The voices came again, and she willed the soldiers not to spare her, but to take her swiftly. She did not want to burn, but she did not want to live. Mayhaps they could toss her into the well and let her sink into the cold darkness.
“Should we take her with us, Gudrun? She might live.”
“Leave her there. If she lives, she lives. But I’ll not be bringing her into my keep. You should not have touched her.”
“I will burn my clothes.”
“We will all burn our clothes. And then we will petition the gods that we aren’t next.”
“If she lives, she will be the only one,” another voice grunted. “The only one in the whole village. All the Songrs are gone.”
“Ghisla.”
Her name echoed from far away. She ignored it. She was ready to burn with all the others. She was not even afraid. But she would miss the nest Hod had made for her.
Hod. It was Hod who was speaking.
Memory settled as she rose from the deep well of sleep.
She was not home. She would never be home again. There was no home.
“Ghisla.” He was closer . . . or maybe she was. She was rising through the layers of sleep, rising against her will to the surface of the sea and the boy who hovered over her.
“Ghisla, you must wake now.” She felt a hand on her brow and fingertips at her lips, as though he tested to see whether she still breathed. She was not dead. Sadly, she was not dead.
“Ghisla. You must wake,” he repeated. “Your lips are dry and your skin is too hot. You need water and food. Ghisla . . .”
She raised a weary hand and swatted her name away. She did not want to wake. She did not want water or food. Suddenly, she was floating again, and she jolted, panicked, but her arms were too heavy to flail and her lids were too weary to open. Something dug into her belly, and she realized groggily that he was carrying her over his shoulder. Hod. Hod the Toad, Hod the blind boy, was carrying her. She forced her eyes open, and the ground bounced below her.
“You are blind,” she rasped.
“Yes. And you are sick. You are also very light. Which is fortunate for me. I have never carried someone before.”
She was slung over his shoulder like a lamb, his right hand securing her legs, his left hand wrapped around his staff.
“It is not yet dark . . . Could you not have let me sleep a bit longer?” she groaned.
“You have been asleep for two days. I had to use a rune to make you wake.”
“A rune?”
He did not answer but lowered her gently into the creek where he’d taken her to drink before. She gasped as the cold engulfed her, but he kept a hand beneath her head, keeping her face above water. It was not deep where she lay. She could feel the rocks against her shoulder blades and the small of her back. Her feet floated up, but she would not be swept away in the current.
“C-c-could you not just bring w-water to me?” she said, teeth chattering. “Why did you have to put me in the stream?”
“Your skin needs to cool. You need to drink . . . and you need a bath. This was the easiest way to accomplish all of those things.”
“I do not need a bath.” But she did need to relieve herself. The urge was terrible, but though the water would whisk it away, she could not do something so intimate with him looking on.
“Go away,” she snapped. “I need some privacy.”
“I cannot see you,” he reminded her.
“But you can smell me,” she grumbled.
His brows rose in surprise and his nose wrinkled. Belatedly she realized what she’d implied.
“I do not mean that!” she said. “I only need to empty my water.”
He eased her upright as he rose and then released her hesitantly. She swayed and her head knocked against his knee. He waited a moment, like he didn’t trust the creek or her strength, but she swatted at his leg.
“Go.”
“You are already much better,” he remarked, but he did as she asked, retreating downstream in search of their supper. He’d caught two shining, silvery fish before she’d summoned the strength to do anything but sit in the stream.
“My flask is on the rock near your head. A bit of soap too, if you like,” he called out a few minutes later. She muttered to herself about him “listening and not leaving” but made thorough use of both.
“Are all young girls so ill-tempered?” he called when she didn’t answer him.
“Are all blind boys so nosy?” she hollered back.
“I don’t know any other blind boys. But I can’t help it if I hear—and smell—better than others do.”
“Ha. You don’t smell any better to me.” Actually, he did. He smelled quite lovely. He smelled of honey and peat and the bark of the needled trees near his cave. He smelled clean. It was an odd thing for someone to be so clean—almost as odd as his name. Her brothers had not smelled nice. Not ever. Mother had had to coax them to wash, and they never did a good job of it.
The thought made her ache.
“Your breathing has changed. Are you all right?” he called.
“You can hear me breathing?” she gasped.
“Yes . . . Are you still unwell?”
“I said I needed privacy, Hod,” she whispered, but he heard that too. Suddenly he was back, kneeling beside her. He pressed his palms to her cheeks, checking for fever.
“I am fine,” she said. “I feel fine.”
“The heat is gone,” he agreed. “Are you finished?”
“What . . . You can’t tell?” she snapped.
“Only you know whether you are finished,” he said softly. “I can’t hear your thoughts. I wish I could.”
“I have used all the soap, and your flask is empty,” she supplied, trying to control her irritation. Beneath the prickling was a welling terror. She wasn’t tired anymore. She could not sleep away the hours ahead, and there would be nothing to distract her from her predicament. She was lost. She was alone. And she had nowhere to go.
“Can you walk?” he asked, like he’d done on the beach.
“Yes.” But she made no move to stand. “Hod?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t want to wake up. I would like to sleep again.”
“I know . . . but a bird must leave its nest.”
“Why?” she sighed.
“To eat. To live. To learn.”
“I don’t want to live. You said you used a rune to wake me. Can you use a rune to make me sleep forever?”
He was silent for a moment. “I should not have done that,” he admitted, misgiving ringing in his words.
“Done what?”
“I should not have told you about the rune. I am not accustomed to guarding my words. There is usually no one to hear them except Arwin . . . and he demands that I share them all. And master them.”
“Master your words?”
“Yes. And the runes.” He winced. “I’ve done it again.”
“Where is Arwin?” Had she asked that before?
“He will be back. I would . . . appreciate it if you did not tell him about the runes.”
“What can I tell him? I know nothing of such things. And you have not answered me. Can you make me sleep again?”