The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

23

ROOMS

They broke camp at daybreak, uneasy by their diminished numbers and obvious vulnerability to attack. The king kept Hod at the front of the caravan, insisting he ride in the wagon of provisions and listen for threats. Ghisla and Alba shared the saddle on a huge, battle-tested charger who’d lost his rider in the skirmish the day before, but more than their mode of transport had changed; they were guarded on all sides by men who now viewed Hod with wide eyes and spoke of him with hushed praise.

He did not get closer to the women than his assigned duties required and maintained a careful posture of cold reserve when he guarded their privacies. He did not speak to Ghisla or even incline his head in her direction throughout the arduous day of travel, and she resolved to do the same, if only to protect him. But his words of the night before ricocheted continually in her head, and tenderness and terror warred in her chest.

By the time the bugles sounded from the walls and the final ascent to the mount began, she was weak with strain and trembling with fatigue, and Alba was drooping in her arms. The caravan rumbled into the cobbled courtyard, the king’s guard shouting for porters and grooms, and she and Alba were assisted from the saddle, their legs buckling and their backs bent. She saw Hod then, near the castle steps, but he followed at the king’s heels, already consigned to duty.

She did not see him for several days, and she did not dare inquire after him, but word of the attack on the road from Berne had begun to spread among the king’s men and the residents of Temple Hill, and Hod’s notoriety seemed to grow with each retelling. He was the new Temple Boy, his feats rivaling those in the old stories of Bayr, who was still a legend on the mount. The only difference was one of note: King Banruud had hated Bayr, and he seemed quite attached to Hod.

Ghisla was summoned to the king’s chamber to ease his aching head three days after their return from Berne and was made to endure an hour in his arms with Hod standing watch outside his door. Banruud’s thoughts were tangled, and he buried his face in her neck like he was drowning, but from the flickering impressions she saw as she sang, he was reassured by Hod’s presence. He felt . . . safe.

She did not.

She was unmoored. She was back in the North Sea, bobbing between two lives, begging for heaven, and knowing there was none.

When she left Banruud’s chamber, Hod stood in the shadows a mere ten feet from the door, but she called for the sentry at the top of the stairs and turned away like she didn’t see him there. Banruud’s sticky breath clung to her throat, and she didn’t want Hod to smell him on her skin.

The following morning, Master Ivo requested her presence in the sanctum.

“The Blind Hod has returned,” he said without preamble, his hands wrapped around the arms of his chair. His papery skin and black eyes absorbed the shadows that the flickering candles did little to alleviate. She had oft wondered how he could endure the gloom and had come to realize he welcomed it. The darkness hid his uncertainties.

“Yes. He has. He is in the employ of the king.” Her voice was steady. She’d prepared herself for this interrogation.

“And how did that come to be?” Ivo pressed.

“You ask me, Master?” she responded, dumbfounded. “I am not privy to the inner workings of the castle or the king.”

“You did not expect him?”

“I did not expect him.”

He pondered this for a moment, seeming to forget she was even present. The skies rumbled, and rain began to spatter against the temple walls. The smell of wet stones and dry earth seeped into the space, and the gloom around them intensified.

“There is a storm coming,” he remarked.

“The storm is here,” she answered. It was not meant to be provocative, but he peered at her, stooped and suspicious, and the truth of her statement resonated in her chest. The storm had arrived, and she almost . . . welcomed it.

“I do not know what to make of it,” he confessed, and for the first time in her recollection, he seemed scared and unsure.

“The storm, Master?”

“The blind man,” he snapped.

“Mayhaps . . . there is nothing to make of it. Mayhaps it has nothing to do with you, or the gods, or the runes, or the king.” She spoke evenly, doing her best to remain circumspect.

“Do you know why Loki chose the blind god to do his bidding?” Master Ivo asked, scowling at her.

She waited, knowing he would remind her. Resentment bubbled in her chest. Hod was not the blind god. He was a man. And Master Ivo could be a fool.

“Loki realized that the fates could not see him,” Ivo muttered. “And what they could not see . . . they would not prevent.”

She remembered the story as Hod had told it so many years ago. He’d been frying fish, preparing dinner, sharing the simple tale of the blind god for whom he had been named. We can only see what can be seen.

“I cannot see him either,” Master Ivo confessed. The revelation startled her.

“You cannot see . . . Hod?”

“The runes reveal many things, but not all. Not nearly all.” He spread his hands, and uncurled his talon-like fingers, signaling he knew nothing. “He is a mystery to me. An unknown quantity. And I did not anticipate his return.”

“What will you do?” Ghisla asked. She pictured him summoning Hod, demanding that he leave the mount, and her anger bubbled again. The intrigue had gone on too long, and nothing—nothing—had changed.

The Highest Keeper raised his eyes to hers. “The question is . . . what will you do, Daughter?”

“There is naught I can do,” she cried. “I have been on this mount for more than a decade, waiting for salvation. Day after day, night after night, singing my songs, sleeping beside my sisters, and sitting with a tortured king. Tell me, Highest Keeper, what should I do?”

He nodded. “I fear there is naught any of us . . . can do.”

The king gave Hod a small room on an upper floor in the castle equally distanced between his own chambers and the servants’ quarters. He was not an honored guest—that wing of the castle was empty—nor an acknowledged member of the family; the Queen’s Tower where Alba and the old queen slept was up a winding set of stairs off the main entrance. Still, a room of his own in the castle was far better than Hod had expected, and it was far better than sleeping in the barracks with the king’s guard. A narrow bed and an iron tub were all he needed, and the room was more than sufficient, but he was required to work for his prime lodgings.

The king seemed eager—anxious even—to have him near. He stood sentry while Banruud ate and hovered in the hall while Ghisla sang. He guarded the king when he spoke with his advisors and trailed him when he walked the grounds. He was even asked to rove the corridors and walk along the temple wall to listen for approaching threats before he retired at night.

It was odd how so many feared him . . . and how Banruud feared him not at all. King Banruud did not think him a threat; Hod suspected he did not think him a man. It was as if he considered Hod a trained raptor, skilled and useful but without emotion or humanity. As if, having no eyes, he had no soul.

He was good at being useful and invisible at the same time. It was how he’d survived in Gudrun’s realm all those years. The temple mount was not the Northlands; it was simultaneously more civilized and more remote, more open and more oppressed. He did not dodge blades and evade blows at every turn, but the quiet desperation on the hill was much harder for him to endure. Mayhaps it was simply his proximity to Ghisla.

The temple itself teemed with worried hearts. He could hear Ghost and Dagmar and Master Ivo. He could hear the keepers and the daughters, and he could hear Ghisla. Even when he lay down to sleep in his strange bed in his strange new room he could hear her, and her nearness filled him with both elation and grief.

She had no freedom. He knew she could not seek him out. But twice she’d seen him in the corridor outside Banruud’s chamber, and twice she’d run from him. She was upset by his presence. He could hear it in her heartbeat and in her shallow breaths. But she had avoided him long enough.

When Banruud summoned her again, he was waiting when she exited the king’s rooms. The halls were quiet, the sentry sleeping, and Hod stood directly across from the door so she would not flee.

“I must go,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Banruud will hear.”

“He will not. But let us walk.” He held out his hand, inviting her to come with him, and she moaned, the sound barely audible, as if she stood on a precipice from which she desperately wanted to jump.

She did not take his proffered hand but turned and walked deeper into the corridor, away from the stairs and the heat of the sconces. She sought the shadows, and he followed her. When she stopped, he stopped too, keeping a safe distance between them. He did not want to push her. He just wanted to be near her.

“What do you want, Hod?” she asked quietly. The words wounded him, but he did not flinch.

“I have missed you,” he confessed. “I don’t want to miss you anymore.”

Again the faint moan.

“And why . . . are you here?”

“You know why I’m here, Ghisla.”

“You cannot call me that out loud. I am Liis of Leok.”

“We are alone. And you are Ghisla to me.”

“Why are you here?” she insisted again. He knew she didn’t mean the corridor or even the castle. She wanted to know his intentions.

“I knew no other way to be near you. Arwin is dead. Saylok is dying. I cannot be a keeper. I have no clan. I have no family. I have only you. You are the only thing that matters to me. So I am here.”

“It has been years,” she said, her words a hushed wail.

“I am here,” he said again.

“You are the North King’s man.”

“No. I am Hod. The same Hod you have known for a decade. The same Hod you once loved.”

“You are the king’s man!” she said, adamant, but Hod could hear the tears in her throat.

“I am Ghisla’s man. I have only ever been yours.”

Her heart was pushing, pulsing, pulling at him, and he could smell the want on her skin and feel the weight of her stare. He reached out toward her again, beseeching, but this time he turned his palm up, exposing to her gaze the rune that had connected them for so long. For a moment he thought she would reject him again, that she would flee.

The corridor was quiet. The king was in his chamber, his breaths steady and his sleep deep. Below them, in the kitchen, the hum of voices and the heat of bodies radiated up through the floor. Food was being prepared for people who would sleep for hours yet. But they were alone. Finally. Blessedly. Alone. And he heard the moment she raised her hand, her sleeve whispering against the bodice of her dress, and then her fingertips touched his.

For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to exult, but he could not wait any longer, and he pulled her to him, seeking her mouth, and her heat, and her substance.

But he was not prepared for the reality of Ghisla, her breasts and her belly and her hips pressed against him; the collision rocked him, radiating in his legs and emptying his thoughts, and he groaned her name in wonderous disbelief.

She was no longer in his head and his heart but in his hands. She gripped his face like she too was clinging to a dream, and then his mouth found hers, soft and insistent, and violet rose behind his eyes and surged beneath his tongue.

She dragged her mouth away and moaned his name, “Hody, Hody, Hody,” the way she often called him in song, and for a moment, his own face rose in his mind, as if he looked at himself in that moment through her. Harsh angles and empty green eyes, his back bent to hold her, his lips wet with her kisses. Then his face was gone and her lips returned, consuming him.

Salt—were they her tears or his?

He couldn’t kiss her fast enough, hold her close enough, or taste her well enough, and impatience guided his hands over her hips and around her waist, up the cage of her ribs and over the swell of her breasts only to retrace the same path, seeing her in the only way he could. She bit at his lips and nipped at his jaw, and her words came back to him from so many years ago.

I want to be inside you. And I want you to be inside me.

She ripped her mouth from his and pushed herself away only to immediately return to his arms and bury her face in his neck, her hands clutching his back, almost clawing.

“I do not know when you lie,” she said.

He stiffened.

“You know when I lie, but I don’t know when you lie,” she whispered, keeping her face buried against him.

“I have not lied to you.” He had not told her all of the truth, but he had not lied.

“Everyone lies. Do they not? But you have the advantage of hearing what most cannot . . . what I cannot.”

“The advantage? My lack is what created my advantage . . . so it is hardly an advantage.”

“I do not know when you lie,” she insisted again.

He eased her back, his hands bracketing her small face. Her jaw was locked and her chin jutted out against his thumbs. He wanted to kiss her again, but there were words in her throat. He could feel them gathering beneath her chin.

“And I cannot read your mind, woman. So you must tell me what you are trying to say.” His voice was gentle even if his words were dismissive. She had made her name an issue; she could hardly argue now about him calling her woman.

“You say you have love for me.”

“No. I said I love you.”

She swallowed, her throat moving beneath his hands. “But how do I know if you lie?”

“For what purpose would I lie?”

“Why does anyone lie? Because the truth is too hard.”

“You know I love you.”

“I know nothing.”

“Do you love me, Ghisla of Tonlis?”

“No,” she snapped, defensive.

“You lie,” he shot back.

He grinned, and she . . . laughed, the sound brushing his lips with surprised mirth, and he kissed her again. She met his mouth with all the desperation and wonder he felt, but fear hounded her, and she pulled back almost immediately.

“Someone will hear us,” she lamented. “If you are seen with me . . . if you are seen kissing me . . . he will kill you.”

She stepped away, and he let her retreat. Not because he feared for himself, but because her distress was palpable. For a moment they simply breathed, bringing their emotions under control.

“I will walk with you,” he said. “Back to the temple. I have guarded you before. It will not raise alarm if I do so now.”

“All right,” she whispered. Disappointment limned her words, but she touched his hand, a glancing caress, and turned toward the stairs. He followed her, staff in hand, still enveloped by the rosy waft of her scent.

The sentry near the stairs didn’t even raise his head. The guard at the castle doors had left his post, and the watchman on the wall was not doing his job. His snores would not be audible to anyone else, but to Hod they were as clear as a pig rooting at his feet.

The courtyard was empty, and in the distance between the palace steps and the temple columns, there were no indications that he and Ghisla were observed with alarm or even interest. The mount was accustomed to her late-night crossings.

He could not feel eyes the way he heard hearts or breath or movement, but he felt safe enough to speak before she reached the temple doors.

“I will wait for you on the hillside. If you cannot come . . . I will wait tomorrow. And the day after that. Until you know whether I lie.”

Dred of Dolphys and a handful of sweat-soaked, dust-coated warriors arrived on the mount three weeks after the king’s return from Berne. Dred demanded an audience with Banruud, who insisted Hod stand in front of him to deter a sudden attack.

“I do not trust Dred of Dolphys. He’s wanted to kill me for years, and he’s not afraid to die. He will keep his distance. If he doesn’t . . . you will respond accordingly.”

Hod did as he was told, positioning himself in front of the dais as Dred was ushered in and made to address the king from more than a hundred paces. Hod heard the moment Dred took note of him and the scoff of derision the old warrior released beneath his breath. Hod remembered Dred of Dolphys from the tournament years before. He’d liked him greatly. He wasn’t sure if the old warrior’s disdain was for him or for the king—or for both—but it bothered him all the same.

King Banruud listened with feigned boredom and blatant hostility as Dred made his complaint.

“We’ve had attacks from Berne on our borders, and we’ve had word that your caravan was attacked as well. Surely you know the conditions across the countryside. Yet nothing is done. Benjie sits in his keep and gets fat while his clansmen die . . . or prey on others,” Dred stated. “We went to him first. Now we come to you.”

“Are you the chieftain, Dred of Dolphys?” King Banruud said, yawning. It was a pretense; Hod could smell his nervous perspiration.

“You know I am not, Banruud.”

“Yes. I know you are not. Yet you come to me as if you are.”

Dred ground his teeth but simply waited for Banruud to continue.

“I have not seen the Temple Boy in all these years. Mayhaps he sits in his keep and gets fat as well?”

“What will be done, Banruud? I come to you in deference to your throne. I do not want war among the clans, but if things persist as they are, we will have no choice but to engage with Berne.”

“Is that a threat, Dred of Dolphys?”

“Yes, Majesty. It is. A threat and a warning. You have been a chieftain. Your father was a chieftain. I did not like him—we were fierce rivals—but I respected him, and he was a good chief. Benjie has not been a good chieftain. And now we all suffer.”

The men behind Dred shifted and rumbled in agreement, and the king’s guards at the doors seemed to acknowledge his words as well, many of them having been on the road from Berne when the caravan was attacked. But Banruud sighed heavily, as if Dred overreacted and asked too much.

“I will go to Berne again—before the tournament—and I will see to the matter myself,” the king grumbled. He was stalling. He would go to Berne to meet the North King and bring him back to the mount. The only consequences for the Chieftain of Berne would be administered by the disintegrating conditions in his clan . . . and the Northmen who would overrun him. Hod considered it another reason to let events unfold.

When the king dismissed Dred and the handful of warriors, Hod was instructed to follow them out.

“Make sure they leave the mount,” Banruud insisted. “I also want to know who Dred confers with and what is said. You can hear him?”

“I can hear him,” Hod confirmed.

“Good. Then see to it.”

He did so, not appreciating his new role as Banruud’s pup . . . though he supposed that’s exactly what he was. He had no intention of stirring up trouble or informing on Dred or his men, but he was curious about their sudden arrival and about Bayr, who had kept his distance all these years. In the end, that distance would serve him well, and it comforted Hod greatly, knowing what was to come. When Banruud fell, Hod did not want Bayr to be anywhere near him.

They saw him coming and rose in distrust. They’d pitched a tent in the meadow where the clans converged during tournament, clearly having expected the king’s reception. They would not be sleeping in the castle, though there were twenty-three empty rooms. Their horses grazed nearby—they were hobbled by the sound of it—and someone had built a fire.

“Banruud has sent his blind henchman to dispatch us,” a warrior crowed, and Hod recognized his voice. He was a loudmouth, a pup that had nipped at Dred’s feet, and time had seemingly not changed him. The others—there were four in all—said nothing, but their hands were on their swords as he approached.

“You are Dred of Dolphys. We met years ago,” Hod greeted, amiable.

“I remember,” Dred answered, cautious. “Your skill was impressive then. I suspect it is more impressive now. I did not expect to see you here.”

Hod extended his hand toward the man, and Dred took it. It was like clutching the branch of a tree—rough and ridged and unforgiving.

“Dystel,” Hod said, greeting the man to Dred’s left. He’d been at Dred’s side through the competition. He was a good archer and had been among the final contestants.

“Archer,” Dystel grunted. “How did you know it was I? I’ve not said a word.”

“I never forget a heart.”

The youngest man scoffed, and Hod turned his face toward him.

“You didn’t like me then either . . . Daniel, was it?” Hod said. “And you weren’t much of a shot. You got out in the first round.”

Daniel gasped, affronted, but the other men laughed.

“I remember now that I liked you, blind archer,” Dred said, a smile in his voice.

“We have not met, Dakin,” Hod said, addressing the silent man at the edge of the group. “But you were there too. You have a heart like a gong.”

“That is uncanny,” Dred marveled.

“It is theater,” Daniel grumbled.

“Your stomach is growling, young Daniel,” Hod said. “Perhaps some supper would make you less hostile?” The men laughed again, as he’d intended, but it didn’t make his assertion any less true. They were all hungry, and he was delaying their dinner.

“Please . . . eat with us. We have enough,” Dred invited.

“I cannot stay. But please . . . eat. I wished only to greet you.”

“And make sure we leave?” Dred added. He was not a fool.

“Aye,” Hod said.

Dred exhaled, as if relieved by Hod’s honesty. Most men were.

“You look like a keeper. Except, mayhaps, for your braid,” Dystel remarked. “I thought years ago that is what you were.”

“I was raised by a keeper. A cave keeper in Leok. I thought one day I would go to the temple and become a supplicant.” Hod shrugged. “But that was not to be.”

“The Dolphys was raised by a keeper too,” Dred said. “By a whole temple.”

“They called him the Temple Boy, archer. Surely you’ve heard the stories,” Dakin said.

“Yes. I’ve heard the stories,” Hod answered. And he had loved the stories.

“You wanted to be a keeper . . . but now you work for the king,” Dred said. “I find that surprising.” His voice was neutral, but he did not like Banruud. Understandable, considering their history. His daughter, Desdemona, had been rejected by the king. Her death was on Banruud’s hands. The death of Saylok was on his hands.

“There aren’t many options for a blind henchman,” Hod replied. The men laughed again.

“No,” Dred answered. “Though I daresay . . . there aren’t many options for any of us. A warrior or a keeper, a farmer or a fisherman. It is a hard life, whether a man is born blind or with a stuttering tongue. We all have our battles.”

“Yes. We do.” Hod hesitated, wanting to warn them, and not certain how to do so. “The mount is not a safe place, Dred of Dolphys.”

The men stiffened.

“Saylok is not a safe place,” Dred shot back.

“No. It isn’t. Not for a warrior or a keeper, a farmer or a fisherman. Not for a blind man or a man with a stuttering tongue,” he repeated, using Dred’s own words. He lifted his face to the breeze, listening. It was time to go. Dagmar was coming, and Hod had no wish to be in his presence or draw attention to himself.

“Your son approaches, Dred of Dolphys. Eat. Rest. But when you are done . . . it would be best to gather your tent and leave the mount. Sleep in the Temple Wood, if you must. But don’t return. Not even for the tournament.”

“Do you threaten us, archer?” Dystel asked, baffled.

“No.” Hod shook his head. He had to tread carefully, to ward off but not warn. To pressure but not pique. “I seek only to impart the king’s warning. I seek only to . . . protect you.”

The men were hushed as he departed, and he felt their wary eyes as he picked his way across the meadow in the opposite direction from whence he’d come. When Dagmar reached them, he was well out of sight.