The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

14

STARS

“I see nothing . . . and you see so much. I can hear a nest full of little birds, calling for their mother from the wood below, but I cannot hear a man’s thoughts,” Hod said as they sat together the next night, tucked into a natural alcove on the hillside. He was subdued and troubled, and he kept asking questions about the king.

“It is more confusing than clarifying most of the time. I only see pieces . . . parts . . . and those pieces don’t tell the whole story. I hear Master Ivo’s dilemma. I hear Dagmar’s determination to protect Bayr, and Ghost’s loyalty to Alba. I hear my sisters’ worries and the keepers’ fear.”

“And their troubles become yours.”

“Yes. Each piece of knowledge is like an invisible sliver in my hand or a stone in my shoe—something I feel but can do nothing about.”

“I know,” Hod said, taking her hand. “I am sorry.”

“No one knows how to end the scourge . . . or if it can even be ended. Everyone is plotting and maneuvering and keeping secrets. But not out of hate, out of love.” She sighed. “Everyone but Banruud. There is no love in him.”

“What do you see when you hold the king’s hand?” he murmured, tracing the rune on her palm.

“His thoughts are twisted and blurred, like listening to someone through water. Sometimes a thought will be perfectly clear—his irritation, his desire, his rage—but when he’s riddled with headaches and bad dreams, his thoughts are muddled and tangled, and I try my best to ignore them. Most of the time, I don’t touch him at all. My songs are usually sufficient.” King Banruud only touched her when his pain was intolerable, and he was afraid she would depart too soon. Then he kept his hand wrapped around hers, keeping her at his side until sleep swept him away.

“I do not wish to speak of the king,” she murmured. “You must tell me how you fared in the competition.”

“I won the day of competition,” he said. “Keeper Dagmar was among the spectators. He spoke to me afterward. He was very kind.”

“You won the day?” she gasped. “You must tell me everything.”

“The chieftain from Berne and a warrior from Dolphys—Daniel—accused me of cheating . . . though neither could explain how so. Daniel said he didn’t think I was truly blind.” He laughed. “I reminded him that everyone else could see. It would hardly be cheating if I could see too.”

“Why didn’t they believe you? One has only to look at your eyes to know.”

“I think it is because I do see . . . in my own way. I use my ears the way everyone else uses their eyes.”

“How?”

“It is actually quite simple. Every heart sounds different. And every heartbeat is distinct.”

“But . . . how do you remember which heart belongs to whom?”

“I suppose it’s like recognizing a face. We all have two eyes, two ears, a mouth, a nose, yet none of us look exactly alike. Or so I’m told.” He grinned. “It is the same with our hearts. It is not strange to remember a face, is it?”

“No. I guess not,” she marveled.

“Dred of Dolphys wanted to know how I accomplished it as well. When I explained I could hear his heartbeat, he spent the hour after the competition ended demanding I shoot at him.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. I hit his shield every time. He was quite fearless. I imagine Bayr is much like him. I had hoped the Temple Boy would be here. Though I can understand why he is not.”

In the soil beside him, Hod drew the blind god’s rune: the half circles, back to back, and the arrow that pierced them through. Melancholy had settled on him once again, and she rushed to distract him.

“But a target does not have a heartbeat.”

“No. But if Arwin stands beside the target—two feet to the right—I can use his heartbeat to gauge my shot. I would not be able to do it otherwise.”

“Is he not afraid he will be skewered?”

“When I was young I would warn him before I released the arrow, and he would lift his shield. Now he only worries about the other archers on the course.”

“The king was also in attendance,” he said softly. “His heart is easy to pick out. I thought about killing him. Saylok would be better off. You would be better off.”

He heard the horror in her silence.

“I have upset you,” he said.

“You would be slain. Immediately.”

“Yes.”

“I can endure the king. I cannot endure a world without you in it.”

He sighed heavily, and she searched his face, anxious.

“Hod . . . Tell me you are not serious,” she whispered. “Surely you jest?”

“I have thought of little else since last night. I am scared for you, Ghisla. Mayhaps it is my calling to kill Banruud . . . Arwin is convinced I have one.”

She gripped his hand and forced it back to the rune he’d just made in the dirt. “If this is Hod . . . then this is Ghisla,” she insisted, tracing the two halves of the rune and the arrow that connected them. “You cannot harm yourself without harming me.”

He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in the plait of her hair.

“I am sorry. We have so little time, and I am scaring you. Forgive me.”

“We are bound, Hod.” She pressed her hand to his, feeling the scrape of his scar against her own. “I am yours. You are mine.”

“With this rune, I thee wed,” he said, but his smile was bleak.

“With this rune, I thee wed,” she repeated, urgent, but she could not quiet her racing heart, and he cursed softly, pressing his palm to her chest.

“Shh, Ghisla. I am here.”

She laid her hands on top of his, keeping his hand clutched to her heart. She stared up at the stars, her eyes skipping from one to the next, counting the brightest ones as she caught her breath. Fourteen stars were brighter than the others, and a tendril of a melody surfaced in her thoughts.

“There was a song my people used to sing . . . when they wed,” she murmured.

“Sing it for me.”

“I do not remember it. There was a line about stars.” But as soon as she said the words, the lyrics curled up from the place in her heart she rarely let herself visit.

“Two of us, two of us, two lives, two,” she said, hesitantly. She hummed the bit of the tune, fitting the phrase like a key to a lock.

Hod listened, his hand still caught beneath hers, and she tried again.

“Two of us, two of us, two lives, two. Now we’re one, just begun, new lives, new.”

Figures danced in her memory, and she let them come.

“Take my hand, tie the bands, one step, two,” she sang, piecing the words into a line. That is how they’d danced when the ceremony was done, all in a line.

“Make a wish, on the stars, say I do.” In her mind, the long row became just the bride and groom. She could see Morgana, the way she’d looked that day, her hair loose and her skirts swinging, but the image was blurred.

“Is that . . . your sister?” Hod asked.

Ghisla fought the grief that warred with the joy but pressed on. She wanted Hod to see. “Yes. That is Morgana . . . on her wedding day. Morgana and Peder.”

“Morgana and Peder,” Hod breathed.

“Now we’re one, just begun, me and you,” she sang. The Peder in her mind stooped to kiss Morgana, and someone cheered. Gilly. Gilly had cheered. But she could not see their faces.

“I cannot call their features forth,” Ghisla murmured.

“You are trying too hard.” Hod’s fingertips were gentle on her face. He urged her eyes closed, and she sang the song from the beginning. By the time she was done, the memory had become sharp and shining, playing out as if she were once again in Tonlis, dancing with her family.

“Peder could not stop kissing her. He did not want to eat or dance. He wanted to kiss . . . and Morgana did not mind. No one minded terribly, though my father grumbled and my mother fretted that they would disappoint the guests who wanted to drink and dance with the couple. Singing, drinking, and dancing are all Songrs want to do.”

“It is beautiful.”

“Spin and skip and take a sip, then sing whilst you walk back again,” she sang, one tune melding into another. “That was a song the men sang. Every gathering they sang it—that silly song. It gave them a chance to drink and dance at the same time. Usually the groom would sing with the men, but Peder sang it once and walked back—just like the song says—to Morgana. And the kissing continued.”

Ghisla laughed, the recollection crystal clear.

“He is devouring her,” Hod said, incredulous. “Like a hungry beast.”

Ghisla laughed harder. “I thought it disgusting . . . and . . . wonderful too. I was twelve. Not yet ready for romance . . . yet not immune to it either.”

Hod was as entranced as she, and for once she had no trouble letting the memory run its course. Peder had knocked over the table in his desire to reach his bride—wine had something to do with his dramatics as well, she was sure, but it had made their guests laugh and had brought the women to the rescue. The women had a song of their own.

Men who need kisses

Make babes who need kisses.

Babes who grow up

Become men who need kisses.

Men who need kisses

Chase women for kisses.

And . . .

Begetting begins again.

The music never ended that night, and Ghisla trilled and tripped lightly over every song, a smile on her lips, her eyes closed to take herself back, and her hand pressed to Hod’s.

“There are your parents,” Hod said, his voice awed.

“Yes, whenever we parted, we sang the same song. But that night as we sang it, they did not stand hand in hand like we usually do. They danced like they too were young and in love.”

Think of me when we part,

I’ll send you with my heart.

Keep it tucked next to yours,

’Til you return once more.

“He does love her. He holds her gently,” Hod said, as though the vision was now.

“Sometimes he held her gently. But he held her tightly too. She would complain that he kissed her too hard, but she was always smiling and swaying when he finished.”

They watched together a moment more, Ghisla humming the song that had played while her parents danced.

“I have kissed a woman,” Hod said softly.

“You have?” she gasped.

Her shock and dejection chased the happy memory away, and the connection was lost—the connection to her past and the connection to Hod.

It seemed to stun him, the return to darkness when his mind had been flooded with color and story.

“Come back, Ghisla,” he said. He turned her in his arms, his fingers searching and settling on her cheeks, his palms cupping her jaw.

She stilled, and his fingers flexed, as though he didn’t trust her not to jerk away.

When she did not, he inched toward her until his face was too near for her to make out his expression, until his forehead lay against hers. He did not try to turn her face or tilt his chin to align their lips. He simply hovered there, so close, their heads touching but their minds their own.

“Yes. I have kissed a woman. Several. In Berne. It was quite distasteful. Arwin thought it educational. They were not gentle . . . and they were not shy. I suspect the women were old and weary of men. Some did not have teeth. Some had far too many. Arwin made certain the whole experience was as unpleasant as possible.”

His breath tickled her mouth, and her stomach flipped. Imagining him with another woman—even one without teeth—was oddly, inexplicably, painful to hear. He was her Hody. He was hers. And she had expected him to be as inexperienced as she. She had thought they might learn together.

“Why are you telling me this?” she moaned.

“Because . . . I did not expect to want to do it again,” he confessed. “But I very much want to kiss you.”

“You do?” she asked.

His forehead lifted so their mouths could meet, and his lips brushed hers.

It was not unpleasant . . . not at all . . . and she forgot her pain.

For several moments, their lips fluttered and flitted as they learned how to best fit their mouths together, but fit they did, and the fluttering became a settling and a seeking. It was a new dance, one they choreographed as they moved their mouths together and apart, over and against. It was a dance Ghisla never thought she would tire of. She raised her hands to Hod’s face to hold him to her.

“I want to see you,” he whispered against her mouth.

“And I want to kiss you,” she murmured back. “I cannot sing and kiss you at the same time.”

“Then we will have to do it my way,” he said. He did not withdraw his lips, but his fingers glided over her face and down her throat. He continued across the bony ridge where her shoulders dropped onto her chest, and her body began to hum.

His kiss deepened.

“Open your mouth, Ghisla. I want to taste you.”

She pulled away slightly, uncertain. His sightless eyes were closed, and his voice was sweet. Pleading. And he pulled her mouth back to his.

If it had been anyone but Hod she would have grimaced. What an odd thing to say. What an odd thing to do. But it was Hod, and she obeyed, parting her lips against his.

His tongue was tentative, the way his hands had been, as though sensation was dependent upon it, and she opened her mouth wider, welcoming him in.

The humming within her became a quake, and his exploration became her own. Then the music changed, the movement changed, and their kiss took on a new tempo.

They were not so careful and not so sweet. Tasting became suckling. Suckling became plundering, and kissing was no longer enough. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to crawl inside him. She wanted to sink beneath his skin.

“I want to be inside you,” she said, panting against his mouth. “And I want you to be inside me.”

Hod’s hands and mouth stilled. A shudder moved through him, and he moved his lips to her brow.

“That is not wise, Ghisla,” he whispered.

She repeated the words in her head and realization dawned. She knew what women and men did to make children. Morgana had explained in great detail.

That is what sisters are for, Ghisla. Mother will not tell you. Father will not tell you. And Gilly and Abner do not know. At least they don’t know it from a woman’s perspective. But there is pleasure in it for you too, if you aren’t too bashful to take it, and if your husband wants to give it. If you love him, and he loves you, he’ll want to give it.

Ghisla had had no interest in imagining Peder and Morgana giving each other anything, and she’d been horrified—and a little sickened—by her sister’s descriptions. But she thought of them now, and the images drew her up short.

“I did not mean . . . I did not mean that,” she stammered, mortified. She’d only wanted to be closer. To get as close to him as she possibly could.

“I do not want that,” she insisted, twisting his jerkin in her hands.

For a moment they simply listened to each other breathe, his lips on her forehead, her hands over his heart.

Maybe she did want that. Maybe that was exactly what she wanted.

There was nothing and no one to stop them. The world was sleeping, and at present, they were the only two people in it. They had only each other, and their time would soon end. The thought made Ghisla ache, and she reached for him, desperate. For a moment, his kiss matched her own. His hands and mouth clung, frantic and frenetic, but then he lifted her from his lap, pushed himself away, and stood.

“Hod?” she whispered.

He extended his hand to help her stand, and she took it, wanting only to touch him again, but he released her as soon as he felt her rise.

“You have been the light in my world from the moment I heard you singing,” he said, and his voice was bleak again, back to where they started. “And I want nothing more than to be with you. In whatever way I can. But you are a daughter of the temple. What do you think would happen if we were discovered?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. He would be flogged or put in the stocks . . . or worse. An image of Bilge and the other men swinging from the gates rose in her mind.

“We will not be discovered,” she said, refusing to entertain the idea. “That will not happen.”

“No. That will not happen,” he whispered, and she heard the words he did not say. He stepped back, and she stared up into his unseeing eyes. The moonlight made them glimmer like glass, like the fourteen stars that shined brighter than the rest. And like the stars, she could not reach him.

“Will I see you again?” she asked, knowing their time had, once again, come to an end. He turned his palm and she pressed hers into it. The work-rough ridges of his hand scraped against hers, and emotion tickled her nose.

“Yes. Tomorrow. But I am always right here.” He ran his thumb over the rune on her hand and then tugged her close. He embraced her quickly, fiercely, and melded back into the shadows. She closed her eyes, unable to watch him go, but he left silently, and she heard nothing but her own longing.

She traveled back through the tunnel, but when she neared the opening in the sanctum, there were voices on the other side, and she froze, fearing that they were looking for her again. She listened, trying to determine who occupied the sanctum at such an hour. A metal grate in the stone door allowed her a narrow view of the room beyond.

Master Ivo and Keeper Dagmar were deep in conversation, and neither of them mentioned her name. They were not looking for her—or anyone—and she wilted against the wall, prepared to wait them out, but when she heard the Highest Keeper’s query, she straightened once again.

“Do you remember the woman with the blind child, Dagmar?” Ivo asked.

Ivo sat in his throne, his back to the opening in the wall, but Dagmar faced him, and she could see the frown that furrowed his brow.

“I do not.”

“You let her into the sanctum. You should remember,” Ivo grumbled.

Dagmar shook his head.

“It was during the Tournament of the King, only months after Bayr was born. You were distracted.” Ivo waved his hand like it was yesterday. “The child’s eyes were cloudy. No irises. He was just a little boy. Three or four years old. Old enough to talk.”

Dagmar’s face cleared in remembrance. “I do remember. I found the woman sleeping against the garden wall. She was sick and asked for a blessing.”

“A blessing for her son,” Ivo corrected, his voice dry.

“Yes . . . well.”

“I could not fix his eyes. But you knew that. That boy . . . is now a man. He is the blind archer they call Hod.”

“No!” Dagmar marveled. “I met him just today. He was extraordinary. The talk of the mount. He reminded me a little of Bayr. Mayhaps it was just his humility about his own prowess, but he was a pleasure to watch.”

“Hmm,” Ivo grunted. “He has an aptitude for many things. I thought he might be a keeper someday. He showed a great affinity for the runes at our first meeting.”

Ghisla tried to moderate her breaths, the dust from the tunnel tickling her nose.

“He came to see me today—he and his teacher—and pled for me to make him a supplicant.”

She covered her mouth, moaning into her hands. Oh, Hod. Why did you not tell me?

“He is not the first since the scourge,” Dagmar said. “He will not be the last.”

“No. And I turned him away as I have turned away all the others.”

She could not breathe. She would go back to the hillside. She would find Hod. But the conversation continued beyond her hiding spot, and she was frozen in place.

“Our mission has changed, Master,” Dagmar said. “We have to think of the daughters.”

“Yes . . . but I would have turned him away, regardless.”

“Why? You say he had an affinity for the runes.”

“He has been trained by Arwin, the cave keeper. In truth, he has been a supplicant all his life. His knowledge is already vast, his skills great. And that frightens me too.”

“Why?”

“I have not decided if he is good or evil.”

Dagmar’s gasp cloaked Ghisla’s. “Why would he be evil, Master?” Dagmar asked.

Ivo sighed. “Mayhaps evil is not the right word. He drew the rune of the blind god there, beneath the altar, in the dust. A child. A little, blind boy. Now he is grown, but his eyes are still as empty.”

“The blind god was not evil.”

“No . . . but evil used him. Evil uses the ignorant.”

“And you think evil might use the blind archer?”

“That is what I have not decided. I know it is foolish to ignore the signs. And there are many.”

“But the woman—I remember her now—she said you blessed him. She said you blessed her. When she left the temple, she was greatly restored.”

“No thanks to you,” Ivo grumbled.

“No thanks to me,” Dagmar repeated, a smile in his voice. They both grew quiet, thoughtful, and Dagmar stood, as though the matter was done.

Ghisla wanted to sink a blade into both of them. Her hands trembled with her rage. She would scream until their ears wept with blood, until they begged her for the mercy they had not shown Hod. How dare they? How dare they reject him? How dare they judge him?

“I will rest better when he is gone,” Master Ivo grumbled.

“He has unsettled you that much?” Dagmar asked, his interest piqued again. “I am surprised, Master. I sensed no darkness in him.”

Master Ivo harrumphed. “That may be . . . but I cannot ignore the signs.”

“So you have sent him away.”

“I have sent him away. There is no place for him here.”

Ghisla turned back to the tunnel and fled, not caring whether she was too loud, not caring whether she was discovered, not caring whether she ran headlong into a stone wall and ceased living altogether. By the time she reached the hillside and tumbled out through the hatch, her lungs burned, and her eyes were as blind as Hod’s, but she did not stop.

The Temple Wood stretched out at the base of the hill, and she staggered toward it, not even pausing to take the trail to ease her descent. The mount rose and ran in grassy shelves, and she tumbled over one side and down another before she thought better of her decision and picked her way across a clearing to the well-beaten path that led to the bottom of the hill. She didn’t know where she was going, but when she reached the woods she continued on, losing herself in the trees.

I cannot see, my tongue is a traitor.

My flesh is a foe, my heart a betrayer,

My eyes will I blacken, my lips will I close.

And let the runes lead me down paths I must go.

No man can follow. No man can lead. No man can save me, no man can free.

It was the Prayer of the Supplicant, the prayer of all keepers, and a verse that Hod had always felt was written just for him. He had learned it at an early age, preparing for this day.

He had gone before the Highest Keeper and pled for entrance into the brotherhood. He’d sung the song, said the words, and he had been rejected.

Arwin was as devastated as he. His teacher had been so convinced it was time and that Ivo would make an exception. He’d petitioned the Highest Keeper in Hod’s behalf, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

“You cannot refuse him, Master Ivo,” Arwin had argued. “I cannot teach him anything more. I have not been able to teach him for ages. He knows far more than I. You sent him to me more than fifteen years ago. How long will he be made to wait? He should be here, learning from you, a keeper in truth.”

“The temple has become a sanctuary. It is no longer what it was. We have new challenges, Arwin. And I have no place for him here. Not now.”

“But . . . Master. It is what he has been trained to do. All these years. I have done what you asked. You said he was special. Chosen.”

“I cannot see the future, Arwin. I did not see this future. In sixteen years, not a single girl child, save the princess, has been born in Saylok.”

“Yes, Master, I know.”

“Do you know why, Arwin?”

“No, Highest Keeper,” he whispered, dejected.

“Nor do I. I have petitioned Odin. I have looked into the well. I have carved runes into the dust and runes into my skin. I have sheltered daughters in the temple where there were no daughters before. But still . . . there are no daughters in Saylok. And I have no answers.”

The Highest Keeper was adamant and unbending. And Hod had accepted the verdict with hollow resignation. It permeated him still, and he knew Ghisla had felt his despondency.

He had not told her why they’d come. He’d been afraid to raise her hopes, to raise his own. He’d used the tournament as cover, but the contest would end on the morrow, and he would have no excuse to stay.

He should have remained with her longer. He should have soaked up every second and kissed her until the cock crowed. But he had not trusted himself in her presence. He did not even trust himself on the mount.

Arwin had drowned his disappointment in a bottle and lay dreaming about a path that would never be.

“When the scourge has ended, we’ll come back,” he’d mumbled, patting Hod’s shoulder. “Tomorrow we’ll go home. We’ll go back to the cave. It is better there. Your purpose will be made clear. The time has not yet come.”

He walked aimlessly, erratically, listening for Ghisla even as he tried to steel himself for the farewell to come.

And then he heard her crying. The wail was no more than a droplet in the sea of sound that was the mount, but it was Ghisla, and he halted, finding her in his mind.

The crying was not centralized; it bobbled and weaved, like she was walking—falling?—and getting farther away. Dread pooled in his belly and apprehension rippled down his spine.

She had left the mount.