The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

24

MOONS

Ghisla was able to creep away to the hillside three times in the following weeks, and each time, Hod heard her waiting and arrived shortly after. Her fear was a constant flogging, her hope a stinging salve, but she could not stay away from him.

He tasted the same, and his very existence filled her mouth, swelled in her chest, and burned in her veins. When he was beside her, that moment was the only thing that mattered, and they volleyed between frantic kisses and desperate words, trying to catch up on all their years apart.

He told her of his adventures in the Northlands, the journey that got him there, and the luck that brought him back.

“I will never be a sailor; I’m useless on the open sea. I have not learned to hear my way across it. I cannot see the sky, the stars do not speak or breathe or live, and beneath them I am truly blind.”

“You can’t sense them.”

“No. I can feel the sun on my face, and when it is bright, I can plot its course across the sky. But when the clouds are thick, and the sun is hidden, time is harder for me to gauge. The tools of a sailor are lost on me.”

“Can you feel the moon?” she asked.

“If I am very still—I can feel its pull.”

“It is full tonight. Fat and slow, and so bright it hurts my eyes to gaze on it too long.” She sang about what she saw, the size, shape, and glow of the orb that rolled across the heavens, a sated circle in a sky of lesser beings . . . until the sun rose and shooed him away.

I am the moon and the moon is me.

I am young and I am old.

I am weak and I am bold.

I am distant. I am cold.

I am the moon and the moon is me.

“I have not heard that one before,” Hod said. “But you are not the moon.”

She laughed, but the sound contained no mirth. “I am just like the moon. Young and old. Weak and bold. Distant and cold. I am a constant contradiction, even to myself.”

“Mayhaps. But you are not distant or cold.”

“I am. It is how I’ve survived. Just like the moon. The less I feel, the easier it is to go on. I have been this way for so long . . . I hardly remember if I was ever someway else.”

“You are not cold, Ghisla. Not to me. You are color. You are sound. You are the song on the wind and the hope in my heart.”

“Oh, Hody,” she whispered, moved. “How can you still hope? Life has given us no reason for such belief.”

“How can you not?” he said. “When we are together . . . how can you not?”

She clasped his hand and pressed it to her lips, moved by his sweetness and reminded of the boy who’d pled with her to never give up. He had changed, her Hod, but in so many ways, he was exactly the same.

“When Odin gave his eye to the well in exchange for the meaning of the runes, he took a chunk of the twenty-fourth moon to make himself another,” Hod murmured. His eyes too could have been carved from the orb. They reflected the white light and gleamed at her softly.

“What have you received in exchange for your eyes?” she asked. “What has the well shown you?”

He grew silent, as if the conversation had turned to ground he didn’t want to tread. They had not talked about Gudrun or the Northmen while on the hillside. They’d avoided Banruud altogether. They’d inhabited a world of lovers, of kisses and caresses and careless whispering, like time would wait until they’d caught up.

“In one week, King Banruud will go back to Berne. I will be going with him,” Hod said.

Ghisla brought their clasped hands to her chest, and he soothed her quickening heart with the back of his hand.

“I will return with him . . . and with Gudrun. And when I do . . . you must be ready to flee, Ghisla. Gudrun plans to overthrow the king and take the hill. I will not stop him. In fact, I will help him. And when Banruud has fallen, I will kill Gudrun myself.”

“But Banruud will not be the only one to fall.”

“No. Men will die. Chieftains who have done nothing but suck the teat of Saylok will fight beside the king. Their warriors, the king’s guard, the clanless . . . some of them will die too.”

“What of the temple? What of the daughters? There are more women in the temple now than just my sisters. It is a sanctuary. What will the Northmen do to them, Hod?”

“You will go. All of you. Alba, Ghost, the women, and the keepers. You will go to Bayr in Dolphys. And when the battle is done . . . those who wish will return. And you and I will be free. Mayhaps Saylok will finally be free.”

“You think Banruud’s death will break the curse?”

“Arwin says the scourge began with Bayr, and it will end with him. He even believed . . . that I would be the one to take his life. Like Hod, the blind god.”

“Hod . . . no. Oh no.” It was what Master Ivo feared. What Dagmar feared. What she had come to fear as well.

“Shh, my love. Listen to me,” he urged, and she did her best to control her terrible dread.

“I have puzzled over Desdemona and her runes all these long years. I have thought of my own mother. Of her sacrifices for me. A mother does not curse her son. She seeks only to bless him.” He was quiet, pondering. “I do not think the scourge will end with Bayr’s death, Ghisla, but with his ascendance to the throne.”

Her breath caught, and her eyes clung to Hod’s face. He touched her cheek, ever so softly, as if needing to reassure himself she was there.

“It is the story of Baldr and Hod, two brothers, two gods. One who ushered in the end, and one who rose again. It is the tale that has followed me all my life. I cannot escape it.”

“And . . . which one . . . are you?” she asked.

“I am the one who ushers in the end,” he said gently.

“I am afraid,” she moaned.

“As am I. It is not my destiny to kill Bayr . . . but to help him rise again.”

“If we are going to be apart, you must make a new rune on my hand,” Ghisla pled with Hod the next time they met.

“I fear it will only bring you trouble, my love.” He’d thought about the matter a great deal.

No matter what happened—if Banruud fell or Banruud prevailed—it would not end well for Hod. His allegiance would be questioned, and rightfully so. His only loyalty was to Ghisla and to the brother that didn’t know he existed, and he would be hard pressed to defend himself among any of the opposing factions. The best outcome would be for Banruud and Gudrun to both fall in battle, but Hod would be branded a traitor on either side.

He did not want Ghisla branded with him. It was bad enough that she had the rune of the blind god, however faint, scarred into the lines of her left palm.

“You already wear the mark of Hod,” he whispered.

“I wear the king’s mark.” She traced the star of Saylok in her palm. “I wanted to wear yours.”

“It is a rune, that star. And it does not belong to Banruud. It belongs to Saylok,” he said, pulling her right hand into his lap.

“A rune?”

“Yes . . . A seeker rune.”

“A seeker rune?” she gasped. “I have had a seeker rune on my hand all this time?”

“Start at the tip of Adyar, North, the top of the star, and move around it, from east to west, tracing the lines, until you rejoin the tip of Adyar.” He traced the grooves as he spoke, showing her.

“And what of these lines?” she asked, using his finger to trace spokes that ran from the tip of each leg and met in the middle.

“Those connect the star to the center.”

“To the temple?”

“Yes.” The idea pained him. “After you have traced the star, start again at the tip of Adyar, where you began, and draw the line to the center. Then go to Berne and do the same. Then Dolphys, Ebba, Joran, and Leok, until every line has been traced.

“When you have traced the star with your blood, just like I’ve shown you, press the rune to your brow, where the star is drawn at coronations or at a child’s birth, and ask the Star of Saylok to show you one of her children or a place within her shores.”

“I could have seen you . . . all this time?” she gasped.

“Mayhaps . . . but I was not in Saylok, love. The star only works in Saylok. Every rune has its limits, and the fates decide whether to answer the summons.”

She shook her head in disbelief, and he wrapped her hand in his, covering the scar burned there. He hated it as much as she; he felt scalded each time his fingers brushed it.

“You know the runes. Did you ever try to see me?” she asked quietly.

“Seeker runes do not give a man eyes. I have been taught to make and unlock the runes, but knowledge is not always enough. I did try to see you. I even begged Arwin to reassure me.”

“And did he?”

“Somewhat. His mind was going, and he was sick. He was never the same after Master Ivo turned me away. He lost his faith.”

“Master Ivo taught me the rune of the blind god. Left to right, top to bottom. I carved it in my hand, hoping I could summon you.”

“It is not that kind of rune.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I pressed it to my eyes . . . the way I’d done with the seeker runes, and I said your name. It did not give me sight. It took my sight. I was blind until the bleeding stopped.”

“When was this?” he gasped.

“Months after you left, after the tournament. Master Ivo showed me how the runes of Hod and Baldr were the same.”

“He sought to make you understand why . . . I am the enemy.”

She exhaled heavily, but she did not argue.

“You lost your sight,” he breathed, realization dawning.

“I was terrified. I bound my hand and sat in the sanctum for hours, scared the king would send for me, terrified that my sisters—or Ivo—would find me, and afraid I’d lost my eyes in my foolishness.”

“But your sight came back.”

“Yes. I sang the song, and as the rune healed, my sight returned. Had I not sung the song . . . it might have taken days instead of hours. Had I done it sooner, I would have saved myself a great deal of fear.”

“That was the day I saw,” he said, understanding washing over him, an answer to a mystery that had baffled him for years.

“You saw?”

“For two hours, around that same time frame that you’ve just described, I could see.”

“I gave you my eyes?” she said, flabbergasted.

He could not stop the bubble of incredulous laughter that escaped his throat.

“The rune of the blind god does not seek sight or take sight. It gives sight to the blind,” he explained, awestruck. “It is not a seeker rune . . . it is a sacrificial rune. You carved it into your hand and then . . . said my name?”

“Yes. And I was immediately blind.”

“You gave me sight that day, Ghisla. For two blessed hours, I saw the sky and the hillside. I saw Arwin and the runes. I saw my reflection in the glass. My hands and skin. My . . . life. And I didn’t know why. It was a gift amid a very bleak time. I was . . . devastated by your absence. And then, out of nowhere, the blind god gave me a respite from the darkness. You gave me a respite. I did not let myself mourn when it was gone, though I hoped it would return someday. You gave me a thousand pictures that day, Ghisla, and I didn’t even know it was you.”

Banruud was irritable, demanding comfort from her presence as well as her voice, while he stewed over whether he could bring her with him to Berne. He abandoned the idea only after Hod quietly reminded him that it would not be safe for “the Songr.”

“If you value Liis of Leok, Majesty, it would not be wise to put her anywhere near the North King. He will not hesitate to take what he believes is his.”

The king dismissed Hod with a surly “Get out,” but he did not persist with his plans. She would stay on the mount. When Liis left the king’s chamber near midnight, she was worn from evading his hands and his mouth and weary from trying to sing him to sleep. He was a child throwing tantrums, and when he finally succumbed, she washed herself in the basin in his chamber, though she feared he might wake and she would have to do it all again.

Hod waited for her in the hallway, his face pensive, his jaw tight, his staff in his hands, and his shield on his back.

“There must be somewhere we can go,” she whispered. “Surely . . . there is some place where we can lie behind a locked door. Where we don’t have to run. Or fear. Or speak in whispers. Where you don’t have to carry your shield and staff. Just for a while.”

She didn’t want to run to the hillside or hide in the Temple Wood. To be gone too long would result in chaos, and to go too far was too great a risk. And they had so little time; Hod would leave in the morning.

He turned, listening to the sentry who nodded off in the alcove, and then took her hand and pulled her down the corridor and up a flight of stairs. He stopped beside a small room at the end of a hushed hallway.

“There is no one on this floor but me, and those stairs lead all the way down to the yard at the rear of the castle.”

He ushered her inside, barred the door, and set down his staff and his shield as she surveyed the simple space.

A surge of tenderness welled in her chest. He always asked for so little, and he’d been given even less. A bed with a worn blanket was neatly made. A tub filled the corner, and a set of three drawers stood against the back wall. A basin sat atop the drawers; a bar of soap and a neatly folded towel were placed beside it. Everything was ordered and nothing was extra, except for the long, oval looking glass that hung on the wall adjacent to the door. She turned toward it, and he moved behind her, resting his cheek in the crown of her hair. It was odd to look at them together this way, framed in glass, as though they were a painting, permanent and fixed.

“There is a looking glass on your wall,” she said.

“I thought it might be,” he murmured. “It’s broken, though. When I look in it, I can’t see anything.”

He began to take down her hair, and she watched him, her blood warming beneath her skin. When he ran his fingers through the tresses, spreading them over her shoulders, she loosened the ties between her breasts.

There was no question, or even caution, no hesitation between them at all. He did not ask, and she did not instruct. He was suddenly impatient to touch her skin, and she didn’t shimmy or shy away or giggle at his urgency when he drew her skirts up in his hands and pulled her dress over her head. She helped him, tugging at her stays and loosening the sash at her waist.

Her underthings intrigued him, but only for as long as it took to remove them, and then she stood naked in the looking glass, shivering with anticipation, the cool night air whispering through the shutters that kept the wind from watching them.

“I want to see you,” he said.

She brought his palm to her heart and stroked the back of his hand.

“I have no songs that describe my flesh,” she said, “or capture the look of my face. But if you look into the glass while I sing, maybe you’ll see us the way you saw my sky.”

“Violet,” he breathed, remembering.

“Yes.”

He lifted his face and waited, hopeful.

“I am Ghisla . . . I am . . . small,” she sang, feeling her way into a song. “I am . . . summer . . . more than fall.”

He smiled. His grim face and empty eyes were transformed by the flashing of his teeth and the parting of his lips.

“There you are,” he cried. “There . . . we are?”

She nodded, humming softly.

“My eyes are blue, just like the sky. My hair is gold . . . don’t . . . ask me why.” She wrinkled her brow, trying to write lyrics even as her breath caught and his hands began to rove.

“Your waist is small, your hips are round,” he murmured, helping her. She repeated his line with a bit of melody and a smile.

“Your beauty doesn’t make a sound,” he added.

“Very good,” she said, and sang it back to him.

“Your breasts are full enough to hold,” he composed, and she moaned the words as he tested their weight.

“And these?” he asked, stroking the peaks of her breasts with the tips of his fingers. “Tell me about these.”

“Pink berries . . . on a . . . bed of . . . snow,” she sang, her face flushing.

The song was silly and she felt like a fool, but watching Hod’s face in the looking glass as his hands moved down her body—not just touching her, but seeing her, seeing them, their bodies together—made the song feel almost sacred, like the keeper’s praises at the end of the day.

“You are looking at me . . . and I am looking at you,” he marveled.

She nodded, overcome, and they began again, her song and her eyes, his hands and his touch. She followed his movement, letting him match sight with sound, resisting the urge to direct his hands.

“I hear your blood coursing and your heart galloping, but I see the flush of your skin and the heaviness of your lids. And I see myself, loving you,” he rasped.

She continued on as long as she could, letting him see what he did to her, what she did to him, but when he found the place where her pleasure was centered, she couldn’t sing anymore, and she closed her eyes against the onslaught of sensation.

“Your eyes are my eyes,” he implored. “Don’t close them. Let me see you.”

She opened them again, searching his face in the mirror, and he waited for the image to return, his arms wrapped around her, his lips to her hair.

“Don’t look away.”

She didn’t. Not again. Not when her limbs quaked and her belly trembled. Not when he had to help her stand. She watched him touch her, unblinking, murmuring the song of supplication all the while.

Then he lifted her in his arms and laid her across the bed, needing her mouth more than he needed her eyes, and they forgot about the mirror and the magic of their connection and simply made love, Ghisla and Hod, in the quiet of his humble room.

He covered her with warmth and kisses until she wept his name, and he saw her pleasure and his own in the purring length of her sighs. In the woods she saw stars; in the castle bed, she saw only him, his mouth and his sharp edges, the brow that was lowered in concentration, trying not to take his pleasure too fast when the journey was so sweet. But she wanted to watch the moment he came undone, and she hummed louder and clutched his hips to push him over the edge. He kissed her, mouth open, tongue seeking, and she answered, anxious and eager, before pushing him away again so she wouldn’t miss it.

“Ghisla, I’m waiting for you,” he begged. She laughed and writhed against him, trying to oust his restraint only to lose her grip on her own. She clutched his face in her hands and saw the shudder that rippled past his eyes and down the harsh lines of his face before she captured his mouth and let the tide take them both.

They slept briefly, wrapped around each other in sated exhaustion, only to wake each other again with lovemaking, unwilling to waste their time in sleep, but when Hod stiffened and cocked his head, listening to the castle halls, she held her breath and he rolled away from her to clear his senses. After a moment, his shoulders relaxed and he turned back toward her, but she saw the ending in his grim expression.

“The cock has crowed. The mount is stirring.”

She sighed but rose and began to dress, and Hod did the same. She braided her hair with flying fingers and wrapped it around her head, tight and neat; if she was seen, she wanted to look like she’d risen early instead of not sleeping at all. She washed her teeth and splashed her face before pushing her feet into her shoes. Hod stood by the door, his head bowed, and she thought he was waiting for the path to clear. She slipped her hand into his, signaling her readiness without speaking. His fingers tightened around hers, and he brought them to his cheek.

“I love you, Ghisla,” he said. They’d whispered the words over and over again through the night, but his tone was different now, and she tensed, expectant, as he continued. “I have thought many times that the gods had forsaken me . . . or never cared to begin with. But I cannot think thus when I am with you.”

“You are my only joy,” she whispered, and pressed her mouth to his, needing for him to believe it. For a moment they were lost again, kissing as if time had stopped beyond the door.

Then he lay his forehead against hers, as though drawing the strength he could not muster.

“When I go, use the star if you must. But only if you must. It is easy to lose oneself to the runes, to stare into them all day, and forget the world around us. And sometimes what we see does not free us . . . but destroys us.”

She thought of the keepers, moldering away in their temple.

“Arwin said you blinded me . . . and it is true to a point. When I am with you, you consume me, my senses, and my attention. But I think it is better to be blinded by love than by the runes. I fear many of the keepers—Master Ivo too—have been blinded by them; they believe every answer is in a rune, and they don’t see what is right in front of them. They have lost all perspective. But the answers . . . are not in the runes.”

“Where are they, Hod? Where are they, my love?” she lamented. She had given up on clear answers.

He brought her hand to his chest, to the heart that pounded steadily beneath his skin, and pressed his other hand against her breast.

“They are almost always right here,” he whispered.

Then he opened the door and drew her out into the corridor, down the rear stairs, and out into the cool predawn, bidding her goodbye before he slipped away.