The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon
4
STEPS
It was not Ghisla’s song that convinced Arwin she was not a witch. It was the fact that he was not nearly so affected by it as Hod, who sat in rapt stillness as she sang Arwin the ballad of the Songr, an anthem of her people and the place known for its music.
When she was finished, Arwin was frowning, confused, and even more suspicious. He’d been terrified to hear her sing, convinced she’d render him helpless and kill him in his stupor. He’d held a bow—strung, drawn, and aimed at her heart—throughout her ballad.
“I see images . . . but they are no more powerful than my own thoughts,” he said. “The song paints a story. ’Tis all. It is beautiful, though. Sweet and clear. I should like to hear more.” He frowned again, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Mayhaps that is the trick, to hypnotize. To hypnotize . . . and destroy young Hod.”
“There is no trick, Arwin,” Ghisla said, but he did not believe her, and he guarded her all night, relegating Hod to other chambers, promising that on the morrow he would take her to the man named Lothgar.
She curled in her nest, willing herself to sleep, but could not do so with his eyes boring into her back.
“He is listening, you know. There is no place I can send him where he won’t hear. Yet I walked through the forest and was upon him without him knowing I had returned.”
She waited, uncertain. She didn’t know what he wanted her to say.
“Lothgar will not harm you.”
“I don’t care if he does. As long as it is quick. And final.”
He grunted. “You are an odd child. Lothgar may not accept you.”
She was certain he wouldn’t. She said nothing.
“He will want to know about your home. It would be better not to tell him.”
Burnt fields and a razed village rose in her mind. Was home a country? The land beneath one’s feet? Or was home people? She didn’t ask him.
“I have no home,” she whispered.
“Why are you here?” he asked, suspicious again. Fearful again. It was that note of fear that made her answer.
“I don’t know. I did not choose this place. My family died, so I tried to die, but the sea would not have me. Odin would not have me. Even death would not have me. No one will have me. Not even you.”
She heard the self-pity in her voice and loathed herself, but when Arwin spoke again, his voice had gentled.
“You cannot stay here, Songr.”
“I do not want to stay here,” she said. It was true . . . and it was a lie. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Arwin, but she would very much like to remain with Hod.
“It is not good for Hod,” Arwin added.
“Why?” she asked. But she knew what he was going to say.
“All his senses are dulled when you are near.”
“All his senses?” That wasn’t true.
“All his senses but his sight,” he amended. “When he sees, he hears nothing. He feels nothing. He sits like a thirsty drunk, lapping up what he sees like it is elixir. You cannot sing to him forever. The moment you stop . . . he is in darkness again.”
“Then I won’t sing,” she promised.
He scoffed.
“You keep speaking of runes. Is that what you are afraid of? I don’t know how to write words. I can’t read. I know naught of your silly runes,” she said.
He glared, but she continued, desperate to convince him.
“Hod says you are a cave keeper. I don’t want your cave. I don’t want anything at all . . . except maybe somewhere to sleep and something to eat.” She was hungry. Her appetite was returning. Mayhaps that meant she cared enough about her own life to feed it, which worried her. Caring—about herself and others—was not something she wanted to do. She had done that once before. Never again. But she did need somewhere to live.
“I know nothing of runes,” she repeated. “I know only of songs.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Or maybe he had already made up his mind because Arwin’s face was hard and his voice firm.
“You will destroy him. You have to go. You cannot stay here.”
Arwin sat in a chair near the fire throughout the night, guarding her, but he had been unable to keep sleep at bay and snored so loudly she lay awake much of the night, caught between indifference and indecision. Hod was powerless; she could not stay with him if Arwin would not allow it. But she could run away again. Hod might hear her go . . . but he would not bring her back. He had nothing to bring her back to.
“I can go anywhere,” she said aloud, trying to buoy herself up. She was strong. She was brave. Arwin snorted in his sleep, and tears pricked her eyes.
“I can. And I will.”
She rose from the pile of furs. Arwin did not wake.
She paused at the table where the knives were lined up in a neat row and took one, slipping it into the rope belt at her waist. Then she fled from the cave, out into the moonlit night, out into the trees that stood as a silent sentry. She would hide somewhere. Mayhaps she could find her own cave. Or mayhaps she would simply walk until she was too tired to think. She picked her way down the hill, back toward the beach where Hod had found her days ago. She would walk along the shoreline; it would be easier than going higher into the hills. She had made it to the shore when Hod spoke from behind her. She jumped but muffled her scream just in time.
“Don’t go,” he said.
She caught her breath, panting, but then continued on, out toward the place where the rocks became sand. Hod followed.
“It is not safe.”
“He will not let me stay,” she said. Her voice rang with accusation, and Hod did not defend himself, nor did he argue the truth of her statement.
“You must let him take you to Lothgar,” he said quietly. “Lothgar is an honorable man, and a good chieftain. He has daughters of his own and a wife. He is loved by his people. You will be safe under his guardianship.”
The tears were back, prickling and pushing against her eyes.
“I would rather stay with you.” It was the darkness that wrenched the confession from her. She would not have said such a thing in the light.
“That is what I wish as well,” he whispered. “But mayhaps . . . that is not what is best for either of us.”
“I promise not to sing,” she said, and the tears escaped, dripping down her cheeks and hiding in her borrowed tunic. She had promised the same to Arwin, and he had not believed her.
“I would not let you keep that promise. I would beg you to sing to me all day. And Arwin knows it. He is afraid, Ghisla. I am afraid too. Not of you . . . but of myself.”
“Then I will go. Why have you followed me? Why did you not just let me go?” she cried, swiping at her cheeks.
“It is not safe for you out there. The only safety is in the clans or in the temple . . . and even then . . . there is no safety.”
“I don’t care what happens to me.”
“If you don’t care . . . then let Arwin take you to Lothgar. A life in the temple will be a better life,” he insisted.
“A better life than a life in a cave?”
“I will not always dwell in this cave. Someday . . . I too will go to the temple. Arwin is teaching me about the runes. I am to be a keeper one day.”
“And you will go to the temple?”
“Yes. I will come to Temple Hill and ask to join the keepers there. And we will see each other again.”
“Do not promise me, Hody,” she whispered. “I don’t want to hate you.”
“You don’t?” Hope rang in his question.
“No,” she sighed. She stopped walking. She could go no farther. The tide flirted with her feet.
“If there are no girls in Saylok, will I not be valued? Surely someone will want me. Why must I go to the temple?”
“Have you ever seen wolves fight over a rabbit?”
She was silent, shocked.
“Now imagine the wolves are starving and there are hundreds of them. Thousands of them.”
“I found you, didn’t I? You are not a wolf.”
“No, I am a blind boy who has no way to protect or provide for you. Not yet.” He sighed, the sound so heavy she staggered beneath its weight. “Mayhaps not ever.”
“If I agree, if I let Arwin take me to this Lothgar, will you come with us? To Leok?”
“Arwin will not want me to come.” He inhaled. “But he cannot stop me. I will come.”
“How far is it to Leok?”
“We are in Leok now,” Hod said. He crouched, and in the wet sand he made a shape like a star—fat and six-legged and rising at the center.
“We are here, where Leok begins to curve into Adyar. Adyar is the top of the star, Leok lies to its west, and Berne to the east.”
“And where are the Northlands?” she asked.
He pointed out to sea. “You have already come a great distance, Ghisla. And Odin has kept you alive thus far. You have survived sickness and plague. You have survived the sea. You have even survived Arwin. The fates have plans for you, Ghisla. You will be a great lady.”
When she didn’t answer, he continued his lesson in the sand.
“The southernmost leg of the star is Ebba. The land between Ebba and Berne is Dolphys. The land between Ebba and Leok is Joran. Temple Hill is here . . . in the center of them all. That is where Lothgar will take you.”
“And I will be safe there?” She sounded bitter.
“You will not be alone. There will be others, daughters like you, who will be brought to the mount. Arwin says the king has decreed it. He asked for a girl from every clan to be brought to the temple.”
“Why?”
“As a symbol to the people . . . or for safekeeping . . . or for reasons only the Highest Keeper knows.” He shrugged. “Arwin says the daughters will be taken to the temple and not the king’s castle. That is good.” He rose and crushed the star he’d made with the toe of his boot. “Lothgar has asked that every daughter in Leok be brought to the keep. So far, Arwin said no one has obeyed the summons.”
“Why?” That was hardly a comfort.
“They do not want to part with their daughters.”
No one would protest parting with her.
“I am not of Saylok . . . or of Leok. I cannot represent the clan,” she argued.
“They need never know that.” Hod’s voice was firm and his marbled eyes reflected the moonlight. “You are a gift from the gods. And I believe you will do great things, Ghisla of Tonlis.”
She did not want to do great things. She wanted a place to lay her head and a family to love her. She wanted a friend and a fire and a song that would make the ache go away. But that was not to be. Not now. Mayhaps not ever.
He reached out, touching her cheek with the tips of his fingers. She moved closer and reached for his wrist. He let her guide him. His fingers were sandy and cold from his map making, and his palms were broad. He had not yet grown into them, but, the gods willing, he would. He would grow into his hands and feet and his smooth cheeks would become whiskered and leathery like her father’s had been.
The grief stole over her quickly and she bit down on her lip as he touched her carefully, the tips of his fingers learning her eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and the point of her chin.
“Now I’ve seen your face,” he said, his hand falling away. “I won’t forget it. I won’t forget you.”
She didn’t believe him.
“We must go back. Arwin is stirring.”
She hesitated.
“Ghisla?”
She knew what he was asking. She slipped her hand into his, and they began walking back to the cave.
“Will you remember me?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Hod. I will remember you.”
“And do you promise me you will not give up?”
She sighed.
“I promise I will not give up today,” she said.
They left for Lothgar’s keep at dusk. Arwin had insisted that Hod stay behind, but Hod had refused, just as he’d promised.
“You will need me, Master. We must travel at night. Traveling with a girl will attract the worst sort. An old man and a blind boy are of no interest to anyone, but Ghisla will be,” Hod said.
“Ghisla?” Arwin asked, spitting the word from his mouth. “You must cease calling her by that name. Ghisla is not a name of Saylok. She will need a new name, one with the sound of the clan of Leok.”
Traveling in the dark didn’t bother Hod at all. He didn’t stumble or seem fearful, and he was the one who urged them to the side of the road to huddle behind the trees when another group approached. He heard people long before they were visible.
It took two days of traveling to reach the chieftain’s village. Hod said it sat near the tip of the land of Leok, like all the biggest villages in Saylok.
“The clans sail from peninsula to peninsula, one leg of the star to another. It is faster by boat than by land.”
Conversation between them had grown stilted and awkward with Arwin listening in. He was suspicious and wary and demanded silence and separation whenever they halted or slept. His mood grew more and more fretful, and by the time they reached the village around Lothgar’s keep, he was bristling with impatience.
“We should wait for the morn to approach him,” Hod suggested. “It will be safer for Ghisla when the keep is empty.”
“We will go now,” Arwin snapped. “I have not rested well in a week. I will take the girl to the edge of the wood and point her to the chieftain’s lodge.”
“Master . . . you must see if the way is clear. She will not make it ten steps in a crowded square. And what if Lothgar is not there?”
Arwin grumbled, folding his arms with indecision.
“Wait here.” He looked from Hod to Ghisla, pointing a long, crooked finger at her nose. “I won’t be gone long. No singing!”
As soon as he was gone, Hod reached out his hand. “Don’t be afraid, Ghisla.”
She ignored it and sank down to the dirt. Hod sat down beside her.
He handed her his flask and she drank deeply, hoping the water would wash away the despair bubbling up in her throat. She drank every last drop and handed it back to Hod.
“I . . . have been thinking,” he said.
She said nothing, and he reached for her again, following her arm down to her wrist and tugging her hand into his lap. She pulled it away. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
“It is forbidden for anyone but the keepers to call on the runes,” he began, hesitant. “But these are strange times, and Arwin says I am being trained for a wise purpose. Mayhaps . . . this is it.”
“What are you talking about, Hody?” she whispered, and she thought for a moment he was going to weep.
“I want to put a rune on your palm.”
“Why?” She made her voice hard. Her own emotions threatened to spill over, and it was easier to be cold.
“If you trace the rune with blood and sing, I think I will be able to . . . hear you. And mayhaps you will be able to hear me. Would you like that?”
“I will hear you . . . always?”
“I don’t know. I think so. As long as the rune remains.”
“How long will the rune remain?”
“If it is a scar . . . it will remain forever.”
She gasped. Then she set her hand on his knee, palm up. He smiled, encouraged.
“It is called a soul rune. Soul runes require blood—as all the most powerful runes do. It will hurt. I will have to cut you. But if I put it on your palm, the lines will not be noticeable. Our palms already have runes imprinted on them. See?”
He traced the line from the base of her hand as well as the lines that intersected it.
“All right,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Cup your hand so I can better follow the grooves,” he said. She obeyed, curving her hand so the skin creased. With the sharp tip of his knife, he scored her palm, drawing a thin ridge of blood in the wake of the blade. It stung, but she did not protest. The promise of connection was too great. She would have severed her hand if he’d asked.
He made the same mark on his own hand and pressed it to hers, mixing their blood and curling his fingers through hers. “Now . . . sing to me.”
She frowned. “You are sitting right here, holding my hand. You will be able to hear me without a rune.”
“I mean . . . sing to me with your mind. Sing the song in your thoughts . . . and I will tell you what I hear.”
It was hard to hear a melody in her head when his hand was pressed to hers. She was distracted by the warmth of his skin and the sadness in her chest and the wailing in her soul that had not quieted since she’d realized she was alone in the world.
“I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can,” he said softly. “Do songs not stay in your head when you wish they would not?”
“Yes,” she sighed. A song had already started to wriggle free. She screwed her eyes shut and focused her thoughts, hearing a melody without making a sound.
“That is lovely . . . but where are the words?”he asked after a moment. His voice was hollow, like it originated in her head and not from his mouth.
Her eyes popped open.
“I heard you,” she marveled. She was holding his hand so tightly she couldn’t feel her fingers.
“Yes . . . and I heard you. Try again,” he pressed.
In Tonlis there is music. In the ground and in the air. In Tonlis there is singing even when no one is there.
Hod repeated the words of the song, though he did not sing them, and she heard each one inside her head, echoing in his voice.
She laughed but immediately sobered. “But . . . I will not be able to hold your hand when I am gone.”
He released her and walked several steps. He extended his staff, rapping it against a tree to gauge its size and girth. Then he stepped behind it.
“Can you see me?” he called softly.
“No.”
“Good. Now sing inside your head again.”
My heart will be in Tonlis even when I leave her shores. My spirit will not sing again ’til I am home once more.
He repeated the words, and even in her head, his voice was sad.
“I hope your spirit will sing again, Ghisla.”
She flinched. It was one thing to hear him, it was another to converse, to open her thoughts to respond.
“Must I keep singing? Or can I simply talk to you?” she said, speaking out loud. He stepped out from behind the tree and returned to her side.
“Arwin is coming,” he said, his voice hushed, anxious.
Her heart galloped. She was not ready.
“Your hand will heal, but the mark will still be there,” he whispered, rushing to get through the words before Arwin appeared.
“It will scar.”
“Yes. Trace the rune with a drop of your blood and sing your song, wherever you are. Once you hear me, and I . . . hear . . . you, keep tracing the lines of the scar. It will keep us connected for a few moments, even when you cease to sing. And don’t tell Arwin. Tell no one. I fear they will use your gift against you.”
A moment later, Arwin’s figure was visible through the trees, and Hod ceased speaking.
“He is there,” Arwin said. “It is not yet time for the evening meal, and he has a man posted at the door. Let’s go, girl.” He wrapped his bony hand around her arm, pulling her up. Arwin arranged the blanket around her shoulders so her hair was once again covered as Hod rose too.
“Stay here, Hod,” Arwin bade and urged her forward.
Ghisla didn’t look back at him. She couldn’t. She thought he said goodbye, but the thundering in her ears was too great. If he followed, she did not know, and Arwin gave no indication that his order had not been heeded.
Lothgar’s keep was the biggest lodge on the square, and it was surrounded by stables and smaller dwellings on every side.
Arwin pointed at the man who stood beside the huge door, leaning on his sword, his long braid swinging as he turned his head from side to side.
He instructed Ghisla, “Go to that man. Ask for Chief Lothgar. Ask loudly. Insist. Tell him that you are answering Lothgar’s summons.”
“How will I know which one is the chief?”
“He sits on the biggest chair, and his hair and his beard make him look like a lion. He is loud, and large. He looks like a chief. The other men defer to him.”
She hesitated, terrified.
“Tell him you are of Leok. Tell him you want to go to the temple. Insist. He has no one else to send. He will be relieved. And he will keep you safe until you are delivered there.”
“And what about after I am delivered there?”
“You have nowhere else to go, child,” he growled.
She had nowhere else to go.
“Let them believe you are young,” Arwin reminded her. “It is better to be young. It will give you time.”
The buds of her breasts were like rocks, hard and sore, so sore she could not sleep on her stomach as she preferred to do, and her legs ached with the pangs of growth. She would not be small—not this small—forever, and she would not pass for nine or ten much longer. Blood had begun to seep from between her legs. Not much. And not often. But she knew what it meant.
“Please let me stay with you.” Her plea shamed her, and it did nothing to change his mind.
“I can’t,” he said, firm, and she knew he would not relent. “There will be questions if I accompany you. Questions I cannot answer. It will go better for you if you are alone. Do not speak of me or the boy. It will only bring us trouble.”
She turned her head, searching the forest behind her, needing to see Hod one last time, but he was not there.
“They need not know about your songs either. It is enough to simply be a girl. That is gift enough. They need not know what you are capable of.”
“What am I capable of?” she asked, stalling, desperate.
“You can make a blind man see,” he snorted.
“Are there many blind men on Temple Hill?”
“No. But there are many ways that men are blind. Be careful, little one. Guard your songs.”
It was the first time Arwin had called her anything but witch or girl, and she blanched in surprise. He sounded almost kind.
“Now go,” Arwin insisted. “Walk straight to the door. Don’t stop. Leave the blanket over your head. Go. Go.” He pushed at her back, shoving her forward, and she took four stumbling steps. When she looked back, he too had disappeared into the trees. She pulled the sides of her makeshift cloak around her, keeping the hood over her hair.
There was nothing to do but go forward.
By the time she’d made it to the man at Lothgar’s door, he was staring with a furrowed brow.
“I’ve come to see Lothgar,” she insisted, avoiding his eyes.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I want to go to the temple.”
He pushed back the blanket over her hair.
“You’re a girl,” he gasped.
“Yes. And I want to see Lord Lothgar.” She was suddenly, strangely calm. It had been harder to steal aboard a boat. At least she wouldn’t have to hide with the rats.
“Come with me,” he said, and abandoned his post at the keep’s entrance.
Inside, the beams were high and the furnishings heavy and dark—everything made for big men. Horns and antlers and feathers and furs adorned the walls and covered a floor set with stone. The smell of bread and roasting meat came from deeper in the edifice, but the man did not take her to the kitchens. He took her to a hall where tables were arranged in a square, leaving the center empty. A few men milled about, but no one was eating. A fire crackled on a huge stone hearth and two dogs fought over a bone that had been fought over before.
A man with a full gold-and-gray beard that framed his broad face lounged in a huge chair on a raised platform, talking in earnest with a man who had a similar beard and a similar face, though he seemed to be listening more than he spoke.
“Chief Lothgar!” her escort interrupted. His voice was excited, triumphant even, and every head swiveled toward him.
The man in the chair looked up, irritation flickering across his features. The man beside him scowled as well, but when they saw her, trailing behind the big guard, their faces went slack.
“I’ve brought you a girl child, Lothgar,” he crowed.
The only sound in the room was the popping of the fire in the grate.