Home > The Second Blind Son (The Chronicles of Saylok)(8)

The Second Blind Son (The Chronicles of Saylok)(8)
Author: Amy Harmon

She frowned. “Why would Arwin name you Hod?” It seemed almost cruel.

“He says I must learn from his example.”

“Huh. And why did Arwin name you . . . and not your parents?”

“I had a different name once, I suppose. But I do not know what it was. I was very small when I came to live with Arwin.”

“You live here . . . in this cave, all the time?”

“Arwin is the cave keeper. There is one cave keeper in each clan.”

“I did not know caves needed keeping,” she said, doubtful, though it was a very fine cave.

“Only some caves.”

“I think you are telling me stories again,” she said.

“No,” he said. “It is true.”

“Well . . . I liked the story of Hod, the god . . . but I still do not like that name.”

He shrugged. “It is only a name. It matters little. Who gave you your name?”

“Ghisla means promise. It means a sacred oath. But my mother and father never told me why they chose it. And they certainly didn’t keep their promise to me.”

“What promise was that?”

“They left me behind.”

“But not by choice,” he soothed.

“Then they should not have sworn to me that all would be well.” Her sudden anger felt good. It burned off the clinging sadness, sizzling and snapping, and she considered it, feeding it with more thoughts of injustice. Mayhaps if she hated her family she would not hurt so much.

“It is only a name,” he repeated softly, almost defending them, and her anger flared toward him. He sighed as though he felt the heat of it, and for several moments they sat in silence, waiting for their dinner to cook. It was not until they were finished eating, their plates washed and dried and set neatly on the shelf, hot tea in their cups, that he spoke again.

“Do you worship Odin where you come from?” he asked, steering her to new, cooler waters. She let them wash over her, dousing the flame of her ire.

“The Northlands are very vast,” she answered. “I cannot speak for all who live there. I am from Tonlis. We sing songs to him . . . and to Freya . . . and to the stars and the ground and the rocks and the plants. We have music for all things.”

“You’re a Songr,” he said, awe ringing in his words. “I have heard tales of the Songrs.”

“You have?”

“Arwin says the Songrs sing the runes.”

“I do not know runes,” she protested, frowning.

“No . . . not many do. But you know the songs.”

“I know many songs.”

“Will you sing one for me? Please?” he pressed.

“I do not want to sing right now. I don’t know if I want to sing anymore.”

“But . . . why?” The note of pleading in his voice was sweet, and she almost relented right then.

“It hurts too much,” she rasped.

“It hurts your throat?”

“It hurts my heart.”

He was silent, and she thought he’d accepted her refusal.

“Arwin says the pain will become strength if we embrace it,” he said.

“I do not like Arwin.”

Hod laughed, the hot brew he’d just sipped spewing from his mouth.

“I do not think he exists. I think he is like the blind god,” she added, taunting him.

“You do not think Arwin is real?”

“You’ve never seen him, have you?” she countered.

He laughed again. “You are a very clever girl! And you are smiling. I can hear it.”

She was smiling. How surprising.

“Why do you not have hair?” she asked, needing something new to talk about.

“I have hair.” He rubbed his palm over the stubble that covered his skull. “I just prefer it this length. Hair holds scent. I don’t want to smell myself. Hair also attracts crawling things.”

Ghisla scratched her head and then winced when he grinned like she’d proven his point. The boy did not need eyes; he could hear her every move.

“There are no crawling things in my hair,” she argued, but the mere suggestion had her shaking her locks and swatting at her head.

“Come here.” He patted the ground beside him. “I will help you.”

She frowned, considering, and then acquiesced, scooting closer to him.

He gathered her hair in his hands and parted it, tossing each weighty, tangled half over her shoulders, exposing her nape to him.

“What are you doing?” She tried to look over her shoulder, but he straightened her head so she was once again looking away, her hair curtaining her face on either side.

“Be still.” He ran something sharp over her neck. It tickled and . . . stung. He soothed it with something wet and warm, smearing it with a swipe of his thumb.

“Are you drawing something on my neck? A rune?” she asked.

“There,” he said.

Her skin crawled and she slapped at her forehead as a bug skittered across her brow. Another fell into her lap, its legs waggling in outrage, before it flipped over and fled.

“Ew!” Ghisla screeched. Two more, one a spider with spindly legs, crawled over her hands, and she squeaked and brushed them away.

“What did you do?” she demanded.

“It won’t last, but for now, your hair is your own. I have nothing to help you untangle it . . . but I can comb through it with my hands and bind it. Like a rope.” He added, “I am very good with my hands.”

She could comb through it with her own hands. She could braid it too. But she was suddenly hungry for companionship. For touch. Her sister had often brushed her hair. It was something they had done for each other.

“All right,” she agreed.

Hod was careful, starting at the ends of her hair and moving upward through the strands. His nails were short and his patience long, and her eyes began to droop as he worked.

“You are bending like a bowstring,” he said.

“I am sleepy again.” But it was not weariness that made her sway. It was comfort. She had missed the touch of gentle hands.

“It is not as neat or as tight as my weaving . . . but I don’t want to hurt you. It will do for now,” he said as he finished.

“Thank you.” She scooted away but felt obliged to give him something in return. She had been taught to reciprocate kindness with kindness; a favor must always be answered with a favor.

“I suppose I could sing to you,” she said. “One song.”

“I would like that very much.”

She opened her mouth and closed it again. She didn’t know what to sing. All the songs in her heart and head were of her home and her family. Her thoughts raced, and the only song that came to mind was a song Gilly had sung about a toad. I’ll sing you a sad little ode about a sightless toad. It had been stuck in her thoughts since Hod had told her his name. Hod rhymed with toad.

She sang the song without thinking, changing the words as she went.

There once was a boy named Hod.

He was a sightless toad.

He croaked and hopped,

To escape the pot,

And ended up squished on the road.

Hod’s brow furrowed, and his lips pursed, and Ghisla felt a wash of shame. Maybe her song was cruel. She had meant to make him smile, but he was not smiling.

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