The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon
8
TONES
Time passed and the days ran together in leaps and lurches. Life was not terrible. Ghisla had lived through terrible. But it was not sweet. She’d lived through sweet too and recognized the absence. The keepers lived in constant companionship, and they expected the same of the daughters. They moved as one through their days—chores, chanting, study, and sleep. Even in meditation or contemplation they were expected to dwell together, though they were instructed not to speak at all. Ghisla had grown up in the fields and in the forest. Even as a child she’d had far more freedom than the cloistered temple life allowed, and it grated on her patience and poked at her frayed nerves. Only in her thoughts was she able to slip away into dark corners and quiet nooks where she could breathe for a moment all by herself.
At least they were in the gardens; the harvest had begun, and all hands were needed. Ghisla had blisters from all the picking and pulling. Bayr and Alba were with them—the old queen had given permission for the princess to be educated alongside the daughters—and Bayr had cut their work in half, but Alba was demanding to be entertained. Dalys had painted her a picture, Juliah had walked on her hands, though her knotted skirts rose up around her knees and embarrassed Bayr. Elayne had wreathed flowers in her hair, and Ghost had convinced a bird to eat out of her palm, but they were all things Alba had seen—and done—before. She wanted something new.
“Liis should sing us a song,” Elayne suggested. “She has a lovely voice. She tries to hide it, but it is obvious. Even when she hums it is beautiful.”
“Yes, Liis!” The princess clapped. “Sing us a song.”
“I do not want to sing,” Ghisla said, shaking her head.
“Are you bashful?” Alba asked. “I am never bashful, am I Bayr?”
“N-no,” Bayr stammered, shaking his head. “N-n-never.”
“Mayhaps it is because I am so smart. I am good at many things. I am good at everything I try. That is what Bayr says.”
“He is right,” Ghost said, smiling at the little girl. “You are very smart.”
“You just need to try harder, Liis,” Alba insisted. “You need to sing more, so it will become easier and you won’t be so bashful.”
“I am not bashful,” Ghisla insisted, stiff with discomfort. “I just do not want to sing.”
“She is not bashful. She is secretive,” Juliah grumbled. “And cross and selfish. She does not want to entertain us, though we entertain her.”
“I will entertain you,” Bashti offered. “I am not the least bit shy.”
“I want to hear Liis,” Alba insisted. “I want to hear her beautiful voice. My mother used to sing to me.”
Any mention of the deceased queen made them all rush to attend to Alba’s every request, especially Bayr, who had endless patience and affection for the child. She’d watched him run for hours with her on his shoulders, her arms outspread like she was flying. But he could not give her music.
Bayr turned pleading eyes to Ghisla, and she wavered under his gaze.
“I . . . do not know what to sing,” she muttered. Since she’d arrived, she’d not dared to sing the songs of Tonlis. Hod and Arwin had known about the Songrs, and she had little doubt the other keepers would know about them too. They would know she was an imposter and not of Leok—or Saylok—at all.
What if her songs made images dance in their heads? What if the keepers cast her out? Where would she go then?
“Sing the song of parting. You know that one,” Elayne suggested. “I heard you sing it with the keepers just last night, though you hardly did more than whisper.”
It was a mournful dirge, a chant with little variation that the keepers sang at dusk. Eight tones, repeated in ascension and descension, to put the sun to bed. It was not of Tonlis, and there were no words. Mayhaps she could sing that one.
She didn’t look at her rapt audience and sang softly, not allowing the sound to fill her throat or resonate in her chest, yet they all fell silent anyway, listening to the rise and fall of the notes.
“Do it again, Liis. Please?” Elayne begged sweetly when she was done. Her lips were trembling. “Your voice is so beautiful, I could cry.”
“I don’t want to cry,” Alba said. Her eyes were wet as well. “Don’t you know a happy song? Please sing a happy song.”
“I know a song about a toad,” Ghisla said. That song too would be safe. She trilled out Gilly’s song about the unfortunate toad, and Bayr and the others laughed, but Princess Alba wrinkled her nose in confusion.
“I don’t think that is a happy song,” she argued. “The poor, squished toad is not happy.”
The bells began to toll, signaling meditation had ended, and saving Ghisla from performing something else.
Bayr scooped Alba up unceremoniously and dropped her on his shoulders. One day she would be too big to ride thus, but that day was still a long ways off. She was never happy to go, but she’d learned not to argue when Bayr signaled the end of the day. It did no good to argue with him. He never said anything. His tongue was hopelessly tangled, and he only spoke when there was no way to avoid it.
Alba waved goodbye as Ghost ushered the girls from the gardens to join in evening worship. The keepers had moved from the sanctum and out onto the temple steps in a long purple line to sing their songs of supplication after the bells tolled.
Ghost and the daughters did not stand among them, but behind them in the shadow of the temple columns. The keepers sang the song of supplication, the one most commonly raised in evening worship. The daughters raised their voices in obedience as well, as they had been instructed to do, but half-heartedly.
Mayhaps singing in the garden had broken through a layer of fear and ice, but for the first time, Ghisla let herself sing with them—truly sing—her voice piercing the air the way her silence usually deflated the room.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies, divine.
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
Open my eyes to see, make me at one with thee,
Gods of my father and god of my soul.
Give me a home in hope, give me a place to go,
Give me a faith that will never grow cold.
Her voice was crystalline and cutting, sitting above the tenor tones of the complacent keepers. It grew and climbed, and she did not rein it back. It felt good to sing. It felt right, like rebirth, and she sang the prayer, beseeching the gods to protect her secret even as she revealed herself. The voices of the keepers, raised in habit, became voices hushed in awe, and still Ghisla sang, hating the words for making her ache yet reveling in the musical resurrection within her breast.
No one stopped her or cried out, and many continued to sing with her, though their voices softened as hers rose. Those around her listened and even marveled, but they did not seem shocked or afraid or even entranced, and the reticence that had been her constant companion for months abated. She let her eyes drift closed, surrendering to the music. One song rolled into another, the song of supplication followed by the plea to Odin, a song they’d sung in Tonlis too. She’d sung it for Hod, but she’d not dared to sing it since, even though the keepers knew it and regularly sang it. She sang it now as though she were alone.
Father Odin, are you watching? Do you see me down below?
Will you take me to the mountain, where the brave and glorious go?
I’m not strong and I’m not worthy, but I trust you’ll make me so.
Father Odin, are you watching? I am lost and I’m alone.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
Will you take me to the mountain, where my heart now yearns to go.
When she finished, dulcet tones still piercing the air, she breathed deeply, momentarily freed, and then she opened her eyes.
The keepers’ faces were slick with tears, and Ghost and the daughters were weeping with bowed heads.
None of them would look at Ghisla.
Guilt and fear rocked her, and for a moment her knees weakened beneath the weight.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, gazing in horror at the trembling lips and streaming eyes. They hid their faces and mopped at their cheeks, as if they were embarrassed by their emotion.
What had she done?
“There is no reason to apologize,” Dagmar said, climbing the steps and stopping beside her. Master Ivo followed him, his black gaze boring into her, and Ghisla’s knees buckled again. Dagmar’s pale eyes were wet, but he smiled and steadied her. “Weeping is good, Liis. It eases the pain.”
“Then why will no one look at me?” she said, searching for reassurance and finding none. Ghost had disappeared into the temple without a word, and Juliah sat with her head on her knees. Elayne, tears dripping from her chin, was wiping the eyes of the younger girls, who cried like their hearts had been torn from their chests.
“There has not been enough weeping among us. None of us are accustomed to the relief of tears. But you have given us a beautiful gift. You have lightened our hearts.”
“It is true. So you must sing to us again, songbird,” Master Ivo rasped, the claw of his hand curling around his scepter. If there were tears on his cheeks, they had lost themselves in the creases of his skin, for he appeared unmoved. Of course, movement of any kind was not his habit. He tended to observe and opine.
“Don’t fear your voice, Liis of Leok,” Ivo insisted, emphasizing the hard ending of Leok. “There will come a time when you will need it, and if you do not use it, if you bury it inside you, it will grow weak and small. There is power in your songs.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. He rapped his scepter on the stone steps, indicating the matter was settled and entered the temple without looking back. It was suppertime, and the keepers moved from the steps to the temple and continued on toward the hall. Ghisla held back, needing a moment to collect herself. She’d sung . . . and she’d survived. Mayhaps she would be able to sing more often.
She released her breath and relaxed her tightly clenched fists. A large blister on her right hand had burst, and blood and fluid had collected in the well of her palm. She hadn’t even felt the sting. She’d been singing. For the first time in months, she’d been singing. She climbed the stairs and stepped through the temple doors.
“Ghisla.”
She stopped and turned, thinking someone had called her name.
All the girls had gone ahead, and the temple doors were now closed behind her.
“Ghisla?”
She started and looked around her again.
No one here knew her name. Not her real name. They called her Liis. Half the time she didn’t even realize they were talking to her. More than once one of the girls had tugged on her sleeve or waved their hand in front of her face to alert her.
“Ghisla? Are you there?”
It was Hod.
“Hod?” For a moment she felt dizzy. Disoriented by the disembodied voice that resonated between her ears.
“Ghisla, I heard you singing.”
Hod.
Hod was inside her head. She needed to be alone. She couldn’t do this standing in the corridor.
The dining hall was filling, so the sanctum would be empty, and she rushed to the door. The candles were always burning in the sanctum, midnight to morn and morning to midnight, and she sank down on a bench in the darkest corner.
“Hody?” she whispered. The blood on her hand was dry and the voice in her head was gone. She screwed her eyes shut and sang the lines she’d sung when he’d first drawn the rune: “In Tonlis there is music. In the ground and in the air. In Tonlis there is singing even when no one is there.”
She said his name again, louder. “Hody?”
“Ghisla?”
His voice was faint, like a voice from another room, but it was there. Dagmar made them use saliva to make the sun rune. She spat on her palm and mixed it with the blood, tracing her scar frantically.
There!She could hear him better now. He was speaking quickly, like he was afraid the connection would be lost, and she held her breath, straining to hear.
“I heard you singing. So much singing! It was so beautiful, Ghisla. I saw the sky and the keepers—they wore purple. I saw purple! It is like the grapes you showed me. I saw things I don’t understand. Shapes and images and people. I think they were people. Girls with shorn hair. Have they made you all supplicants, Ghisla? Where have you been? Why have you not called out to me?”
His voice broke, and she thought he was gone.
“Ghisla?”he moaned, and she realized he thought the same.
“Hody, I can hear you,” she cried. She was almost shouting. She could not speak to him in her head the way they’d done in the clearing. It was too hard to focus, and her heart was hammering too loudly in her ears. “I can hear you.”
“You can hear me.”Joy rang in his voice. “Where are you?”
“I am here. In the temple. I have so much to tell you.” She tried to moderate her voice, but she could not quiet her heart.
“Ghisla, why have you not used the rune? I feared the worst.”
“I w-was afraid it would not work. I did not . . . I did not dare try,” she confessed.
“You promised me you would not give up,”he said, but she heard a smile in his censure.
“I was afraid to hope. But it is . . . it is . . . so good to hear your voice.” She was suddenly flooded with grief and . . . joy. Joy like she’d never felt before. It was like Princess Alba’s hair and eyes: things that should not go together, but somehow did. The two emotions trod hand in hand across her heart, and tears began to stream down her cheeks.
She brushed her hand across her face, wiping at them, and Hod’s voice became even clearer still. Tears worked in the rune! Tears and spittle and blood, the stuff of life.
“Arwin is coming. I must go,”he said, regretful.
“Oh no. Not yet,” she begged.
“Promise me you will not give up.”His voice was fading.
“I will not give up today,” she said, the joy and grief still warring.
“And promise me you will sing to me again.”
“I will sing to you again. I won’t be afraid to try.”
“Liis?”
She jerked, pressing her hand to her heart.
“Hody?” she squeaked, disoriented all over again.
“Liis of Leok, who are you talking to, child?”
Master Ivo stood near the doorway to the sanctum, his hands wrapped around his scepter. She hadn’t heard him enter. She’d been too lost in her miraculous conversation.
She rose in respect, her hands clasped before her, her mind scrambling. What had he heard? What had she said?
“I see none of the other daughters. They are at supper where you should be. So . . . who . . . were you talking to?” He enunciated the word who like a whip.
“Only to myself, Highest Keeper,” she said. “To myself . . . and . . . to Hod.”
He gaped. “To Hod? The blind god?”
“Yes, Master.”
She’d stunned him. She’d stunned herself. She’d told the truth, but it wasn’t the truth at all, and she feared the old wizard would hear her lie.
“Of all the gods, why do you speak to him?” he asked.
“Because he . . . he is the best . . . the best listener, Master.”
The Highest Keeper stared and then he laughed, a cackle that made him sway with its power. He laughed, bent over his scepter, and she waited, trembling, and held her tongue.
“He is the best listener,” the Highest Keeper crowed, still snorting with laughter. “This is true. Imagine. Such a thing had never occurred to me. Hod hears better than Odin himself.” He laughed again. He shook a clawed finger in her direction. “You are a clever girl.”
“Thank you, Highest Keeper.”
“Now go. You should not be in the sanctum. You can pray to Hod elsewhere.” He laughed again, and she curtsied and fled, his chortle following behind her.
It was only after midnight on the following day, when the temple and all its occupants had retired to their quarters and the watchman on the mount wall cried out that all was well, that Ghisla dared to creep down to the stores beneath the kitchen and summon her friend. It was the only place in the temple where she trusted no one would hear.
The mice and spiders would hear, and some might come out to inspect. The thought made her shudder, but she wasn’t deterred. She lit a candle in the kitchen before pulling the door closed behind her and descending the stone steps to the nethermost chamber where meat was hung, dried, and salted before being stored. She’d thought about sitting in the room where the jarred fruit was shelved and casks of wine were kept but thought that room was more likely to attract late-night visitations. The hooks that extended from the ceiling were adorned with unrecognizable carcasses, and the room smelled of flesh and blood, but the keepers were nothing if not fastidious, and every surface had been scrubbed and every corner swept. It would do.
She was deep enough beneath everything else that no one would hear her, and she didn’t want a repeat of the episode with Master Ivo in the sanctum. She had no excuse—conversations with a blind god would not work again—for being out of her bed. With two doors and earthen walls between her and the floor above, she perched on the workbench and used a needle to prick her finger. She didn’t let herself think or doubt. She simply smeared the blood into the lines of her palm and called out.
“Hody?” she sang softly. She suspected one word was not enough, and she began to chant his name using the eight tones of the song of parting, hoping it would suffice.
Ho dy, Ho dy, hear me, Ho dy.
Ho dy, Ho dy, hear me, Ho dy.
It was no longer a name but a pealing summons. She closed her eyes and waited for the darkness behind them to merge with his. Her heart was banging so loudly she was afraid she wouldn’t hear him. Afraid he wouldn’t hear her. Afraid he would not answer. She kept singing, out loud, and traced the rune again.
“I am here, Ghisla.”
His voice was as clear and discernable as her own, as though he sat with her in the macabre chamber, with only candlelight between them. She laughed in wonder.
“I have been waiting. Hoping.”
“I am never alone. I called out as soon as I could.”
“You must tell me everything.”
She could not keep the words in her head, the way they’d done in the clearing. Her thoughts were filled with his voice, and it was easier to speak naturally than to waste time and concentration on forming silent sentences.
“They call me Liis. Liis of Leok.”
“To me you will always be Ghisla of Tonlis. I know who you are.”
“Yes.” Emotion rose suddenly in her throat. “And you are the only one.”
“Are you well?”
She hesitated. What was well? She had not been well for a very long time. She doubted she ever would be again.
“I am fed. I am clothed. I am taught. I am learning to read. Do you know how to read, Hody?” She did not want to talk about herself.
“I cannot see the words on the scrolls . . . but I can make them, the way I make runes. I see the shapes in my mind and in the sand.”
“I am learning the runes, though the runes we have learned are simple and meaningless.”
“You have rune blood. Surely they know that by now. One only has to hear you sing.”
Talk of blood reminded her to prick her finger again.
“Ghisla?”
“Arwin told me to guard my gift. So I have. No one knows I am a Songr. I’m afraid they would cast me out or . . . worse. I must be Liis of Leok now.”
“You are happy there?”he pressed.
“I am happy now.” And she was. In that moment, she was perfectly, serenely happy.
“I am happy now too, Ghisla.”His voice was warm and pleased, flooding her mind and dripping down into her chest. For an hour they talked of the temple, of the people in it, and she sang him the songs she’d composed. She had a verse for each of the clan daughters, as well as Ghost and Alba.
“I can see them, Ghisla,”Hod exclaimed. “I can see them all.”
“Princess Alba is a beautiful little girl. Her hair is like moonlight.”
“You have shown me moonlight.”
“I have shown you moonlight and sunlight.”
“Your hair is like sunlight.”
“Yes.”
“Like grain,”he added.
“Alba’s hair is pale . . . but her skin is not. It is warm . . . like bread.”
“Like bread?”
“We knead and roll and twist and pull and let it sit upon the stone,” she sang slowly, reminding him of a song she’d sung in their days together in the cave.
“Ah yes. I remember now. Bread is . . . brown.” He said the word with the confidence of a child mastering a new skill, and her heart grew in her chest.
“She is glorious. And loved . . . and best of all, she loves.”
“That is good.”
“Yes. She is nothing like her father.”
“The king. The mighty Banruud. You will have to tell me more about the king. Is his hair like moonlight too?”
“No. His hair is like midnight. And his skin is pale. She looks nothing like him. He is a beast. He loves no one but himself.”
“I cannot see midnight.”
“Midnight is darkness. King Banruud is darkness.”
“Ah . . . I am well acquainted with darkness.”
He was silent for a moment, and so was she. Their time had come to an end, and her fingers ached from pricking them, though she’d smeared the rune with spittle too, to make the blood last longer.
“Next time, I will sing a song about the chieftains. And about the king,” she promised. “I have many more verses. I’ve been saving them for you.”
“Next time,”he agreed, wistful, though he did not ask her when that would be. “And . . . next time . . . you must sing me a song about Ghisla of Tonlis, so I can see your face.”