The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon
20
THORNS
Ghisla and Alba were escorted to a well-appointed chamber on the back corner of Chief Benjie’s keep and told to enjoy a brief respite before dinner. Berne rose up from the water’s edge in green shelves, and the chieftain’s keep occupied the perfect vantage point, with water on one side, meadows edged in forest on the other. The windows of their room were guarded by huge trees, and Ghisla thought if they were so inclined, they could climb from the window and scale them, which oddly comforted her. She liked the idea of an escape route, even if she had nowhere to escape to. The branches were fat and sprawling, perfect for climbing, unlike the prickly pines on Temple Hill.
Water for bathing was brought in by a handful of aging porters, and Ghisla and Alba washed and changed into fresh gowns because they dared not sleep and be caught unprepared when they were summoned. Ghisla unwound, brushed, and rewrapped her hair and then assisted Alba with her tresses.
“I would like nothing better than to crawl into that bed and be done with this evening,” Alba said as Ghisla ran a brush down the silvery length. “But I am too hungry to beg off, and Father will insist I make an appearance. Benjie is odious, but I don’t mind his wife, Lady Beatrice, though I would have liked a small repast to tide us over.” Ghisla’s stomach growled in agreement, and Alba laughed, her eyes meeting Ghisla’s in the mirror.
“I do not think they planned on us,” Ghisla murmured. “This visit seems to have been hastily arranged on every front. They are scrambling to be ready for a feast and have had no time to think of their individual guests . . . even if that guest is the princess herself.”
“It was the arrival of the Northmen that necessitated it. Benjie was caught unawares, as usual. I do not know why Father would have brought us here otherwise.”
Alba grew pensive and Ghisla’s tension mounted. It was an odd visit indeed.
“You don’t think . . . you don’t think he will just . . . give me . . . to the North King, do you, Liis?”
Ghisla gasped. “No, Alba. A contract would have to be drawn. Such things take ages and planning. There would be celebrations and signings. You are the princess of Saylok.”
“They have been given gold and grain and even land. Yet they keep returning.”
“You will not be tossed at the North King’s feet like a bag of silver. You are the hope of Saylok.”
“I am a pawn,” Alba said, her voice flat.
Ghisla’s hand stilled in the princess’s hair. “It would be far more likely that I would be given away. The king is already speaking of a marriage between Elayne and Aidan of Adyar. He will marry us off first. You are his prize.”
Alba shook her head, and her white hair danced around her shoulders. “You are the only one of us he has any use for. I don’t know if that makes things better for you . . . or worse.”
They waited for three hours to be summoned, and when they finally were, it was Benjie and his lady, Beatrice, who knocked on their door to accompany them to the hall where the feast would take place.
Ghisla hated Chief Benjie even more than she despised Banruud, and she made no effort to hide her feelings. The chieftain was bothered by her disdain; he thought she should grovel for his favor. He took every opportunity to demean and dismiss her, and this night was no different.
“She should not be present,” Benjie said, not looking at Ghisla. “The other daughters are not in attendance.”
“But I will be in attendance,” Alba protested. Lady Beatrice did not dare argue with her husband.
“Yes. Of course. You are the princess,” Benjie said. “We have not set a place for her at the king’s table. She will stay in her room.”
“But . . . ,” Alba argued.
“It is just as well. I have no wish to be there,” Ghisla said. “The company in Berne has never been to my liking.” She curtsied deeply, excusing herself from the princess, and bid them all good night.
Alba cleared her throat to hide her laughter, and Benjie sputtered, but Ghisla turned back toward the chamber, grateful to be excused from any official duty. Benjie thought he’d insulted her, but he had given her what she wished for most: an hour or two of solitude.
“You will make sure there is something sent to my quarters?” Alba insisted to Benjie’s wife. “Neither of us have eaten all day.”
“Of course, Princess,” she soothed, and dispatched a servant to see that it was done. Ghisla shut the door, bolted it, and fell across the huge bed, tugging at the heavy coil of her hair. Her head ached and her neck screamed, and the gold pins that kept her braid in place felt like twenty six-inch thorns. She pulled them free and unraveled her braid, running her fingers through it almost frantically, moaning in pain and relief as her hair tumbled down her back. She brushed the tangles free, her eyes closed, sparing a thought for poor Alba, who would have to endure her braid and her crown for several more hours.
Ten minutes later, a knock sounded—supper—and she rose, grateful for Alba’s thoughtfulness. She was famished, and she would have gone to bed hungry if not for her. The servant would have to forgive her streaming hair.
She unbolted the door, eager, but it was not a kitchen boy or a serving wench on the other side.
“You will come to the hall,” Banruud said, eyeing her unbound tresses.
“I have been disinvited.”
“Benjie forgets himself.”
“I do not want to sup with him.”
“You will sup with me.”
“But I have taken down my hair.”
“Good. I prefer it that way.”
He held out his arm. There was something there, in the set of his mouth and the hollows of his cheeks, even the way his hairline came to a peak directly above the grooves between his eyes, that reminded her of Hod. It had been obvious to her that the king was Bayr’s sire—his size, his movement, his midnight hair were all repeated in Bayr—but Hod was there too, and sometimes she studied the king’s face too long, too often, trying to see him. The king had misinterpreted her searching look more than once.
“You will not eat if you do not come to the hall. The North King has requested that you sing.”
Ah.So that was it.
She didn’t want to sing. She didn’t want to sit in the hall amid three dozen warriors who ate like wolves and belched like frogs and skewered anyone who disagreed with them. But she was hungry, and if the king said she would not eat, she would not eat.
She settled her hand on his arm and gritted her teeth.
“You are wise, Daughter.”
“And you are gracious, King,” she purred.
They were announced at the door: “Liis of Leok and His Majesty, Banruud of Berne, King of Saylok.” Those who were sitting rose, and there was a quiet clamor about their combined entrance, but Ghisla did not let her eyes rove the hall. She kept her gaze fixed and her face frozen.
She’d learned that looking at men only encouraged them, and the Bernians were the worst of the lot. Their chieftain had allowed the clan to fall into disarray. Mayhaps it was the way he governed, taxing his people into the ground while placating marauders, but his warriors were more vicious and less disciplined than those of any of the other clans. Aidan of Adyar had complained mightily that the Bernians had begun to steal from and plunder the farms and villages on his border. Bayr had sent emissaries complaining of the same in Dolphys, but Banruud ignored Bayr and attempted to bribe the Chieftain of Adyar. Banruud was no fool, and he’d noticed Aidan’s interest in Elayne of Ebba. When they’d left Adyar two days ago, she’d heard Banruud’s parting salvo: “It is time for the past to be done away with. The daughters of the temple will be given back to their clans—or to new clans in marriage. They serve no purpose in the temple. We must find you a wife, Aidan.”
Banruud escorted her to a seat at the high table next to Alba, who was seated on his left. Benjie and Lady Beatrice sat on his right, and thankfully conversation with that end of the table was impossible.
Ghisla sat with her spine straight but her eyes on her plate, wanting only to eat and be done—hopefully Banruud would not keep her or Alba past a song or two.
“There was a seat for you after all,” Alba murmured, barely moving her lips. “And Benjie has angered my father. It’s been lovely so far.”
It was far from lovely. The conversation was stilted, and every man had his hand on his sword. The Northmen did not seem to trust the king or the Chieftain of Berne, and they wouldn’t eat what was put before them. Instead, their king stood and traded his plate with Benjie, letting it clatter on the table, food dripping from every side. His men followed suit, trading their plates with the warriors of Berne and the king’s party until they were satisfied with their selections. Ghisla had her plate taken three times before the swapping was complete.
Banruud was not amused, but he tolerated the North King’s suspicion, as no one had dared to touch his plate. As a result, he finished before everyone else. Ghisla ate as quickly as she could, knowing at any minute she would be called upon and her opportunity to fill her stomach would come to an end, but the king noticed her hunger and her haste and rose to his feet, ever spiteful, ever small. She put down her knife and fork and gulped from the tepid wine in her cup. She wanted water. Her throat was dry and the room was too warm.
“We will have some entertainment,” Banruud said, raising his goblet. “As requested by King Gudrun. This is Liis of Leok, a daughter of the temple. She will sing to you.”
Banruud offered her his hand, insisting she rise.
She took it but released it immediately, and the king settled back into his chair. All eyes lifted to her face, including those of the North King, who sat directly across from Banruud at a similarly high table, surrounded by warriors with similarly furrowed brows. King Gudrun wore his eyes rimmed in black like the keepers, but his hair hung in braided coils down his back. The top was gathered into a knot pierced by animal bones to keep it from falling in his eyes. His men wore variations of the same thing. Leather hose and tunics studded with metal, swords strapped across their bodies, and blades bound to their boots with long leather straps.
They were a frightening lot, but not at all unfamiliar. She’d been raised in the Northlands, and men like these had roamed Tonlis and every village that had dotted the landscape. She was not unacquainted with the North King either. His name had visited many a charred memory. Once he had let her live, though he had made no attempt to assist her. She doubted he would remember.
She began with the song of Saylok, as was the tradition. Had the chieftains and warriors of the other clans been the audience, they would have pounded their fists and clasped their braids, but Gudrun yawned when she finished, unimpressed. She felt much the same way about the song and could hardly blame him.
“I fear your woman attempts to sing us to sleep, Banruud,” Gudrun said, his mouth twisted in mockery. “And I do not wish to have my throat cut while I slumber.”
“Mayhaps the lady knows a song of the North?” someone suggested from the table behind King Gudrun. The voice was low, a quiet suggestion for his sire, but Ghisla’s heart stuttered in recognition. She craned her neck, breaking her own rule, and then caught herself. She was being foolish. She had stopped hearing Hod long ago.
“What song would you like to hear, King Gudrun?” she asked, her eyes trained on his brow so she wouldn’t have to look in his eyes.
“Sing the begetting song,” a Northman belched off to the left, and the men around him laughed.
“Yes. Let us hear that song,” the North King said, nodding. “I’ve been assured you know many of the Songr songs.”
“It is hardly appropriate for the occasion,” she demurred. Who had assured him of such a thing?
King Banruud waved his hand, dismissing her reservations. “Give the king what he wants, Daughter.”
She raised her chin and lifted her eyes to the back wall. The head of a giant, black bear was mounted on a column, his teeth bared, his snout wrinkled, performing even in death. They had a great deal in common, she and that bear. She took a deep breath and sang the old song, divorcing herself from the memory of the last time she’d sung it, holding Hod’s hand on the hillside, letting him see her people dance in his thoughts.
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,” she sang, folding her hands primly in front of her.
She sang it again, faster, as it was designed to be sung, and the Northmen all joined in on the last line. “And . . . begetting begins again.”
“Again!” the North King brayed.
She sang it once more, her tongue skipping over the words so quickly she had no space to breathe, and the whole room clapped and joined in on the ending, cheering the effort.
She inclined her head in a little bow and took a cleansing breath, waiting for his next request.
The demands came, one after the other, all songs of the Northlands, and she sang them, as she’d been instructed.
After a dozen numbers, the North King clapped loudly and banged his cup on the table, and his men followed suit.
“You must sing us another before the night is over, Liis of Leok,” Gudrun insisted. “But we must entertain you now.”
Ghisla sank gratefully into her chair.
“We do not have a woman with beautiful, golden hair to sing to you,” Gudrun said. “But perhaps we can amuse you some . . . other way.”
King Banruud nodded, magnanimous, indicating Gudrun should proceed.
“Where is Blind Hod?” Gudrun said, and his warriors shouted, stomping their feet and banging their goblets in anticipation.
If Ghisla had not been seated, she would have fallen.
“Stand up, Hod. You must let our new friends see you.” There was a shoving and a shuffle, and a gray-robed man rose reluctantly from the table behind the North King. He was thin and grim, though his furrowed forearms bespoke strength and his shoulders were wide beneath the cowl of his robe. He shoved it back, revealing a tight, black braid that ran down the center of his skull. The sides of his head were shaved smooth above well-shaped ears and a lean, squared-off jaw.
When he lifted his eyes, they were an empty green.
Alba gasped and Banruud leaned forward in interest, but Ghisla could not feel her fingertips or the tip of her nose, and the room had started to darken around the edges. She swayed, knocking into Alba, and reached for the princess to steady herself.
“Liis?” Alba asked. “Liis, are you all right? You are so pale.”
But she could not speak. She could only tremble and stare as the Northman made his way around the tables, clearing his way with his staff, until he stood in the middle of the floor, between the two opposing sides.
“Father, Liis is not well,” Alba murmured. “May we be excused?”
Banruud ignored the question, or mayhaps he didn’t hear. He too was entranced.
“Hod is blind. Do you see his eyes?” Gudrun asked, warming to his game. He had rapt attention on every side, and the Northmen were beaming with anticipation.
“When we first met young Hod on the shores of Saylok, we thought he was a phantom come to kill us. Instead, we tried to kill him, and discovered the lad was quite handy with a stick. He still got beat within an inch of his life, but he gave as good as he got—maybe better—for he lived and one of my men died.”
“Two, my king. He killed two,” someone said.
“You found him on the shores of Saylok?” Benjie interrupted, like Hod was a box of treasure or an exotic crustacean.
“Indeed we did. He is one of you . . . though now . . . he is one of us.”
The Northmen guffawed and banged their fists at Gudrun’s flare for drama.
“We tried to kill him every day for about a month. Threw him off the boat, told him to swim after us, and left him behind. But he caught up to us hours later when we hit the doldrums. He could hear us—imagine that—for miles.”
“And if you hadn’t hit the doldrums?” Alba spoke up, her voice ringing with curiosity. “What would . . . Hod . . . have done then?”
“He would have died or learned to swim faster,” the North King leered. The men around him laughed again.
“I saw him once . . . years ago. In a contest on the mount. He is an archer. But he cheats,” Benjie insisted. The Northmen grumbled and guffawed.
“He cheats?” the North King repeated, and he laughed loudly. “How does a blind man cheat, Hod?”
“Well, I do hear far better than most,” Hod answered, and the sound of his voice crashed over her, tossing her about like a boat on the sea. She was going to be sick, but Hod continued, seemingly unbothered by her presence.
“Tell us what you hear,” Gudrun insisted, enjoying himself immensely.
“Three Bernian warriors stand near the doors,” he said. “They do not trust me. I can hear it in their heartbeats and the way they have shifted their weight to the balls of their feet. They are ready to rush me if need be. The man behind the king has drawn his sword.”
“You can hear a man’s thoughts?” Benjie sneered.
“No. I can hear his intention. His indrawn breath, his dry mouth, his disbelieving huff. His pounding heart and his grinding teeth. Sometimes, I can hear the blink of an eye. I can hear the whisper of an arrow in flight and the snick of a blade. I can smell the wine on the breath of your cook. I hope he is your cook. Otherwise, you have a stranger preparing your food.”
The Northmen laughed.
“Where is my cook?” Benjie looked around the room. “I don’t see him.”
“He is in the kitchen,” Hod answered. He cocked his head. “But he is heading here now. His belch is wafting behind him.”
Alba laughed, just a tinkling of sound that was hardly more than a sigh, but Hod turned his head toward her, acknowledging her appreciation. An instant later he was spinning away, his staff circling his head, and several blades clattered to the stone floor, swatted from the air with Hod’s stick.
Three of Gudrun’s men had thrown their knives, each from a different direction, and they all stomped their approval.
“You see?” Gudrun said, turning his palm. “He is quite difficult to surprise.”
“Do you know how to kill a man . . . or only to evade killing?” King Banruud asked.
“I did not think you would appreciate such a demonstration,” Hod said evenly.
Gudrun roared with laughter. “Would you like him to kill one of your men, Banruud? Perhaps one of yours, Chieftain?”
Hod removed the bow across his back and sheathed his staff in its place. He withdrew an arrow from his quiver, and the room stilled. Every man was armed, but no one trusted the other, and a nocked arrow was an imminent threat.
“There is a mounted bear on the far wall. I killed him with a single shot through his bawling mouth to the back of his throat,” Benjie boasted. “Let me see you put an arrow near his head.”
“I can’t,” Hod answered.
“It is a mere fifty feet,” Benjie mocked. “Surely you can hit such a target.”
“I have never met a dead bear who wants to kill me,” Hod said. “I cannot hear what doesn’t have a heartbeat.”
The Northmen laughed uproariously.
“I do better with living targets. But there is an owl perched above you. He has a fine set of feathers.” With a steady swing, Hod brought his bow up and released an arrow toward the rafters. A rush of feathers and a flapping of wings was evidence of how close he came.
“You missed,” King Banruud mocked.
“I didn’t. I simply had no desire to kill him, though he left something behind.”
A feather drifted lazily above Hod’s head, and he plucked it from the air.
Alba clapped, delighted, but before the others could join in, Hod lifted his bow again and shot another arrow into the network of beams above them. A rat the size of a man’s foot fell with a clatter and a thud onto Lady Beatrice’s plate, completely skewered by the arrow.
Her shriek and Benjie’s howl were confirmation of his success.
He sheathed his bow and retrieved his staff, and when Benjie flung the dead rat at him, he neatly sidestepped the gory projectile and bowed to the king, indicating his demonstration finished.
Banruud clapped, appreciative.
“Impressive, very impressive,” Banruud said. But Gudrun was not finished. He projected his voice above the praise for Hod and raised his arms to gather all eyes once more.
“Hod has been my valued servant for many years. But I will lend his services to you, King Banruud. I will return him to Saylok. In exchange for the Songr.” The North King pointed at Ghisla.
The room was silent for a single, indrawn breath. A stunned second passed before Banruud exhaled on a disbelieving laugh. “The singer?” he asked. “You wish to trade me a blind man for a daughter of the temple?”
Ghisla had already been rendered senseless by Hod’s presence, and the North King’s words fell around her, meaningless and surreal.
Hod was also unmoved. His chest didn’t rise and fall like he was winded from his efforts or from distress. He simply stood, perfectly still, listening without expression, but Ghisla could not drag her eyes from his face.
“What use have I for a blind archer?” Banruud persisted. “You offend me with this suggestion.”
“A king and country can never have too many loyal sons,” Gudrun said. “Especially ones so skilled in staying alive.”
“I cannot trade a daughter of the temple. She belongs to her clan first.”
“She belonged to the Northlands first. You should return her to us.”
“She is of Leok,” the king spat out.
“No. She is a Songr. Of Tonlis. I spared her life myself. Many years ago.” Gudrun’s voice was perfectly mild and without accusation. He looked at Ghisla. “Do you remember Tonlis, Songr? Do you remember your king?”
Ghisla’s throat had closed and her memory wailed. Do you remember Tonlis? She remembered Tonlis. She remembered the soldiers and the smoke and the stench. She remembered it all, though she had tried for a decade to forget it. Alba reached for her hand beneath the table.
“I am her king! She belongs to me,” Banruud said. His voice was hard and his words dripped with displeasure.
“And your daughter? Does she belong to you?”
Alba flinched, and Ghost’s face filled Ghisla’s thoughts. It was as if the North King knew all and was quietly enflaming Banruud, ember by burning ember.
“Princess Alba is the hope of Saylok. The pride of our people. But as her father . . . it is my duty to make a match that will aid the country and my daughter. I have great hope for a union between the Northlands and Saylok. One that will benefit both lands.”
“And she is very beautiful,” Gudrun said. “It would not be a hardship to bed her.”
Even Gudrun’s men were stunned into silence at their leader’s provocative disrespect. The North King waited for Banruud to respond, a slight smile around his lips, but his eyes were sharp and his hand was on his sword.
But it was Alba who rose slowly, her shoulders back, her hand still in Ghisla’s. Ghisla rose beside her immediately, and the clatter of steel and the scrape of chairs created a sudden maelstrom in the hall as the men around them also stood.
“I will bid you all good night,” Alba said evenly. “It has been a trying day, and we will be leaving on the morrow.”
The North King stood as well, inclining his head. His men rumbled to their feet around him.
“Of course, Princess. Let us save this talk until we are alone.”
It was another blow, another volley oozing with inuendo, but it was not answered by the king, the chieftain, or their men.
On wooden legs, Ghisla followed Alba from the room, several members of the king’s guard falling in around them, and the earth-shattering summit came to a close.