The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

12

HOURS

Days later, just after the night watchman wailed, Ghisla crept down to the cellar to call out to Hod. She had just pricked her finger and begun her song, her back to the door, when strong arms wrapped around her, and a hand covered her mouth.

For a moment she was too stunned to do anything but blink into the darkness. She could not see who assailed her. She could not see anything, and she flailed, throwing her head back, but he was tall, much taller than she, and her head thudded off his chest. She tried to bite at the fingers covering her face but bit her lip instead, and blood pooled in her mouth.

With his hand over her mouth, he could not control both of her hands, though his weight against her back made her flailing useless. She started to choke on the blood that dripped down her throat. She couldn’t breathe, and she clawed at his hands.

When her legs buckled, her assailant stepped back, creating space to push her down to the floor. His hand moved from her mouth to her clothes, and she coughed and choked, spitting up blood and gasping for air.

“No one can hear you, Daughter,” he whispered.

She screamed in response, sending her voice pinging off every surface.

“No one can hear you,” he insisted, but she screamed louder, finding a note so high and sharp it stabbed at the backs of her eyes and tore at her throat. She pressed her hands over her ears and screamed louder, the song of terror and outrage one she’d never sung before. And the man who clawed at her legs and pinned her to the floor was suddenly singing with her.

Screamingwith her.

Then he was gone. His weight was gone. His hands and his heavy limbs were gone. A draft brushed against her bare legs, signaling the cellar door had been opened, but she did not stop. She simply curled her knees into her chest and screamed harder.

Light bloomed moments later.

“Liis. Liis. Daughter, stop. Stop!” It was Dagmar. Dagmar and Ghost. And she was saved.

“Who was it, Liis?” Dagmar asked. His pale eyes were bleak, and he kept a distance, letting Ghost tend to her. Her lip was battered and her throat was raw, but she was otherwise unharmed.

“I don’t know,” she rasped. “I was singing . . . and I didn’t hear him come down the stairs. I hung the torch on the sconce in the corridor. He shut the door behind him, and it was so dark.” She traced the scar on her hand with her thumb. She’d been singing to Hod. That was why she hadn’t heard the man.

“Was he a keeper?”

“I—I don’t think so. He was big in the way a warrior is big, not a keeper. And I think he had . . . hair. It was pulled back, but I fought and kicked, and a few strands came loose and brushed my face.”

“Thank the gods,” Dagmar exhaled. Ghisla wasn’t certain if he thanked the gods for her safety or for the reassurance it had not been one of their own who’d attacked her.

“Why did he run? Did he hear you coming?” Ghisla asked.

“He was gone before we came,” Ghost answered. “Otherwise we would have passed him on the stairs. Your scream was not just a scream, Liis. It was a blast. I thought my ears were going to burst. Dagmar’s did.”

A thin trickle of blood stained the shoulder of Dagmar’s purple robe.

“I’m sorry,” Ghisla said, but she wasn’t. Her screaming had saved her life.

They alerted Master Ivo and the other keepers, as well as the king and his guard, but nothing was ever done to find her attacker. It was an attack of opportunity, more than anything, but he had been in the temple—or mayhaps he had been in the cellar all along—and Ghisla and the others felt even more vulnerable than they’d been before. Ivo did not think it a coincidence that the attack had come after Bayr had gone.

“Word has spread that the Temple Boy has left the mount. We will have to be more vigilant than ever before, and I will petition Banruud for better protection.”

Ghisla felt as though she teetered on a ledge, unable to breathe deeply, to step left or right. To simply balance over the abyss was her only goal. To exist without falling. She sensed the same in the faces around her. Strain. Tension. Unease. It permeated the air and the keeper song. It billowed in the wind. She wondered if Hod could hear it in his cave, hissing with the insects and humming beneath the soil. Mayhaps they had cursed the land with their fear, created a truth from their belief.

For weeks she considered what she’d learned the night Bayr left and the advice Hod had given her. She vowed to tell Master Ivo about Desdemona’s blood rune only to second-guess the wisdom of her decision moments later.

Dagmar walked the halls of the temple in a grief-stricken daze. One evening, she offered to sing to him, to sing to all of them, eager to comfort but also desperate for the direction she might get from seeing their thoughts. She ended up holding Dagmar’s hands, singing senselessly while he showed her his memories. She saw a tiny babe, bloodied and newly born, clutched to Dagmar’s chest, the babe’s dead mother lying on the forest floor. The babe became a toddler who scaled walls and hoisted rocks bigger than he was. The toddler became a boy not much older than Alba who tackled a bear in the wood and stuttered a tearful promise that he would “always p-protect you, Uncle.” Then the boy became Bayr, surrounded by warriors from Dolphys, who had not looked back as he was sent away.

Ghisla had ripped her hands away and fled the room when her song was done, leaving Dagmar to his terrible pain and her sisters and Ghost to wonder if she was as unfeeling as she seemed. Dagmar’s images brought her back to where she’d started from, convinced someone had to protect Bayr, even if it meant the drought in Saylok continued. Bayr had protected everyone else . . . and she must protect him.

The king left the mount not long after Bayr was taken to Dolphys. The borders of Ebba and Joran were overrun by Hounds from the Hinterlands, and warriors from every clan joined in the battle to beat them back. When Banruud returned months later, snow was on the ground and ice hung from the temple eaves. Ivo had blocked the tunnel from the sanctum to the throne room. He did not want the king’s guard, which had grown continuously less circumspect in their dealings with the temple and the keepers, to be able to enter the sanctum at will. That didn’t stop the king or his men from entering the temple.

The night Banruud returned, he sent a guard named Bilge to retrieve Ghisla. She awoke with fetid breath in her face and a hand over her mouth, and she was thrown headlong into the nightmare she’d experienced in the cellar.

“The king is asking for you,” he whispered. He pulled her from her bed and told her to walk. The fact that he knew exactly where to find her was almost as alarming as being found.

The other girls were motionless shapes around her, but Ghisla saw Ghost peering out from beneath her covers, as if she feared Bilge would see her. Ghisla felt a flash of outrage that she would not intervene but tamped it down as she left the room. Ghost was hiding from the king, that much was clear, and Bilge was the king’s man.

Ghisla just hoped she would fetch Dagmar or Master Ivo when she was gone.

“The temple mutt is gone, isn’t he? No matter. I’ll watch out for you, girl,” Bilge said, patting her bottom like she was a mare. She lashed out at him instantly.

“Don’t touch me. Keep your distance.”

“Spirited, aren’t you? Not demure and sweet at all. I didn’t think so. Too much fire in those eyes.” He tried again, brazenly palming her breasts, and she let out a shriek that made her own hair rise.

He slapped her.

“Stop that. Shut up!” he sneered. “Now your nose is bleeding. The king won’t like that.”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Bilge!” the king grunted from where he lay, sprawled across his bed, and Bilge ran his sleeve over Ghisla’s face, trying to clean up his mess.

Ghisla pushed past him, hoping the king would see and Bilge would be punished, but the king did not lift his head.

“Sing to me, daughter of Leok,” he groaned. “Sing until I’m asleep.”

She did so, grateful that his request was the same, even now that Bayr was gone. He never wanted words and he never wanted worship. He simply wanted music to combat his raging headaches and the incessant ringing that often accompanied them.

It didn’t take her long before Banruud was snoring softly. When she stopped, he did not wake.

But Bilge was still waiting outside the king’s door.

She did not hesitate, but dashed past him, reaching the stairs before he had time to react. But he was quicker than he looked. Ghisla was down the castle steps and halfway across the square when he caught her, lifting her up off her feet and burying his face in her neck.

“Let me go, Bilge. The last man who tried to take a temple daughter rotted on the north gate,” she reminded.

“One of the clanless, I’m sure. But I don’t want to kidnap you. I just want a kiss. Just one from that pretty, pink mouth. And I promise to look after you as well as the Temple Boy did. I’ll bet you gave him kisses. I’ll bet you let him touch your breasts and pet the curls between your legs. That’s all I want. And I’ll take care of you just like he did.”

She could tell by his wheedling that he expected her to cry and fight him a little, and then let him have his way. What he didn’t expect was the bloodcurdling scream-song that she released, throwing her head back and alerting the entire mount—castle, temple, and all the grounds—that something terrible was occurring.

“Stop that!” he hollered, releasing her in his surprise. He should have run then, but she’d made him angry and he slapped her. She wobbled but didn’t lose her volume. She got louder, the sound so earsplitting that the bell in the tower began to hum with the vibration.

Bilge hit her harder, slugging instead of slapping, and she fell, smacking her head against the cobblestones. It was then that he chose to make his escape, dashing across the courtyard to the palace steps and disappearing back the way they’d come.

Suddenly Dagmar was there, and Master Ivo too, helping her up from the cobbles. Ghost must have alerted them after all. She hovered by the temple door, her cowl pulled over her white hair, watching.

“Who was it, Daughter? Who has hurt you?” Dagmar asked.

“His name is Bilge. He is a member of the king’s guard.”

“It is not yet dawn . . . What is the meaning of this?” Ivo stammered.

“I sing for the king . . . when his head aches. Bayr used to go with me. But . . .”

“But Bayr is gone,” Dagmar finished, his voice hollow.

“Yes.”

“Why was I not told of the king’s request?” Master Ivo was angry.

Ghisla looked at Dagmar who looked back at Ivo.

“I did not know, Master. Bayr did not tell me.”

“And Ghost did not tell you?” The Highest Keeper was having trouble making sense of it all.

“Ghost was afraid if we said no . . . there would be trouble,” Ghisla explained, not wanting Ghost to incur the Highest Keeper’s wrath. “It was an . . . innocent request. I was not hurt . . . until today.” She did not tell them Bayr took the abuse for her.

“How often have you sung for the king?” Ivo asked.

“In these last years, mayhaps a dozen times,” she answered.

“And I was never told!”

“No, Master.”

Master Ivo glared from Ghisla to Dagmar with quivering outrage.

“I need to speak to the king. You will both come with me.” He pointed a clawed hand at Dagmar and Ghisla.

“He is asleep,” Ghisla said. It would not be wise to rouse him.

“Then we will wake him up,” Ivo raged.

But when they walked into the throne room, Bilge was already making his case to the irate Banruud. Banruud’s hair was matted and his eyes so bloodshot they appeared red in his sleep-swollen face. He was a handsome man, but pain and sleeplessness had made him ugly, and his mood was foul.

“Your shrieking has disturbed the king,” Bilge spat.

“Your men seem to think the temple daughters are here for their pleasure,” Master Ivo roared without preamble.

The king glowered at the Highest Keeper and rubbed his temples.

“Months ago, Liis of Leok was attacked by an unknown warrior. She did not see his face. It was dark, but he wore a warrior’s braid. She screamed and startled him, and he ran. We never discovered who it was. Now we know the likely offender. The temple daughter cannot sing for you, King Banruud, if she is not safe in your service.”

“She screamed so loud, my ears bled,” Bilge whined. “I thought she was having a fit. I only hit her to make her stop.”

The king studied her bleeding face.

“Did Bilge strike you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I screamed.”

“Why did you scream?”

“He put his hands where he should not.”

Bilge protested again, but the king leveled him with a look that made even Master Ivo step back.

“Ring the bells. I want everyone here, in the hall. Everyone. Even the keepers. Now,” the king ordered. A sentry rushed to obey, but Bilge was directed to stay put.

Minutes later, the king’s guard stumbled into the hall, sleepy eyed and rumpled, but they were dressed. She supposed they could be forgiven for their confusion and fatigue considering many of them had returned only the night before. The keepers looked no different than they always did, save the bags beneath their eyes and the discomfort of being summoned at dawn. The daughters, their braided wreaths not as tidy as usual, were huddled together beside them. Ghost was not present.

Master Ivo had not moved from his position in front of the king’s throne. Dagmar and Liis stood on either side, and she could feel his tension though his face remained serene and his hands were folded around the ball of his scepter. The king stayed slumped in his chair, his hands on the hilt of a sword he kept sheathed next to the throne. When all were assembled he began to speak.

“I have not slept in days. I have traveled from Ebba where we battled the dogs of the Hinterlands for two months. Yet even when I am home, in my own bed, I have no peace.”

He eyed the gathering with bloodshot contempt. Then he raised a hand.

“Daughters of the temple, step forward so my men can all see you.”

Elayne, Bashti, Dalys, and Juliah moved to stand behind Master Ivo, who had not lowered his eyes from the king.

“These daughters have lived under my protection, on this mount, for almost three years. They represent the clans. They belong to the temple. You will not look at them. You will not talk to them. You will not touch them.”

Master Ivo grunted in surprised approval.

“Liis of Leok, come here,” Banruud directed.

She stepped forward onto the dais, and the king pointed out to the assembly. “Turn so my men can see your face.”

She did as she was asked, her eyes running past the tired guard and the frightened keepers, before snagging on Bilge who remained nearby. He had lost his smirk.

“Who bloodied your face, Liis of Leok?” the king asked, projecting his voice so the crowd could hear his every word.

Liis raised her hand and pointed at Bilge. “He did.”

The king curled his fingers toward Bilge.

Bilge hesitated, but then walked forward until he stood next to her.

Ghisla did not shrink, but she stepped away.

“You thought you could touch a daughter of the temple, Bilge of Berne?” the king said, his voice silky and mild.

Bilge did not deny it. Ghisla’s face condemned him.

“Did you touch her breasts?”

An uncomfortable murmur spread through the men.

“You will cease this spectacle, Banruud,” Master Ivo ground out.

Heat and mortification rose in Ghisla’s chest, but she refused to give the king or Bilge the satisfaction of her humiliation.

“Yes. He did,” she said, calm. Cold.

“It was . . . it was . . . it was in jest, Sire,” Bilge stammered. “I did not hurt her.”

The king unsheathed his sword and shoved it into Bilge’s chest just left of center.

A collective gasp ricocheted around the room and Elayne screamed. Bilge gurgled and groaned, clutching his breast as the king yanked his sword free.

“And there? Did he touch you there?” the king asked, pointing the tip of the sword between the man’s legs. Bilge moaned and tried to ward off another, more terrible blow.

“No,” Ghisla said, shaking her head, emphatic. Her vision pulsed and bile swam in her stomach.

Blood was dripping from Bilge’s mouth.

“You don’t touch them anywhere,” Banruud boomed. “You do not touch the temple daughters. Is that clear?”

Bilge staggered and fell from the dais onto the floor. Blood began to pool around him.

“Get him out of here,” Banruud ordered, pointing to the dead man at his feet. “Leave. All of you, go.”

The exodus from the throne room was an almost silent stampede. No one spoke, no one protested. Ghisla stood on hollow legs until Dagmar stepped forward to escort her from the room behind the keepers.

“She stays,” Banruud grunted, pointing at Ghisla. “Her screams woke me up . . . she can damn well sing me back to sleep.”

Two hours later—the king had been slow to settle—Ghisla staggered back to the temple, escorted by a guard who said nothing and kept his eyes locked straight ahead. Banruud’s message had been received.

Bilge’s heavy body had been strung up on the north gate for all to see, but Ghisla kept her eyes averted. She was not sorry he was dead, but she was horrified by it.

She entered the temple through the main doors, stepping into the huge foyer with the rising stone staircases on either side, and paused, dropping her chin to her chest and allowing herself a moment to breathe.

She was famished, and she marveled at the normalcy of the sensation. Life continued. The keepers would have already gathered in the dining hall, and breakfast would be over. They were nothing if not structured, nothing if not punctual. A man had been slain in front of them, but naught could be done about it now. And the fact that he was not a good man made it easier to overlook.

She ignored her hunger. She could not eat with the stench of blood and death in her nose, and her face ached with every beat of her heart. She needed to wash and she needed her bed more than she needed food. Her nightdress stank of sweat and terror, and her purple robe was splattered with the blood from her nose. She did not want to consider that it was Bilge’s blood.

“Liis of Leok,” Master Ivo said from the shadows.

She raised her head and found him, standing near the entrance to the sanctum.

“I need to speak to you, Daughter.”

She did not have the strength to commune with the Highest Keeper, and she hesitated.

“Come,” he ordered, entering the sanctum. She followed, but when he sat in his throne, she collapsed onto a stone bench not far from him and lowered her eyes.

“I mean no disrespect, Master. I am weary.”

“There is a great deal I don’t know about you, Liis of Leok.”

“There is a great deal I don’t know about you, Master.” She sounded impudent, and his response was cold.

“I am not your enemy, child.”

“I am not a child, Master.”

“No. You are not. And you have caught the king’s eye. That is not good.”

“I have not caught his eye. I have caught . . . his ears.”

“Yes. This is true.”

She closed her eyes and willed him to be finished with her.

“Why were you in the cellars, Liis? So late, and all alone.”

She had not expected the question, and her eyes snapped open.

“I was not in the cellars, Master. Bilge of Berne summoned me from my bed.”

“No. Months ago . . . when you were attacked. You were in the cellars in the wee hours of morning. Why?”

“Sometimes I want to sing, just to sing. It comforts me. I don’t want to wake anyone, and often I don’t want company.” It was a poor excuse, and it fell from her lips with a disingenuous ring.

“It is hard to know who to trust, isn’t it?” the Highest Keeper mused.

She did not answer him.

“It is even harder to know what is right,” he added.

“I am not sure there is . . . right. Only . . . good.” Bayr was good. Hod was good. Elayne, Alba, and her sisters were mostly . . . good. But everything else—everyone else—was a roiling pot of secrets and self-preservation. Including Ghisla herself.

“But there is truth. The truth is right. The truth is good. And that is what I seek.”

He held out his hand, his gnarled fingers trembling. She had never touched the Highest Keeper before. She was afraid to do so now. She didn’t want to hear his thoughts. She didn’t want him to hear hers . . . and she knew, somehow, he would. But she took his hand, unable to resist the pull of his will. He stilled, and his eyes fluttered closed.

“Will you tell me the truth, Liis?”

“Will you use it to harm?”

He seemed taken aback by the question.

“For every truth you give me, I will give one back.”

“I don’t want your truths, Master.” She had pockets full of cold, hard truths. They were heavy. She did not want more.

He laughed. “And yet . . . you have just given me one.”

She had, and she felt lighter for it.

“You are not from Leok . . . are you, child?”

She wanted to release his hand, but his fingers were a vise, and her walls began to crumble. Whatever he asked, she would tell him. She would tell him about Desdemona and her blood rune. She would tell him about Ghost and Alba. She would tell him about Hod.

“Do not be afraid,” he soothed. “My father was from Ebba. That is where I was born—a lifetime ago. But my mother was a Songr. Have you ever heard of the Songrs, Liis of Leok?”

“Yes,” she breathed, almost weeping the word.

“My mother could sing . . . not like you . . . but well. Her song comforted. But her scream was deafening. She leveled grown men with her scream. Just like you.”

Was that all he wished to know?

“Are you a Songr, Daughter?” He asked so kindly . . . so easily . . . and she gave him the answer he already seemed to know.

“Yes. Will you send me away?”

“Of course not. We are all from somewhere else. From other clans. No one is born on the temple mount. No one, that is, but Bayr. He is a true son of Saylok.”

“And he has been sent away.” She should tell Master Ivo. She should tell him about the blood rune now, but Bayr’s face swam in her thoughts.

“He will return one day.” He released her hand, and Ghisla released her breath on a sob. The only secrets she’d revealed were her own, and she suspected they were things the Highest Keeper already knew.

“Mayhaps, if the blind god wills it, you will return home too,” he said, a hint of a smile around his lips.

“I am confused, Master.” She was more than confused. Her throat was tight and her eyes burned, and the strain of the last twelve hours was suddenly more than she could bear.

“I know, Daughter. The blind god listens . . . but he cannot see. Odin sees but he does not speak. I do not have the answers, though I have sought them all my life.”

“I am weary,” she whispered. She rubbed at her arms, chilled, and Ivo dipped his fingers into a goblet of water beside him as if to wash her truths away. He seemed weary too.

“Things are not always as they seem, Liis. They seldom are. Do not trust the king. Today he appeared a hero, a protector, but he only protects himself.”