The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

19

NORTHMEN

“I do not like coming to Berne,” Alba sighed, peering out the carriage window. “Just once, I would like to go to Dolphys.”

Ghisla said nothing. They did not go to Dolphys because Bayr was the clan’s chieftain. The king always sent an official emissary to Dolphys instead, and when the chieftains gathered on the mount, Bayr sent his grandfather in his place. Bayr had never returned to Temple Hill, and over the years, Alba had slowly ceased talking about him. Ghisla understood. It hurt too much to forever hope and endlessly wait. Six years had gone by since Ghisla had seen or heard from Hod. Bayr had been gone even longer, and Alba had grown up without him. But every now and again, she revealed her inner longing. She had not forgotten Bayr.

“I have even been to Joran and Ebba. Ebba is overrun by the Hounds, and we still go to Ebba. But not”—Alba sighed—“Dolphys.” Alba smoothed her dress nervously. It was something both she and Ghost did, like they smoothed their emotions with their hands. Alba turned from the window and her eyes met Ghisla’s. The black of the royal robe she wore would look like a funeral shroud on many, yet somehow Alba’s white hair shined a little brighter and her brown eyes glowed a little deeper beside the dark velvet.

“But we are here. And the Bernians await.” She settled her crown on her head and grimaced. “And we must smile.”

“I never smile. I sneer.” Ghisla curled her lip and raised one eyebrow in a disdainful dismissal. “I am the least favorite daughter of the temple . . . and I intend to keep my title.”

“You sneer at them, but Juliah carries a sword. She terrifies them. I think she might be the least favorite.”

They both laughed, giggling into their hands. The carriage had stopped, and they could hear the preparations being made for them to alight.

“I miss them,” Ghisla admitted.

“So do I . . . but at least they did not have to come to Berne. You’ll walk beside me, Liis?”

“I will walk behind you as I always do.”

“The people will want to see you too,” Alba said. “The purple of your robe makes your eyes so vivid, you’ll hypnotize them. One look from you and mayhaps the Northmen will leave for good.”

Alba was teasing, but her smile slipped. The Northmen were known as Berserkers, and the villages on the northern coasts of Saylok had felt their wrath. Both Lothgar and Aidan had beaten back the raids, but Benjie had used another strategy—appeasement—and Banruud had allowed and even abetted it.

“I fear it will take more than a look from me,” Ghisla murmured. “Benjie has allowed the North King to take whatever he wants.”

“And yet my father comes to Berne—the king himself—to talk of trade and feast and give the North King even more. One of these days, they won’t leave. They’ll stay. And they won’t remain in Berne.”

Ghisla knew Alba was right; the Northmen always left for a time, but they always came back wanting more. Still, the princess’s grasp of the situation surprised her. Someone in Adyar had been whispering in her ear. King Banruud did not discuss such things with his daughter or the occupants of the temple. What they knew they learned from scattered conversations and their own observations. The keepers attempted to shield the daughters too, though their efforts had ceased to be effective since the king had started demanding the daughters accompany Alba and appear before the clans.

This time, the king had brought only Alba and Ghisla on the visit, insisting it was because he was only traveling to the clans they represented. They had gone to Leok first, then Adyar, and had expected to return to the mount. Instead they had continued on to Berne. The Bernians would be disappointed that Bashti was not with them, though Ghisla doubted they would see many of the clanspeople. She feared this was not that kind of trip.

Alba clearly feared it as well. “Father has even promised the Northmen land in Berne—land that Bernians own—if they will come with their families and stay. Saylok is dying. We need women and children . . . and I suppose this is a way to accomplish that, but . . . I have yet to see any families from the North. I’ve seen only warriors.”

Beyond the windows a huge crowd had formed, and King Banruud was already moving through the gathering on his horse. Benjie of Berne rode toward him, a parade of red-clad warriors behind him. The Northmen, if they were present, would not be mounted. They came to Berne in boats.

“Master Ivo says it is not the women of Saylok who are the problem. It is the men,” Ghisla murmured. To say such a thing in front of the king or the chieftains—in front of any of Saylok’s men—would not be wise. “King Banruud and the chieftains keep negotiating with, and raiding, other lands for their women, but that has not lifted the scourge.”

The carriage door opened abruptly and a member of the king’s guard poked his head through the opening.

He extended a hand to help Alba disembark. She did so, and then the guard turned to Ghisla. Ghisla followed the princess, trying to quell the nervous jangling in her veins. She would be glad when the visit was through.

Hod heard the beat of her heart before the carriage even came to a stop and almost fell to his knees. He did not stand with the Northmen who had assembled to observe the arrival of the king but hugged the edge of the Bernian part of the crowd, wearing a drab cloak with his head covered and his eyes closed.

Arwin had taught him to close his eyes when he trod among other men. “They will remember your eyes, and you don’t want them to remember. You don’t want them to notice you at all. That is where true freedom lies. When you’re invisible, you come and go as you please.”

Arwin had not been right about everything, but he was right about that. Hod was overlooked and ignored in almost every situation, and he played the part of the harmless blind man quite well. It also helped that he wore no ornamentation—no bones or leather or rings in his ears like the other Northmen—and he leaned upon his staff like his back was bent and his body weak. Of course, he wasn’t a Northman at all, though he’d won acceptance over the years.

Banners flapped in the wind, the carriage wheels squeaked, and the horses shifted and shimmied, chuffing at their bits, their breath harsh and their big hearts thundering. Hod had expected the arrival of the king—the villagers and the Northmen had talked of nothing else for days—but he had not expected Ghisla.

“Tell me what you see,” he begged the old woman beside him. He kept his eyes shuttered so she wouldn’t be frightened, but he felt her suspicious gaze and smelled the ale on her breath. He also heard the exact moment she took pity on him. Her tension eased and her attention shifted, and she began to speak.

“Oh, it’s grand, it is. Flags of every clan, but the red flag of Berne first. King Banruud is of Berne, he is. He’s a big man and fine looking . . . like most of us Bernians. You have a look of a Bernian. Who was your mother?” she asked, getting too close and peering into his face, her nose almost touching his.

“I am a Bernian. Full-blooded. My mother was Bronwyn. She was a harlot, but she has assured me my father was of good Bernian stock.”

“Oh. Well then,” the woman said, and immediately shifted away, just as he’d intended.

“Tell me more,” he pled.

“The king is riding a black horse. No carriage for him. The princess has just disembarked. Oh, she’s a beautiful girl. She’s grown! A lady now, tall and slim. Her robes are black, but she is dressed in white. Her hair is white too . . . such an odd color. Like silver.”

“Moonlight,” he offered.

“Yes! Like moonlight,” she said, and clucked her tongue in approval.

“Is there . . . another woman?” he asked, striving to keep his voice even. “Perhaps . . . the queen?” He steeled himself.

Arwin had predicted Ghisla would be queen, and she was traveling with the king and the princess. There were no other daughters present. It was a logical conclusion to draw.

“The old queen? Queen Esa? No. No. She does not travel when the king visits the clans.”

“No, not the old queen,” he said. “Not Esa. Another woman.”

“I cannot see . . . Oh, there. She’s just stepped out of the carriage. Yes. The king has brought a daughter of the temple.”

“Describe her,” he insisted, though he needed no confirmation that it was Ghisla. “Please.”

“It is Liis of Leok. She does not smile or wave.” The woman sniffed. “Cold as ice, she is. I’ve seen her once before at the Tournament of the King, and she was just the same.”

“Cold as ice?” Hod asked. His chest was ice. Ice and fire, and he struggled to keep his tone politely disinterested.

“She’s pretty, I suppose. Her eyes are quite blue, but her cheekbones are too sharp and her hair too severe. The daughters all wear their hair in braided crowns, but it does not suit her. She’s a little on the small side. Too thin, if you ask me. She wears the purple robe of the keepers and a dress in Leok green. Some say the king favors her. But I don’t know why.”

“Ghisla,” he breathed.

“No, no. Liis. Liis of Leok,” the old woman corrected, like he wasn’t just blind but deaf too.

“You said the king favors her?”

“Yes. It is said she has a beautiful voice. Mayhaps she will sing . . . and I will form a more favorable opinion.”

“But she is not . . . his queen?” he asked.

The old woman cackled. “She mayhaps thinks she is. She acts as though she is our better. But no. She is not the queen. Banruud has not taken another queen. Not since poor Alannah, Odin keep her.”

Hod followed Ghisla’s movements, tracking her thrumming heart through the press of people on every side. The old woman kept prattling on, describing things he cared nothing about. He wanted only to know about her.

He had not allowed himself to nurse hope these last years. He’d done nothing but survive. But now he was here. And she was here.

“The daughters have gone into the keep,” the old woman announced. “The king and Chief Benjie are approaching the Northmen. The North King is a fearsome man. He blackens his eyes like the keepers and wears bones in his hair and rings in his ears. I hardly dare look at him. Be glad you are spared that, blind man.”

Had he not been so distracted he might have smiled.

“Some think there will be an announcement soon. A betrothal. Perhaps that is why Liis of Leok is here. Then mayhaps . . . the Northmen will go,” the woman added, wistful.

“Thank you for helping me,” he said, bowing slightly. He began moving away. There were plans to be made.

“I’ve not seen you before in the village,” the woman said, moving with him. She wasn’t ready to stop talking now that she had someone to listen to her. “Did you come from the inlands?”

“No. I came with the Northmen.” He opened his eyes and smiled, showing her his teeth and his empty gaze.

She gasped, and he heard her shuffle back. She would not follow him now.

“Liis of Leok is not cold,” he said as he turned away.

The old woman huffed as if to say, “How would you know?”

“And her voice will make you weep.”

He found Gudrun, the North King, sprawled on a pile of skins in the company of a handful of his men. They’d taken possession of a chateau overlooking the port of Garbo and the North Sea not far from the chieftain’s keep. Benjie had promised the ousted landowner it would be returned to him when the Northmen left. Hod doubted the man would want it. The Northmen were filthy, and they had no regard for the possessions of others. They’d taken it, and it was theirs now.

They’d burned the furniture that got in the way; they required space to sleep and there weren’t enough bedchambers for so many. The iron tub off the kitchen had not seen a single use, except for a place to piss when the hour was late and the pisser was lazy. The great hall of the keep reeked of sweat and waste and animal fat, and Hod steeled himself against the barrage on his senses as he stepped inside. The Northmen did not live this way in their own lands; they had wives to scold them there. But none of them seemed to mind the mayhem or the stench, and they stretched themselves in front of the fire, discussing the day’s events.

When they were not on the boats, Hod did not sleep among the other men. He’d learned he was safer—and a good deal cleaner—when he pitched his own tent and kept his distance from the others. In the beginning, he’d not had that luxury. The North King had kept him under constant watch, but slowly that had changed. Hod had earned his solitude and the king’s trust, and he was mostly left alone. He was greeted when he walked into the room, and Gudrun told him to sit.

“I would rather stand, Sire.”

The men laughed. It was an ongoing joke they never tired of. Hod did not sleep among them . . . and he rarely sat. In the beginning, the Northmen had amused themselves by throwing things at him, trying to catch him unaware. He’d sustained more cuts and bruises that way than from all the fists and fights put together. He’d learned it was best not to ever let down his guard. So he didn’t sit, and after a particularly brutal barrage, he’d begun to carry a shield strapped to his shoulders. He could ward off a great deal with his staff, but it was nice to have something always at his back.

“I wish to speak with you, King Gudrun. Alone, if I may,” he added.

The others grumbled, but the king made a curious noise and rose, leading Hod from the room to the chamber he’d taken for himself. It was not nearly so filthy, and the breeze from the sea wafted through an open window. Hod breathed more freely, but his anxiety did not relent. Circumstances had forced his hand.

Gudrun threw himself into a chair and rested his heavy feet on the desk positioned beside it. It was a lovely piece of work with smoothed edges and an intricately inlaid map of Saylok. Hod had explored each inch with the pads of his fingers when Gudrun demanded a refresher on the clans. He’d wanted to know every chieftain and every keep, every cove and every climb. And he’d wanted to hear all about the temple.

He did not bother to insist Hod have a seat but launched into his own update.

“The King of Saylok has brought women with him. He thinks he will give them to me and I will leave,” Gudrun said.

“Yes. I know. The Bernians who were gathered to see the arrival hope there will be a betrothal. They are very proud of their princess and the daughters of the temple.”

“Banruud does not realize I do not need—or want—his women. I want his throne. I want Saylok. And I am going to take it.”

Hod nodded. None of this was news to him. He knew precisely what Gudrun wanted and exactly why they’d come to Berne. The Northlands had suffered their own plague. They’d lost entire populations. Men, women, children. Villages. The sickness that had taken Ghisla’s family had taken many. Fields lay fallow, animals wandered free, and Gudrun had taken to the seas to plunder the riches of other lands to fill his empty coffers. Saylok, with all its troubles and inner tribulation, was prime for the taking. And Gudrun could have it. Hod had convinced himself Saylok might even be better off if it was overrun. But the North King could not have Ghisla.

“I want the woman,” Hod said. He could not see Gudrun’s face, but Hod could still hear his stunned response.

“What?”

“I want the woman,” Hod repeated.

Gudrun barked in disbelief. “You want the woman? Which one?”

“The one they call Liis of Leok.”

“The small one. The unsmiling one,” Gudrun said slowly. “The plain one.”

Hod nodded, not bothering to correct the description. Gudrun liked to twist the knife and invoke a reaction. It was the risk Hod took in telling him the truth. Gudrun valued Hod, but he was ruthless too, and he would not hesitate to exploit Hod’s desires to achieve his own ends. In fact, Hod was counting on it.

“You have not wanted a woman in the six years I have known you, Hod,” Gudrun argued. “I thought you committed to your solitude and your stick. You are hung like a man . . . but you do not act like one.”

“I have not wanted a woman . . . because . . . of her.”

“Because of her?” Gudrun was incredulous. “Liis of Leok?”

“Because of her,” Hod said again.

“You know her.” It was not a question but a realization.

“Yes.” Hod took a deep breath, praying his instincts were right. “And she is not of Leok. She is a Songr.”

Gudrun stiffened in surprise. “There are no Songrs left.”

“There is at least . . . one.”

“How do you know this?”

“Her family died from the plague that swept your land. She was left alive . . . in Tonlis. She had nowhere to go. She boarded a ship, was tossed overboard in a storm, and washed up onto the shore . . . where you found me.”

Gudrun’s big boots hit the floor, like he’d straightened abruptly. But he said nothing. His heartbeat had quickened, and his gaze was sticky on Hod’s face. He was listening.

“My master took her to Leok. And she was taken to the temple . . . for safekeeping. She has been there ever since. She is known for her song. The king . . . values her, and he will not be inclined to let her go. But I want her.”

For a moment, Gudrun was quiet, sucking on his teeth the way he was prone to do when considering. “Does this woman, this Songr . . . does she want you?” he asked finally.

“No.”

Gudrun laughed at his honesty.

“She wanted me . . . once,” Hod said. “But it has been many years. And she has given me no reason to hope.”

“You have been of great use to me,” Gudrun said. “But mayhaps—if she is a Songr—I will want her for myself.”

Hod could hear Gudrun’s exaggerated shrug in the repositioning of his body and the shift in the air. He was goading him, and Hod did not rise to the bait. Gudrun needed him, but he liked to remind Hod who was servant and who was king. Hod also knew if the North King heard Ghisla sing, he would most decidedly want her for himself. Hod was staking his claim. His only claim.

“The Songrs belong to the Northlands,” Gudrun added.

“That is where I intend to take her. It is where I have always intended to take her. But I did not think I would . . . meet her again . . . here.”

“You thought you would have to go to the temple . . . and get her,” Gudrun surmised slowly, the truth dawning.

“Yes. And I knew I could not go alone.”

Gudrun did not suck his teeth or worry his lips, and Hod suspected from the shape of his inhalations, his jaw was gaping. “How long have you been planning this?” he whispered.

“Since I threw myself—and my treasure—at the feet of nineteen Northmen.”

Gudrun gasped and stood. He drew his blade and twirled it over his fingers as he strode from one end of his commandeered headquarters to the other. With no warning, he pivoted and threw it at Hod, grunting with exertion. Hod swung his stick and lunged to the side, knocking the blade from the air. It clattered and spun back toward Gudrun, across the floor. Gudrun bent, picked it up, and sheathed it at his belt. Hod waited, tensed, ready. In six years, he’d evaded death at least once a day.

“I do not like being taken by surprise,” Gudrun stressed. It was the only justification Hod would get for the sudden attack.

Hod nodded once, acknowledging his complaint. It would not be the last time Gudrun would fling something sharp or heavy at him.

“I have always believed it was . . . hate . . . that drove you. Now you tell me . . . it is a woman.”

“I have no use for Banruud, and I have no use for the keepers. Both have failed Saylok.”

“So you will help me overthrow the king—who is your father—and take his lands . . . and you want only the girl?” Gudrun scoffed. “Your ambition disappoints me, Hod.”

“I am a simple man.”

The North King laughed and shook his head, making the bones that ran down his matted braids click and clack. He had allowed Hod to touch them once, even hacking one free so he could “see” it better. Gudrun was not a simple man; he could be kind one moment and kill a man in the next, and Hod had not allowed himself to form an attachment or expect one in return. He also had no illusions about the risk he had just taken. He’d told Gudrun about his father, King Banruud, in the early days of his captivity. It had helped Gudrun understand him—and trust him—even though Hod hardly understood himself.

“No. Not simple,” Gudrun grunted. “Not at all. You are far too clever, and I do not trust you, Blind Hod. Not completely. But I understand you better now. Tonight . . . we will feast with your father. And we will see what can be done about retrieving the Songr.”