“Master . . . you must see if the way is clear. She will not make it ten steps in a crowded square. And what if Lothgar is not there?”
Arwin grumbled, folding his arms with indecision.
“Wait here.” He looked from Hod to Ghisla, pointing a long, crooked finger at her nose. “I won’t be gone long. No singing!”
As soon as he was gone, Hod reached out his hand. “Don’t be afraid, Ghisla.”
She ignored it and sank down to the dirt. Hod sat down beside her.
He handed her his flask and she drank deeply, hoping the water would wash away the despair bubbling up in her throat. She drank every last drop and handed it back to Hod.
“I . . . have been thinking,” he said.
She said nothing, and he reached for her again, following her arm down to her wrist and tugging her hand into his lap. She pulled it away. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“It is forbidden for anyone but the keepers to call on the runes,” he began, hesitant. “But these are strange times, and Arwin says I am being trained for a wise purpose. Mayhaps . . . this is it.”
“What are you talking about, Hody?” she whispered, and she thought for a moment he was going to weep.
“I want to put a rune on your palm.”
“Why?” She made her voice hard. Her own emotions threatened to spill over, and it was easier to be cold.
“If you trace the rune with blood and sing, I think I will be able to . . . hear you. And mayhaps you will be able to hear me. Would you like that?”
“I will hear you . . . always?”
“I don’t know. I think so. As long as the rune remains.”
“How long will the rune remain?”
“If it is a scar . . . it will remain forever.”
She gasped. Then she set her hand on his knee, palm up. He smiled, encouraged.
“It is called a soul rune. Soul runes require blood—as all the most powerful runes do. It will hurt. I will have to cut you. But if I put it on your palm, the lines will not be noticeable. Our palms already have runes imprinted on them. See?”
He traced the line from the base of her hand as well as the lines that intersected it.
“All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Cup your hand so I can better follow the grooves,” he said. She obeyed, curving her hand so the skin creased. With the sharp tip of his knife, he scored her palm, drawing a thin ridge of blood in the wake of the blade. It stung, but she did not protest. The promise of connection was too great. She would have severed her hand if he’d asked.
He made the same mark on his own hand and pressed it to hers, mixing their blood and curling his fingers through hers. “Now . . . sing to me.”
She frowned. “You are sitting right here, holding my hand. You will be able to hear me without a rune.”
“I mean . . . sing to me with your mind. Sing the song in your thoughts . . . and I will tell you what I hear.”
It was hard to hear a melody in her head when his hand was pressed to hers. She was distracted by the warmth of his skin and the sadness in her chest and the wailing in her soul that had not quieted since she’d realized she was alone in the world.
“I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can,” he said softly. “Do songs not stay in your head when you wish they would not?”
“Yes,” she sighed. A song had already started to wriggle free. She screwed her eyes shut and focused her thoughts, hearing a melody without making a sound.
“That is lovely . . . but where are the words?” he asked after a moment. His voice was hollow, like it originated in her head and not from his mouth.
Her eyes popped open.
“I heard you,” she marveled. She was holding his hand so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers.
“Yes . . . and I heard you. Try again,” he pressed.
In Tonlis there is music. In the ground and in the air. In Tonlis there is singing even when no one is there.
Hod repeated the words of the song, though he did not sing them, and she heard each one inside her head, echoing in his voice.
She laughed but immediately sobered. “But . . . I will not be able to hold your hand when I am gone.”
He released her and walked several steps. He extended his staff, rapping it against a tree to gauge its size and girth. Then he stepped behind it.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“No.”
“Good. Now sing inside your head again.”
My heart will be in Tonlis even when I leave her shores. My spirit will not sing again ’til I am home once more.
He repeated the words, and even in her head, his voice was sad.
“I hope your spirit will sing again, Ghisla.”
She flinched. It was one thing to hear him, it was another to converse, to open her thoughts to respond.
“Must I keep singing? Or can I simply talk to you?” she said, speaking out loud. He stepped out from behind the tree and returned to her side.
“Arwin is coming,” he said, his voice hushed, anxious.
Her heart galloped. She was not ready.
“Your hand will heal, but the mark will still be there,” he whispered, rushing to get through the words before Arwin appeared.
“It will scar.”
“Yes. Trace the rune with a drop of your blood and sing your song, wherever you are. Once you hear me, and I . . . hear . . . you, keep tracing the lines of the scar. It will keep us connected for a few moments, even when you cease to sing. And don’t tell Arwin. Tell no one. I fear they will use your gift against you.”
A moment later, Arwin’s figure was visible through the trees, and Hod ceased speaking.
“He is there,” Arwin said. “It is not yet time for the evening meal, and he has a man posted at the door. Let’s go, girl.” He wrapped his bony hand around her arm, pulling her up. Arwin arranged the blanket around her shoulders so her hair was once again covered as Hod rose too.
“Stay here, Hod,” Arwin bade and urged her forward.
Ghisla didn’t look back at him. She couldn’t. She thought he said goodbye, but the thundering in her ears was too great. If he followed, she did not know, and Arwin gave no indication that his order had not been heeded.
Lothgar’s keep was the biggest lodge on the square, and it was surrounded by stables and smaller dwellings on every side.
Arwin pointed at the man who stood beside the huge door, leaning on his sword, his long braid swinging as he turned his head from side to side.
He instructed Ghisla, “Go to that man. Ask for Chief Lothgar. Ask loudly. Insist. Tell him that you are answering Lothgar’s summons.”
“How will I know which one is the chief?”
“He sits on the biggest chair, and his hair and his beard make him look like a lion. He is loud, and large. He looks like a chief. The other men defer to him.”
She hesitated, terrified.
“Tell him you are of Leok. Tell him you want to go to the temple. Insist. He has no one else to send. He will be relieved. And he will keep you safe until you are delivered there.”
“And what about after I am delivered there?”
“You have nowhere else to go, child,” he growled.
She had nowhere else to go.
“Let them believe you are young,” Arwin reminded her. “It is better to be young. It will give you time.”