The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

16

WARRIORS

Hod was so intent on Ghisla’s flight, the sound of her song, and the vibrations coming from every quarter—the mount, the horses, the bells, and the men who spilled down the mount to search for the stolen daughter—that he did not hear the keeper until it was almost too late.

Hod could have eluded him. He could have turned then and slipped back into the trees and hid until it was safe to come out. Arwin would worry about his absence, and he would miss the final day of competition, but there was no help for that. He could not return to the mount now, not yet; he would have to wait until the fervor had died and Ghisla was safely ensconced inside the temple.

Hod recognized the keeper—the sound of him, both the rhythm of his heart and the echo it made in his chest—and he wasn’t afraid. So he waited, turning in the direction of the man’s approach, and kept his staff and his feet planted. He didn’t close his eyes to make his visitor more comfortable. He knew his strangeness disconcerted most people, and he didn’t yet know if Dagmar was an enemy. He hoped not.

Dagmar paused when he was still some distance away. He whispered Odin’s name like he was preparing himself or pleading for intercession. He couldn’t have known that Hod could hear him far better than the Allfather.

“You don’t need to fear me, Keeper. Do I need to fear you?” Hod called out to him.

He heard Dagmar put his hand to the blade at his waist, fingering the handle.

“You are considering your dagger. Mayhaps I do,” Hod said.

“You can hear a man’s heartbeat . . . I suppose I should have known you would hear me approach and . . . reach for my knife,” Dagmar said.

“Aye. You should have known. If I were as evil as Ivo fears, you would be dead, Keeper.”

“I’ve come for Liis.”

Liis.The name did not sit right in Hod’s chest. He didn’t like it, and he was suddenly angry that Ghisla had been made to answer to it.

“Liis of Leok has returned to the mount,” he said, his voice bitter. He did not bother to explain himself or make up a story. He simply told the simplest truth and left it at that.

“But she was here. With you.” It was not a question.

“She came here alone. She left alone.”

“Was she the reason you entreated the Highest Keeper for supplication?” Dagmar asked.

“I have trained my whole life to be a keeper.”

“That is not what I asked, Hod.”

When Hod did not answer, Dagmar continued as if it was obvious.

“And if Ivo had allowed you entrance . . . what then? Keepers are not allowed to love. We are not allowed wives or families. Your feelings would have been immediately discovered.”

“Have yours been?” Hod asked. Turbulence trembled in his chest, but his voice was mild.

Dagmar hissed in surprise, and Hod continued, unable to bear the hypocrisy.

“You love the ghost woman. She loves you. And yet you live, year after year, pretending otherwise. I could have pretended too.”

“Who are you?” Dagmar whispered. Hod had revealed too much, and he tried to gather his thoughts and calm the anxious bubbling in his veins.

“I am just a blind man with an exceptional pair of ears.”

Dagmar was silent, as though he considered this. “Must we talk thus? Or do you trust me to come closer?” he asked.

Hod cast his senses to the mount, to the song that was Ghisla. She was on horseback now, a warrior at her back. They were climbing the hill and the bells were clanging again, though the cadence had changed from frantic clamor to sedate signaling.

“All is well,” Dagmar said, exhaling. He could hear the difference too.

“All is far from well,” Hod whispered.

Dagmar closed the distance between them, his breathing cautious, his gaze tangible, and Hod lowered the tip of his staff toward him, warning the keeper not to come too close. His nerves were raw, his emotions frayed, and the numbing effects of his euphoria were fading the higher Ghisla climbed. Soon she would be behind the walls.

Again.

And they would be apart.

Again.

“She left her robe,” Dagmar said softly.

Ghisla had left her robe? Oh, gods. She’d left her robe.

He heard Dagmar stoop to retrieve it from the ground.

“How is it that you came here?” Hod asked. “Of everywhere you could look, you came here. To this spot.”

“The runes can be useful,” Dagmar said.

“Ahh. So that was you. I thought I felt someone . . . watching.”

“We were afraid for her.”

“Afraid . . . of me?” Hod asked. The irony was laughable. He was powerless against the enclave. He had nothing. He was nothing.

Dagmar ignored the question. “Master Ivo says our Liis is not of Leok at all. She is a Songr. Did you know that, archer?”

Hod should not have been surprised; Ghisla had told him the Highest Keeper knew, but Dagmar’s query startled him, and he did not like the way he called her “our Liis.”

“Yes. I know . . . she is a Songr.”

“Did you know her before . . . before she ever came to Temple Hill?” Dagmar pressed.

“Yes.”

“Ahh. I see,” Dagmar breathed.

“Do you?” Hod whispered. He wished he did. The gates had closed. Ghisla was within the walls, and he could no longer hear her heart. She was too far away.

“Master Ivo says you have an affinity for the runes. You have been trained to use them . . . though their use . . . is forbidden to all but the keepers.”

“The Highest Keeper sent me to be trained. My knowledge was sanctioned . . . and yet . . . he has rejected me.” Hod could not keep his attention on the conversation at hand. He was in agony.

“He does not trust you, Hod,” Dagmar said, his tone like a whip. It stung, and Hod snapped back to attention.

“Does he trust you, Keeper Dagmar?” he shot back, defensive.

Dagmar’s heart stuttered, his conscience clearly tweaked, and Hod continued. “I’ve done nothing to warrant the Highest Keeper’s distrust or suspicion. I was born blind and clanless, the son of a harlot. And I am strange. Those are my crimes.”

“Those are your crimes?” Dagmar scoffed, incredulous. “You . . . slept . . . with a daughter of the temple. You took her from the mount during the tournament. The countryside is crawling with the clanless and the depraved. Have you any idea how much danger she was in? How much danger she is still in?”

“You must tell Master Ivo,” Hod murmured, his tone sardonic. “Tell him I am in love with a temple daughter, and I have used a forbidden rune. Tell him so that I will be banned from the temple, banished from the mount, and my eyes burned out of my head.”

“Have you no remorse? You are lucky you are not swinging from the north gate,” Dagmar said.

Hod straightened his staff, signaling his readiness to leave. “Be that as it may . . . It is a long way back to Leok. I would appreciate it if you would tell my teacher that I will wait for him along the route. Unless . . . unless you would like me to accompany you back to the mount to stand trial?”

“I did not think you a villain or a fool, blind archer. But now . . . I’m not so certain. I thought you like my nephew. But I realize now . . . you are more like . . . the king.” Dagmar sounded genuinely flummoxed, and his heartbeat underscored his distrust and dismay.

“I want the robe,” Hod insisted. He wanted it, and they were past pretense.

Dagmar turned to go, dropping Ghisla’s robe at Hod’s feet as he did.

“This robe condemns you. If you love her . . . as you say you do . . . you will not return to the mount. Ever. And you will pray to Odin she does not suffer for your selfishness.”

His disapproval was more than Hod could bear.

“There are two runes beneath this tree. The rune of strength and another, one that I don’t recognize. When I touched it, it rattled like a snake. Do you know anything about them, Keeper Dagmar?”

He regretted his words immediately.

His anger had caused him to lash out. His knowledge—Ghisla’s knowledge—should not have been used thus. He was not in control of himself, and every word from his mouth oozed menace. He was acting like a threat, and Dagmar treated him as such.

“If you come back to the mount, I will see that you get the punishment you deserve. Do you understand, Hod?” he whispered.

“I am not who you think I am,” Hod said, repentant, but even his contrition sounded ominous.

“No . . . I fear you are far worse.” Dagmar spoke the words with such conviction, Hod almost believed them true.

With that, Dagmar left the clearing, giving Hod his back.

Ghisla didn’t climb the hillside to the east gate but ran along the edge of the wood, searching for the horses and men Hod had heard. She needed to be seen, and she didn’t stop to consider or fear what was to come.

A cry went up. A watchman on the wall had seen her. A trumpet blared, then another and another, and before long, sixteen mounted warriors, including three chieftains and the king, thundered toward her, shields raised as though they expected a volley of arrows from the trees.

She halted and squared her shoulders. She would not run toward them as though she fled a conquering army, and she would not behave as though she’d escaped a murderous horde, though she probably looked it.

Her cheek felt bruised and there was a long scratch across her brow that she’d acquired in one of her tumbles down the hillside. She tried to smooth her hair and found it adorned with sticks and bits of grass, too many to remove in the seconds she had. The tie that gathered her neckline was gone, making the round neck hang too low on her breasts. She gathered the extra cloth in her hand and noticed a tear at the seam where her shoulder met her left sleeve. Her skirts were speckled with drops of blood and a dirty handprint at her thigh.

She’d left her robe behind.

Her new green robe was still in the woods. She’d used it to cover Hod while he slept; she desperately wished she had it to cover herself now.

The king called a halt and the party pulled up, shading their eyes and staring down at her with scowls and wary disbelief.

Lothgar of Leok was the first to spur his mount forward.

“Are you all right, Daughter?” he asked, his dread evident.

“Yes. I am quite . . . well,” she said.

She had not thought what she would say. Mayhaps she should say nothing at all. It had worked for her more times than not.

“There is blood on your skirts, Liis of Leok, and blood on your face,” Lothgar said gently.

She stared numbly down at her ruined gown and tightened her hand at her bodice.

“Even so . . . I am fine. ’Tis but a scratch from a tree branch.”

“Fine?” the king snapped, reining his horse to a stop beside her.

“Yes.”

“Where . . . have . . . you . . . been?” he asked, enunciating each word like he pounded a spike into the ground.

“I took a walk in the Temple Wood. It was quiet. Peaceful. And I was weary, Majesty. I do not sleep well . . . and I have no one to sing to me.”

Banruud glowered and Lothgar laughed, his perennial good nature lightening the mood. The chieftains had all heard of the king’s reliance on her songs. A few of the other warriors snorted but swallowed their mirth when Banruud raised his hand, demanding silence.

“You fell asleep in the forest,” he stated, unconvinced.

“Yes, King Banruud. But I heard the bells and the trumpets, and I knew you were . . . looking for me.”

“The whole bloody mount is looking for you, Daughter,” Lothgar interjected. “A thousand citizens—contestants, chieftains, and clansmen—were awakened by alarm bells and the news that a daughter was missing.”

“I regret that,” she said quietly.

“You regret that?” Benjie of Berne jeered. His braid was unkempt and bits of food were caught in his beard. He looked as though he’d been dragged from his bed or his table. They all did.

“You are not to leave the mount, Daughter,” Lothgar interrupted. “You are fortunate to have only tangled with a branch.”

“She should be lashed,” Benjie of Berne grumbled. “She should be tied to the whipping post and lashed. Publicly. She’ll not run away again.”

“You’ll not lash a daughter of Leok, Benjie of Berne,” Lothgar shouted.

“Someone should,” Benjie snapped.

No one disagreed.

“You will ride with me, Liis of Leok,” Banruud demanded. “Punishments—whatever they may be—will be meted out later.”

“I will walk,” she argued. “If I ride, the people will think me injured or weak. I am neither. So I will walk, Majesty.”

She could not go around him. There was nowhere to go. The chieftains made a wall in front of her. The king bent and swooped her up, tossing her across his saddle, her belly to the horse, her head and shoulders hanging off one side, her legs off the other. She flailed and her bodice slipped, and she was certain more than one warrior caught a glimpse of her naked breasts. She clutched at her dress and pushed herself up with one hand, trying to sit, and almost toppled over the other side. Banruud put a hand on her back, pressing her back down.

“Banruud,” Lothgar warned, but the king ignored the chieftain from Leok.

“A good shaming is what she needs, Lothgar,” Benjie said. She loathed him almost as much as she loathed Banruud. For a moment she thought about screaming, the way she’d done in the cellar and the square, when Bilge had raised his hand to her. But the horses would likely bolt, and she was in no position to withstand that.

“If she can sleep in the woods, she can ride like this,” Banruud replied, and Lothgar held his peace.

She was made to ride thus to the top of the hill, her head and feet bouncing with every step. The motion and the press of the saddle against her stomach made her ill, but she kept her eyes shut and her teeth clenched. She would not be sick. She would not be “shamed” in that way.

Trumpets heralded her triumphant return, and Lothgar demanded she be let up before they passed through the gates.

“She is a daughter of the temple,” he boomed. “That is enough!”

Banruud wrapped his hand in the cloth at the back of her dress and yanked her upright in front of him. She kept her eyes forward even as her stomach rolled and her bodice gaped, but she managed to keep her seat and to keep her breasts covered.

“You smell like you slept with a man, daughter of the temple,” Banruud growled into her ear.

She flinched and recoiled but said nothing. He smelled like he slept with the dogs.

“You are a liar, little girl.”

She kept her eyes aimed above the people in the square. She cared little what any of them thought and even less what any of them said, but the keepers stood in their purple robes against the backdrop of the temple, Master Ivo a black crow perched among them. Her sisters were there too, their pretty new robes little spots of color in the purple sea. She would have to get a new robe . . . or mayhaps Hod would find a way to return it to her.

She felt her control crack, just the tiniest bit, at the thought of him, and her eyes jumped to the place where she’d seen him standing the first day of the tournament, three days—and a lifetime—ago.

A gray robe, a tall staff, and a shorn pate made her look twice.

It was not Hod, but Arwin. For a moment, their eyes locked and his back stiffened. Then he began to run toward the king’s party, twirling his staff round his head like he was scattering sheep . . . or running off the wolves.

“She’s a witch, Majesty. A witch!” Arwin screeched.

Ghisla shrank back against the king and immediately bristled and arched away.

“What have you done to my boy, witch?” Arwin cried, his eyes wild. “What have you done with Hod?”

Arwin was talking to her.

“What have you done to him, girl?” Arwin ran in front of the king’s horse, his palms up, entreating him to stop.

“Get out of the way, Keeper,” Banruud shouted. His horse pranced and the old man ducked, his braided beard dancing, but he did not retreat.

“I am not a keeper. There are no keepers anymore.” Arwin spat on the cobblestones like the term offended him.

“Go away, old man,” Benjie demanded, halting his horse. He slid from the saddle and dug at the seat of his pants, shaking one leg like his breeches had climbed too high. The other warriors began to dismount as well, but Arwin continued, outraged.

“There are no temple keepers. There are only temple daughters.” Arwin said temple daughters with dripping disdain and spat again, and Benjie stopped, sensing a compatriot in the old man.

“They are more trouble than they are worth,” Benjie said. “I will not argue that, Keeper. And this one should be pilloried.” Benjie pointed at Ghisla.

“There are no keepers!” Arwin repeated. “There are no supplicants, no study of the runes. We have a bloody plague, and instead of dedicating our most powerful keepers to solving this problem—to beseeching the gods—we house daughters in the temple and turn away supplicants.”

Arwin was drawing a crowd, his passion and volume turning heads, even from the temple steps. Master Ivo had started to descend, a purple line behind him.

“For years we’ve turned them away,” Arwin mourned. “My Hod—my boy—what have you done to him, witch?” He pointed at Ghisla with his staff, and all eyes swung to her. “You’ve hypnotized him. You’ve entranced him with your songs . . . just like you do for the mad king.”

The gathering crowd gasped at Arwin’s words. To call the king mad to his face was a death sentence. The king’s guard was pushing through the crowd, but Banruud’s ire had been raised.

He slid from his horse, leaving Ghisla cowering in the saddle. He grabbed Arwin’s staff and swung it at him, knocking the man to his knees. The crowd gasped and the horse beneath Ghisla shimmied.

“The mad king?” Banruud said, and swung again, delivering a blow across Arwin’s back.

“Stop!” Ghisla shrieked, but Arwin had not stopped pleading his case. He gazed up at the king, warding off the next strike.

“It is her fault you are mad. She’ll make you lose all your senses like she did my Hod. She’ll sing you to sleep, and then she’ll cut your throat.”

The gathering crowd gasped at Arwin’s babbling accusations, but Banruud tossed the staff aside and lifted the man from the cobbles by the neck of his tunic.

“I am mad, Keeper?”

Chief Lothgar was suddenly beside her, pulling her down from the king’s horse. “Come, Daughter,” he urged, pulling her from the irate king and her desperate accuser.

“He is your son, Majesty. Can’t you do something for him?” Arwin pled, wrapping his hands around the king’s wrist. “He should be Highest Keeper. He’s never asked for favor or even for acknowledgment.”

“I have no sons,” Banruud said, twisting the cloth at Arwin’s throat so the man was hanging from his clothes. Yet Arwin persisted, speaking in choking, nonsensical pieces.

“Son . . . he is . . . Hod . . . blind god.”

“Hod, the blind god?”

“Yes . . . Yes . . . Hod.”

The king released Arwin abruptly, and he fell in a heap.

“The blind god is my son?” Banruud asked. He had begun to laugh. He threw up his hands to the crowd.

“Do you hear that, people? I am not a mad king. I am Odin himself! I am Odin, father to Hod, the blind god.”

The crowd began to laugh too—warriors and clansmen throwing back their heads. Lothgar laughed with the rest of them, his big hand on her shoulder. But Ghisla was quaking, and her legs were slowly turning to liquid.

“I am the father of daughters and gods!” Banruud brayed, his arms still raised in triumph, and the crowd cheered.

“Yes. Yes, Majesty. Hod is your son!” Arwin beamed and tried to rise. “Yet he is turned away from the temple.”

The guards had reached the king, and with a wave of dismissal, he turned from Arwin.

“Put him in the stocks. I will not kill him today. At least he has made me laugh.”

The guards dragged a sputtering Arwin away, and the crowd groaned like they’d wanted the fun to continue.

“And what about the daughter of Leok?” Benjie of Berne shouted. “What will her punishment be, Majesty? She has endangered herself and dishonored the temple. She too should be punished.”

A ripple of both interest and discomfort surged through the crowd. Lothgar stiffened beside her and pulled the gathered blue sash from around his waist, draping it over her shoulders like a shawl. It only served to draw the eye to her dishabille.

“She is a daughter of Leok,” he yelled, his hand raising to the hilt of his sword, which was slung across his back.

“She is sullied,” someone said, and the word was like a whip, snapping and breaking over the crowd, and the surge of condemnation swelled.

“She should be whipped,” Benjie cried, and others spoke up around him.

“Pilloried!”

“She should be made to carry a hot iron.”

“She should be made to wear the irons. She will not leave the mount if she is in irons.”

“The daughter will be returned to my care,” Master Ivo boomed, parting the crowd. He was alone but for two of the temple guard. Ghisla could not see the steps of the temple any longer. The crowd was too thick.

“She fled your care, Highest Keeper,” King Banruud sneered. “And I had to bring her back.” The king never missed an opportunity to turn the hearts of the people against the keepers.

The crowd rumbled and pushed, trying to get a better view of the confrontation.

“She is a Daughter of Freya,” Master Ivo insisted. “Everyone, stand aside.” He extended his hand toward Ghisla. “Allow the daughter to pass and return to the temple.”

But the crowd at the back could not hear and began to press forward, trying to get closer, and the circle around them became smaller. Lothgar cursed and lifted Ghisla up onto the low stone wall that circled the Hearth of Kings to get her out of the way. The hearth rose behind her, as wide as it was tall and crowned in continuous flame, and she steadied herself against it as she searched for a path through the excited crush.

“Stand back,” Ivo yelled, throwing his arms to the side. His palms were red with blood and he drew frantic shapes in the air. The flame above her whooshed and spit, sending sparks raining down in a wide arc into the crowd.

It was an impressive but meaningless bit of theater, and the crowd cheered the show, but did not move back.

Ivo tried again, calling a blast of wind that funneled down into the square and whipped the flags on the perimeter wall, but he could not maintain the gust with runes in the air, and the crowd wanted more.

The king bounded up onto the platform beside Ghisla, vying for the attention he had lost.

“This is the last day of the Tournament of the King. Today we will battle in the melee, and tonight we will feast,” he yelled. “Go. And prepare.”

The people shifted and some turned to go, but Benjie of Berne would not relent.

“The daughter has not been punished,” he yelled, insistent. “Bilge of Berne—my clansman—was skewered and hung from these gates for daring to touch her. Yet she does not suffer a single mark for her sins.”

Master Ivo shoved his way forward and took her hands in his, streaking them with his blood.

“She has been marked for the temple . . . with my blood. Now be done with this madness, Benjie of Berne.”

“It is her blood that should be spilt, Highest Keeper. Not yours,” Benjie shot back, and the dissent began again.

“She is a daughter of Saylok,” the king answered, raising his voice for dramatic effect. “And she will bear that mark . . . to remind her who she is . . . and who she represents.”

The king pulled the chain with the star of Saylok from around his neck and dangled it high, letting the flames of the Hearth of Kings lick at it. Slowly he lowered it, so the flame and the golden spires of the star seemed one. The sun had just risen above the temple, and the gold of the amulet caught its rays and reflected them back. The murmuring in the crowd turned to awe and marveling. The heavy gold amulet had been passed down from one king of Saylok to the next, and Ghisla had never seen Banruud without it. He kept the amulet dangling in the fire until the chain in his hand grew too hot to hold. He set the amulet on the ledge of stone and reached for Ghisla’s hand. She jerked it away.

The people fell silent.

“Hold out your hand, daughter,” Banruud insisted.

“I will not.”

“Hold out your hand, or I will press this amulet into your brow,” he said, his voice low but his eyes burning. “They will have their justice one way or another.”

Ghisla held out her hands. The king grasped her right wrist and turned her palm up. The lines of her rune were puckered white stripes amid her pink flesh, but if he saw her scars, it did not deter him. Using the chain, he lowered his amulet onto her palm and pressed her fingers closed around it.

She tried to scream, but images flashed behind her eyes, shifting and shivering at the speed of light, as if she held the hand of the god Saylok himself. Five hundred years of kings, embedded in the gold, spoke to the rune on her palm. And then pain raised its white-hot head, obscuring every color, every line, and she saw nothing but fire.

The king released her fingers and yanked the chain away, his amulet bounding from her burnt flesh. He raised her wrist aloft, showing the star seared on her palm to his bloodthirsty citizens. Her vision swam and her knees buckled, and for a moment she dangled from his grasp, just like Arwin. Just like the amulet.

“There it is. There’s your mark. Now let the games . . . begin,” Banruud said, and he released her into Lothgar’s arms.