by Harmon, Amy
Banruud entered his wife’s chamber once more, walked to the bed, and looked down at Alannah’s slumbering form, her belly no longer bulging, her dead child wrapped tightly in a blanket, lying in the crook of her arm. Alannah insisted on holding them each time, and each time Banruud had to wrestle the small corpse away from her before it began to decay.
For a moment, he let himself feel the rage and loss he’d felt many times before. Four sons—five now—all buried in a straight row, four flat rocks above four tiny heads. And his wife lived on. He would have abandoned her—replaced her—long ago. But she was the daughter of his king, and he could not easily discard her.
But Odin had finally looked favorably upon him.
He unwrapped the dead child from the blanket Alannah had so carefully crafted and wrapped the live child in his place, tucking her against his wife’s inert form. Taking the plain, rough blanket the girl child had been wrapped in, he bundled a loose hearthstone and his dead son inside, knotting the blanket firmly around both. He walked to the window and stared out into the gathering darkness. If anyone saw the bundle drop, it wouldn’t matter. It would be gone before anyone could fish it out of the water, if they were even inclined to do so. He released it and watched as it fell, hit the moat with a barely audible plop, and disappeared almost immediately, the weight of the heavy stone pulling his son to a watery grave.
Satisfied that the worst was accomplished, he moved back to his sleeping wife and sat in a chair near the bed, waiting for her to wake, to find the gift he’d placed at her side. She’d been through two days of strenuous labor and the birth of yet another stillborn child, and she slept with the heaviness of post-hysteria. Agnes would have given her a tonic to take away her pain and suffering, if only for a time. She would have given her something to help her sleep, to forget. But he needed her to wake.
“Alannah,” he whispered, shaking her roughly. “Wake.”
She didn’t even stir. He persisted, pinching her arms until she moaned and raised shaking hands to push him away.
“Alannah.”
She moaned.
“Alannah.”
Her eyes fluttered, and wan awareness lit her gaze. She closed her eyes again and turned her face away. She thought he was there to rebuke her. To mourn and rage. And she didn’t want to face him.
He forced gentleness into his tone. “Alannah. We must celebrate.”
Her chin wobbled, and her mouth turned down. Tears escaped from under her closed lids and trailed down her pallid cheeks.
“Look what you have given me, wife. Look at our beautiful daughter.”
Her eyelids fluttered again, and blue eyes met his black gaze. She stared at him. Weary. Weak. Disoriented.
Good. Banruud needed her to be confused.
The babe at her side emitted a small cry.
Alannah looked down at the infant tucked against her ribs, wonder blooming across her devastated face.
“Look at your beautiful daughter,” he said, laying the babe across her shoulder so she could see the flush of warm skin and feel the sweet breath on her cheeks.
“My baby?” she whimpered. “No. I . . . my baby . . . he died.” Her face crumpled, and her hands fluttered to her eyes. She wiped at her tears, ignoring the wriggling baby lying against her.
“No, not this time. Your baby lives. Your daughter lives. You were in shock and Agnes gave you a tonic. It took away the pain. But it has made you forgetful.” Banruud pulled her hands from her eyes, his fingers encircling her narrow wrists. He forced her arms around the child.
“Look at her, Alannah. Hold your daughter. She is hungry. She needs you.”
He tugged at the front of her dressing gown, baring her engorged breasts. Her milk always came early, in anticipation of the babies who never survived. Her eyes, glazed and glassy, clung to the babe beside her.
“I don’t remember her,” she whimpered.
“I know. But you will. You will be so happy, just as I am.”
Alannah’s eyes left the child’s face and found his. “You are happy?” she whispered.
“I am happier than I have ever been.”
“She’s mine? Ours?” she pled, begging for reassurance.
“Yes.”
“A daughter?”
“A daughter.”
Alannah touched the baby’s cheek, astonishment infusing her tired face with hope. “I am dreaming,” she wailed. “It cannot be true. My babies are dead.”
“Yet she is alive.”
The girl child began to fuss in earnest, and Alannah wept with her.
“Help me sit, Banruud,” she cried, gathering the wailing infant in her arms. He did so, propping woman and child against the thick oak headboard of the enormous bed. Tentatively, with the instinct born of long suffering, Alannah guided the hungry babe to her breast. The baby latched on eagerly. Triumph surged in Banruud’s belly as Alannah winced and then whimpered in relief.
“We will call her Alba,” he insisted.
“Alba,” Alannah repeated, her voice dreamlike as she gazed down at the nursing infant.
Banruud heard the screaming and the boots in the hall outside the chamber door, but no one entered or even knocked, and his wife, wrapped in a fog of euphoria and exhaustion, did not even register the commotion. Someone would be looking for him to tell him the news. Or mayhaps not. He had a steward and a housekeeper. They would handle the terrible accident that had befallen the maid. He felt a flash of remorse. He hated to kill a young woman of Berne when they were in such short supply. And tonight, he would kill more than one.
The door opened softly, suddenly, and Agnes stepped inside, the only person in the keep who would enter Lady Alannah’s chamber thus. She saw Banruud first, sitting at his wife’s bedside, and her countenance fell as her shoulders stiffened, bracing for his wrath. Then her gaze slid to Alannah.
The midwife gasped and stumbled back, her eyes clinging to the child suckling her lady’s breast.
“Odin’s eyes!” she hissed, making the sign of the star over her heart.
“She is so beautiful, Agnes. Come look at her,” Alannah murmured, her voice still slurred and sleepy.
“W-what is this?” Agnes whispered, her hands fluttering around her throat, over her heart, and back again. For a moment, Banruud thought she would faint. She stumbled and steadied herself against the wall.
“The goddess Freya has given me a daughter, Agnes,” Alannah said, her eyes still on the babe in her arms. “I have a child, just like you promised.”
Banruud eyed the midwife, speculating. She had known Alannah since birth, had loved her and cared for her like a mother, and had come to Berne when Alannah became his wife. She’d been at Alannah’s side through every pregnancy.
“You are a seer, Agnes,” he purred. “And I am forever in your debt.”
“But the child . . . I was coming to find you, Lord. I thought the child was . . .” Her voice drifted off. She couldn’t say the words, not with Alannah holding the infant in her arms, an infant that was very much alive.
“Imagine my joy when I entered the room and saw my daughter,” Banruud replied. “You said this time was different. You were right.”
“A daughter?” she squeaked, and then caught herself. “Of course. A daughter. Praise the gods,” she murmured, still clutching her chest. He almost laughed at her attempts to reconcile what she was seeing with what she knew. But the evidence was there before her. She must think herself mad or think them all bewitched.
“The gods have been generous this day,” Banruud said, sincerity ringing in his voice. He would kill the fatted calf in their honor. But not before he announced the birth of his daughter to every chieftain now supping in his hall. And not before he made certain that the farmer and his wife and their ghost girl would never speak out against him.
Balfor sat at a table in the back of the hall, surrounded by Berne’s warriors and content in his position as the chieftain’s overseer. He’d grown a little too comfortable, Banruud thought
to himself as he approached the table. His men stood immediately with a chorus of m’lords. Balfor was slower to rise.
“I would speak to you, Balfor,” Banruud said quietly. “Alone.”
When his men began to scramble to oblige his request, Banruud stopped them, and bade his overseer to follow him from the dining hall.
Thunder rumbled, and leaves scurried across the cobbles, but Banruud stepped out into the darkness and ducked beneath the eaves, his eyes on the grumbling skies, and waited for Balfor to join him. When he did, Banruud did not hesitate, but pounced, his voice low and hard.
“You gave the white woman, the one they call Ghost, to a farmer and his wife.”
Balfor stiffened, and his eyes shot to the side. “I did, my chief. I owed him money.”
Banruud nodded slowly. “And now you owe me money. She was not yours to give away. She belonged to the clan, not to you.”
“She was feared.”
“She was not yours.”
Balfor nodded, agreeing with his chieftain, and waiting for his punishment. Banruud let the silence and reproach grow between them until Balfor was squirming with unease.
“The farmer—what is his name?” Banruud asked.
“Bertog,” Balfor supplied.
“Bertog came to me today, into my hall. He waited until there was no one in attendance. He was afraid someone would see him. Apparently, the woman you gave him—the ghost girl—is diseased. She has infected his family.”
Balfor cursed, deep and desperate, and Banruud continued.
“He wants recompense and he wants healing. I can offer him neither. I can only protect the rest of the clan from the sickness under his roof.”
Balfor’s eyes bulged and his breaths were quick and shallow. “What can I do, Chief?”
“You must burn down his house. Make sure they are inside, Balfor. The man, his wife, any servants they employ, any children they have, and the slave. And pray that no one else is stricken. He may already have infected my keep.”
“Bertog’s two sons are grown. They are warriors—raiders—and are in the Eastlands.”
“Good. Then they will not have to know what has befallen their family.”
“There are no servants,” Balfor hastened to add. “Just the slave girl from the Eastlands.”
Banruud nodded. “Good. Then go. Quickly. There is a storm coming, and the house must burn to the ground.”
Balfor nodded once. He was not a squeamish man. In fact, Banruud knew he rather enjoyed watching people suffer. He would do what he was told without conscience.
“Tell no one, Balfor. We don’t want the people to panic over a plague,” Banruud warned. “We will watch and wait. And your debt to me will be paid.”
“Yes, Chief Banruud.”
“Find me when it is done.”
Banruud, his eyes narrow but his thoughts wide, watched Balfor stride away. Then he turned back to the entrance, to the light and warmth of the dining hall, eager to announce his triumph.
He did not see the girl with the ghostly pallor and the moon-white hair huddling in the shadows only feet away. She’d come hoping to be reunited with her child. Weeping with fear, she sank back against the wall, her breasts aching with unexpressed milk, her mind reeling from what she’d overheard.
“Lady Alannah has given birth to a healthy child, and I am a father,” Banruud roared, raising his glass to the room of warriors and chieftains gathered in his dining hall to sup. The room was silent for the length of a long, indrawn breath. And then pandemonium ensued, goblets raised and smashed as the men rose to their feet in wild-eyed wonder and celebration. They all knew Lady Alannah’s troubles. They all knew Saylok’s scourge.
“But I am not just a father,” Banruud protested, leaping onto the table where the four chieftains sat. He’d left their company the night before, convinced his ambitions were in jeopardy, fearing the death of yet another child. What providence that they were gathered here, in his keep, for his announcement. Soon, word would travel to the Keepers of Saylok. Word would travel to every corner of the land, his name on every tongue.
The voices died down and all eyes looked on him, waiting. He smiled, showing his strong white teeth to the men who would soon call him king.
“Lady Alannah has given me . . . a girl child.”
A shocked ripple wrapped the room in a euphoric bubble, and Banruud roared and beat his chest, once, twice, and then again. Some men fell to their knees, another wept, but then a cheer rose, and merriment erupted. His men sought to pull him from the table and carry him on their shoulders, but he laughingly denied them, his gaze on the chieftains who sat dumbfounded, disbelief coloring their bearded faces.
Aidan of Adyar stood abruptly, his chair clattering loudly against the stone floor, his eyes on his brother-in-law. “I want to see my sister. I want to see this girl child,” he demanded.
“And you shall, brother. You all shall,” Banruud promised, leaping down from the table. One by one, the chieftains rose, challenging him with their doubt and their undeniable hope.
“All of you. Come with me,” Banruud commanded genially.
They followed him up the wide stairs and down the long hall to the chamber where Alba slept in Alannah’s arms. His wife greeted them with smiling lips and tear-filled eyes. The chieftains greeted her with deep bows and congratulations. Then they stood in an awkward semicircle around the foot of the bed, their eyes on the girl child, watching as Alannah quickly revealed the child’s sex, her tired face flushed with pride, before wrapping her up again and clutching her to her chest.
Lothgar of Leok was the first to fall to his knees, swearing fealty to the child. Brawny and golden-haired, he had a beard and broad nose that gave him the look of the lion on his crest. He cultivated the look, Banruud knew, as they all did. To be seen as the physical embodiments of Saylok’s animal sons gave them standing among their people. Erskin was the only chieftain who sought to minimize his resemblance to the boar his clan was named for, but his small, powerful body and jutting jaw left little doubt of his ancestry. Aidan of Adyar was tall, beak-nosed, and sharp-eyed like his eagle forefather—too sharp-eyed for Banruud’s liking—but Aidan’s suspicion and disbelief wilted before the beautiful infant and his sister’s triumph, and he too knelt in reverence. The chieftains of Ebba and Dolphys immediately sank to the floor beside him.
“The drought has ended,” Dirth of Dolphys whispered. “We will have daughters in Saylok again. Praise Odin and praise our father, Saylok.”
The chieftains from Ebba, Adyar, and Leok added their thanks and praised the slew of gods and goddesses, until every known deity had been cited and cited again. Then they bellowed and roared, snorted and shrieked, the sound of each clan echoing off the walls. The babe let out a startled cry, and the celebration ceased abruptly, comically. Chins fell and shouts were swallowed as the chieftains rose to their feet, laughing at the power of the girl child to silence grown men.
Then they turned and, one by one, bowed their heads to Banruud. A chieftain did not genuflect before any man but the king, but Banruud of Berne would be crowned the new ruler of Saylok, of that they were certain.
6
“Banruud of Berne has been blessed with a daughter.”
A courier had brought the announcement to the entrance gate, and Edmund, a supplicant excluded from the proceedings until his ordination, had delivered the message to the sanctum door. The keepers were deep in discussion over the selection of a new king, and Dagmar, conflicted and quiet, had retreated as far from the conversation as he could. It was he who responded to the insistent knocking.
“A daughter has been born in Saylok!” young Edmund crowed as Dagmar cracked the door, and Edmund’s excitement carried into the shrine.
The keepers, who had turned toward the interruption with mouths poised to rebuke, gasped in one accord. The gasp became a murmur, the murmur became a roar, and Master Ivo stood from his throne, raising his arms to calm the hiss of questions and concerns that filled th
e sanctum like a demon chorus. The higher keepers rose around him, the lower keepers rose before him, but all their rumblings ceased.
“What is this, Brother Dagmar?”
“Young Edmund has news, Master.”
“Let him enter,” Ivo demanded, and Dagmar opened the door to the supplicant. Edmund, bowing at the gaping keepers and trying not to smile under the weight of their undivided attention, made his way to the dais, Dagmar following reluctantly behind him.
“Speak, Edmund,” Ivo commanded.
Edmund nodded, and with a deep breath, began again. “Banruud of Berne and Alannah of Adyar have been blessed with a daughter. A girl child.”
Whispers and praise rose again.
“Silence!” Ivo snapped, and the rumbling ceased. “Is this all you’ve been told?” Ivo pressed, turning to the supplicant.
“Chieftain Banruud and his wife are coming here, to the temple . . . with their daughter. The chieftains have seen her, the girl child, and he has their support. They are coming too,” Edmund added.
“But . . . they have not yet been summoned,” Ivo protested.
Edmund gulped but did not answer. The keepers in the sanctum stayed silent as well.
“We will have to wait for Joran,” Ivo mused. “The clan has no chieftain. We must have the support of all six of the chieftains before a king can be selected.”
“I have news of Joran too, Master,” Edmund offered, beaming with importance.
Master Ivo glowered at him, and Edmund spewed every detail.
“Joran has chosen a new chieftain. Josef, eldest son of Jurgen. He was selected two days ago, Master. He rode to Berne and saw the child and is riding toward Temple Hill with the other clan chieftains as we speak.”
Master Ivo sank back into his throne, a bent, black crow beneath his dark robes. Like children, the other keepers mimicked his motion, falling back down onto their own seats as well.
“Should we alert the palace staff, Master?” Edmund asked.
“The rooms are readied. We’ve been expecting them,” Ivo said wearily. “We just didn’t expect . . . this.”