s form. You look much younger,” Arwin argued.
He was right. She had no breasts or hips. And though her hair was long, with Hod’s old tunic and leggings, most would think her a boy.
“You don’t have the face of a boy,” he mused. It was like he read her thoughts. “Too pretty. Lips too pink, eyes too knowing.” He nodded to himself, persuaded. “Aye. No doubt about it. You’re a witch.”
4
STEPS
It was not Ghisla’s song that convinced Arwin she was not a witch. It was the fact that he was not nearly so affected by it as Hod, who sat in rapt stillness as she sang Arwin the ballad of the Songr, an anthem of her people and the place known for its music.
When she was finished, Arwin was frowning, confused, and even more suspicious. He’d been terrified to hear her sing, convinced she’d render him helpless and kill him in his stupor. He’d held a bow—strung, drawn, and aimed at her heart—throughout her ballad.
“I see images . . . but they are no more powerful than my own thoughts,” he said. “The song paints a story. ’Tis all. It is beautiful, though. Sweet and clear. I should like to hear more.” He frowned again, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Mayhaps that is the trick, to hypnotize. To hypnotize . . . and destroy young Hod.”
“There is no trick, Arwin,” Ghisla said, but he did not believe her, and he guarded her all night, relegating Hod to other chambers, promising that on the morrow he would take her to the man named Lothgar.
She curled in her nest, willing herself to sleep, but could not do so with his eyes boring into her back.
“He is listening, you know. There is no place I can send him where he won’t hear. Yet I walked through the forest and was upon him without him knowing I had returned.”
She waited, uncertain. She didn’t know what he wanted her to say.
“Lothgar will not harm you.”
“I don’t care if he does. As long as it is quick. And final.”
He grunted. “You are an odd child. Lothgar may not accept you.”
She was certain he wouldn’t. She said nothing.
“He will want to know about your home. It would be better not to tell him.”
Burnt fields and a razed village rose in her mind. Was home a country? The land beneath one’s feet? Or was home people? She didn’t ask him.
“I have no home,” she whispered.
“Why are you here?” he asked, suspicious again. Fearful again. It was that note of fear that made her answer.
“I don’t know. I did not choose this place. My family died, so I tried to die, but the sea would not have me. Odin would not have me. Even death would not have me. No one will have me. Not even you.”
She heard the self-pity in her voice and loathed herself, but when Arwin spoke again, his voice had gentled.
“You cannot stay here, Songr.”
“I do not want to stay here,” she said. It was true . . . and it was a lie. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Arwin, but she would very much like to remain with Hod.
“It is not good for Hod,” Arwin added.
“Why?” she asked. But she knew what he was going to say.
“All his senses are dulled when you are near.”
“All his senses?” That wasn’t true.
“All his senses but his sight,” he amended. “When he sees, he hears nothing. He feels nothing. He sits like a thirsty drunk, lapping up what he sees like it is elixir. You cannot sing to him forever. The moment you stop . . . he is in darkness again.”
“Then I won’t sing,” she promised.
He scoffed.
“You keep speaking of runes. Is that what you are afraid of? I don’t know how to write words. I can’t read. I know naught of your silly runes,” she said.
He glared, but she continued, desperate to convince him.
“Hod says you are a cave keeper. I don’t want your cave. I don’t want anything at all . . . except maybe somewhere to sleep and something to eat.” She was hungry. Her appetite was returning. Mayhaps that meant she cared enough about her own life to feed it, which worried her. Caring—about herself and others—was not something she wanted to do. She had done that once before. Never again. But she did need somewhere to live.
“I know nothing of runes,” she repeated. “I know only of songs.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe he had already made up his mind because Arwin’s face was hard and his voice firm.
“You will destroy him. You have to go. You cannot stay here.”
Arwin sat in a chair near the fire throughout the night, guarding her, but he had been unable to keep sleep at bay and snored so loudly she lay awake much of the night, caught between indifference and indecision. Hod was powerless; she could not stay with him if Arwin would not allow it. But she could run away again. Hod might hear her go . . . but he would not bring her back. He had nothing to bring her back to.
“I can go anywhere,” she said aloud, trying to buoy herself up. She was strong. She was brave. Arwin snorted in his sleep, and tears pricked her eyes.
“I can. And I will.”
She rose from the pile of furs. Arwin did not wake.
She paused at the table where the knives were lined up in a neat row and took one, slipping it into the rope belt at her waist. Then she fled from the cave, out into the moonlit night, out into the trees that stood as a silent sentry. She would hide somewhere. Mayhaps she could find her own cave. Or mayhaps she would simply walk until she was too tired to think. She picked her way down the hill, back toward the beach where Hod had found her days ago. She would walk along the shoreline; it would be easier than going higher into the hills. She had made it to the shore when Hod spoke from behind her. She jumped but muffled her scream just in time.
“Don’t go,” he said.
She caught her breath, panting, but then continued on, out toward the place where the rocks became sand. Hod followed.
“It is not safe.”
“He will not let me stay,” she said. Her voice rang with accusation, and Hod did not defend himself, nor did he argue the truth of her statement.
“You must let him take you to Lothgar,” he said quietly. “Lothgar is an honorable man, and a good chieftain. He has daughters of his own and a wife. He is loved by his people. You will be safe under his guardianship.”
The tears were back, prickling and pushing against her eyes.
“I would rather stay with you.” It was the darkness that wrenched the confession from her. She would not have said such a thing in the light.
“That is what I wish as well,” he whispered. “But mayhaps . . . that is not what is best for either of us.”