by Harmon, Amy
The keepers around him nodded in stunned agreement, and for a moment no one spoke.
“You can go now, Edmund,” Ivo grunted. “I’m sure there are others who will be eager to hear your news.”
Edmund bowed, and Dagmar took his arm to escort him out.
Ivo’s gaze swung to Dagmar, and he pointed a gnarled finger in rebuke. “You will stay, brother. You have avoided your duty long enough.”
When the door to the sanctum closed once more, the mood in the room had changed dramatically.
“A girl child,” Amos, Keeper of Adyar, marveled. “And from a daughter of Adyar, no less. Praise Odin. Praise Father Saylok.”
His praises set off a chain of worshipful amens, voices rising and falling in wonder and disbelief.
“Surely . . . this changes things, Master,” Dagmar offered quietly.
“Banruud should be king. It is a sign,” Amos added.
“The gods have spoken, Master,” another keeper concluded.
“Minutes ago, we were in agreement,” Master Ivo protested.
“Minutes ago, we did not know that Banruud of Berne had a daughter—a daughter, think of it!” Amos insisted, garnering a few glares from his brothers. Keepers were not supposed to be biased toward any clan, and Amos was clearly overjoyed that a daughter of Adyar would be queen, that a daughter of Adyar had given birth to the first girl child in seven years.
“I saw the Lady Alannah with a child,” Master Ivo murmured. “I saw her joy, but I did not see this.”
“None of us envisioned such a thing,” Keeper Bjorn said. “We have great cause to rejoice.”
“We have great cause to be wary,” Ivo warned. “We must seek the counsel of the gods.”
“But . . . the gods have clearly spoken, Master,” Amos ventured.
“Not to me, brother,” Ivo barked. “Not to you, I would contend. Not to any of you. None of you have meditated on the matter. You are reacting without consulting the source. My feelings still remain. The boy should be king.”
The room was quiet. No one raised his voice or his head. Every man was bowed in contemplation, but the resistance and restraint were palpable, a thumping heartbeat that continued to quicken and grow louder, until after an hour of silent prayer, Keeper Amos rose, and with a swift inhale, began shaking his bald head.
“I want to amend my vote. My misgivings over the boy, Bayr, being chosen as king were numerous, as you know.” Master Ivo’s eyebrows rose disdainfully. Amos had not voiced a solitary word of dissent, but he continued without pause. “I went along with the consensus because I have witnessed the boy’s strength. It seemed as if Thor had indeed chosen him. But now . . . now the gods have spoken again. Freya has spoken, the goddess, and she has finally given Saylok a child in her image. I cannot disregard her preference.”
Heads nodded and throats cleared.
Master Ivo sighed, closing his sooty lids and folding his clawed hands. “Then let us stand, one by one, and declare our thoughts. Briefly. Amos has spoken.” He glowered at the keeper from Adyar as Amos made a move to speak again. “Bjorn?”
Bjorn rose and quietly added his voice to Amos’s. One by one, the keepers, both high and low, cast their votes. Not all were in favor of Banruud of Berne, but the majority ruled in his behalf.
Dagmar huddled down into the bench, his hands folded, his head bowed, and he was the last to be called upon. He had not uttered a word throughout most of the weeklong proceeding. Instead, he had begged the heavens for intercession, for clarity, for reprieve. Now . . . it seemed as though his prayers had been answered. But Ivo would not be pleased.
“Dagmar? You are the boy’s guardian. What say you?” Master Ivo prodded.
“Master . . . you should make this decision. I cannot,” Dagmar murmured.
“That is not how this works, Dagmar,” Amos snapped. He’d grown impatient with the sonorous opinions of his brothers—especially those who did not agree with him—when the choice was so obvious.
Dagmar touched the newest scab across his hand, wishing for his blade and his runes. With a heavy heart and a troubled soul, Dagmar stood and raised his eyes to Ivo’s. The room grew silent again, as though the final word was about to be spoken.
“Bayr is only seven years old, Master. And he does not wish to be king,” Dagmar said, his voice ringing like a death knell through the sanctum. No one breathed. “My father tried to make me into something I was not. And I hated him for it. I will not force the boy down a path he has no wish to take. If Thor wants Bayr to be king, Thor will have to provide another way.”
An excited murmur rose and was immediately quashed by the Highest Keeper’s dissent.
“The way is here! It is now, Keeper Dagmar. You are standing in Thor’s way!” Master Ivo cried.
Amos stood to protest, but Ivo swatted him down with a black look and a slashing motion, silencing all but Dagmar.
Dagmar nodded, acknowledging Ivo’s point, but he did not agree. “Thor has the power to move me out of the way, Master, if that is what he wishes. But I don’t believe Bayr’s time has come. He may be Saylok’s salvation, but not yet. Not yet, Master.”
Master Ivo folded his arms, his sleeves like wings, tucking himself away, burrowing down into his throne and closing his eyes. This time the keepers did not fall back to their seats alongside him. They all sensed his retreat and waited for him to dismiss them.
“I have heard you all. And you have heard me. Leave me now. We will hear the chieftains, and we will cast our votes again after they have made their case.”
But when the chieftains arrived the following day, fresh from the glow of the miracle in Berne and flush with the wonder of a holy girl child, they stood, and to a man, lifted Banruud of Berne’s name to the gods and to the Keepers of Saylok. Most of the keepers nodded in agreement, beaming with relief that the odd and inexplicable drought had ended and overjoyed that the path forward had been made so abundantly clear. Keepers who had sided with the wishes of the Highest Keeper found themselves wavering toward the brawny chieftain, his radiant queen, and the baby girl she held so lovingly in her arms.
Master Ivo was the only voice of dissent, and he had gone quiet, outnumbered and overruled. Dagmar felt only relief that his Bayr would not be called upon at such an age. Beneath the relief the fear remained, omnipresent and multifaceted, but it was fear that could be faced and defeated over time. Bayr would grow into a man under his father’s reign—beneath his father’s nose—but that was preferable to donning a crown he was not ready to wear.
In the following days, it was the girl child—little Alba—who softened the Highest Keeper’s heart and loosened his lips. Her skin was golden—sun kissed—as though her mother had warmed her on a hot hearth and her skin, like bread, had browned in the heat. Her eyes were so brown they appeared black, with sooty lashes that brushed her golden cheeks, but her hair was as pale as corn silk, so light it appeared colorless under the flickering candles in the crowded sanctum, where the keepers and the royal family had assembled to give her a name and a blessing. She kicked her tiny limbs and wailed in protest as cold hands touched her naked flesh.
The altar stone had been replaced, and the Keepers of Saylok surrounded the infant offering, the tips of their fingers resting against her tiny chest. The keepers had pricked their fingers and joined their blood, drawing the star of Saylok on her brow, elevating her from a daughter of the clans to a daughter of the gods. Alannah, her mother, stood by, the only woman in the sanctum, watching the ceremony beside the king, Banruud, who had already been crowned by the keepers and would soon be coronated in front of the people.
“Alba, daughter of Banruud of Berne, King of Saylok, and daughter of Alannah of Adyar, Lady Queen of Saylok, we honor you and acknowledge you, a gift from the goddess Freya, a gift to the clans. May you usher in a new age, Princess, and lead all our daughters from the darkness of the womb to the light of new life,” Ivo intoned as he blessed the baby, his voice reverent and low.
Dagmar raised his
face so the moisture that wanted to seep from his eyes would not run down his cheeks and betray his tender heart. In the gloom of the domed ceiling above, the crisscrossing beams appeared to move, and his chest seized even as his eyes adjusted and registered the cause. It was not the beams that were moving, but the boy who crept along them.
Bayr stopped directly over the altar, a small, dark angel looking over the babe. Dagmar should have known Bayr would find a way inside. He’d climbed and clambered over the temple mount since he could walk. It was a good thing he was loath to speak; his stutter made him an excellent guardian of secrets. Dagmar would have to chastise him later, but now he lowered his eyes so the others wouldn’t follow his gaze and make the same discovery. But the infant lying on the altar saw the boy who hovered above her, and her gaze was fixed on his face.
The palace was filled with celebration. The light and merriment spilled out the open doors and crept across the grass before coming to a halt at the rock wall that separated the temple grounds from the palace gardens. The chieftains had arrived with a caravan of warriors and wives, sons and siblings, and the sacred selection of the new king had become a rollicking reunion of six clans. In two days’ time, King Banruud would mount his horse and present himself to the people. His queen, the chieftains, and the keepers would follow behind him in a parade for the newly anointed.
The keepers did not take part in the festivities in the palace. While Ivo stewed in the sanctum, the keepers celebrated quietly in the dining hall, and Bayr, under protest, was escorted to bed. Dagmar had little doubt that the boy would creep away to spy on the goings-on at the palace the moment Dagmar left his little room, a room tucked beneath the eastern eaves of the temple’s rear wing. Dagmar still slept in the chamber where he’d once held the boy through long, desperate nights, but Bayr had outgrown his arms and the straw on the floor, and Dagmar had found him a little place to call his own.
The boy was irritable, though quietly so, and Dagmar sensed his impatience to have his uncle gone so he could scale the walls and watch the celebration next door.
“I saw you in the sanctum when the girl child was blessed,” Dagmar murmured, sinking down onto the stool he’d fashioned for just this purpose.
Bayr’s eyes snapped to his uncle’s, gauging Dagmar’s disappointment.
“Are y-you a-angry?” Bayr murmured. He didn’t deny his presence in the sanctum or seek to excuse his behavior.
“Not angry. But if you don’t do as I say, how can I trust you? You know the sanctum is holy. It is for sacred ceremonies. For keepers. Not for curious little boys with more skill than sense.”
“T-today was s-special. N-not j-just for keepers.”
Dagmar sighed heavily, acknowledging the truth of the boy’s statement. The chieftains had been present; why not the boy who had almost been king?
For a moment they sat in silence, each pondering their private thoughts, until Dagmar, reaching a decision, took the boy’s hand. Bayr’s nails were dirty and broken, his palms stained deep in the crevices. It didn’t matter how many times Dagmar instructed him on the importance of cleanliness, he was a boy, and he was always dirty. Dagmar rose and dipped a cloth in the water basin atop the small table in the corner. Sitting back on the stool, he washed Bayr’s hands and used his blade to clean his nails. When he was finished, Dagmar set the cloth and the knife aside and ran his thumb across Bayr’s knuckles, oddly close to tears. They were still dimpled with the softness of youth; Bayr was so young, so precious, and the gods had so much in store for him. It made Dagmar’s heart quake.
“Master Ivo wanted you to be king, Bayr,” Dagmar whispered, knowing he had to prepare his boy.
Bayr’s hand jerked in his.
“M-me?” Bayr stuttered.
“Yes. You.” Dagmar met the boy’s gaze and held it, compelling him to understand. Bayr’s face had grown pale, and his eyes were luminous in the paltry light. “You are not like other boys, Bayr. You know that, don’t you?”
Bayr stared, the way he always did, intensely, demanding with his gaze that Dagmar explain.
“Surely you’ve noticed that you can do things others cannot?” Dagmar pressed.
“I-I’m s-s-strong,” Bayr admitted.
“Yes. And fast. And agile. And very, very brave. You are but a boy, but you battle grown men in the castle yard with the skill of a seasoned warrior. The keepers and the palace guard are in awe of your prowess. Your reputation has spread throughout the clans.”
“I-I am n-not b-brave. I a-am a-afraid,” Bayr confessed, bowing his head.
It was Dagmar’s turn to wait, urging the boy on with kind eyes.
“I d-don’t w-want to b-be k-king, Uncle,” Bayr whispered.
“I know. And I don’t want you to be king. But, Bayr? There might come a time, when you are no longer a boy, when Saylok will need you to lead her. There might be a day when you will be called on to rule, and you must prepare yourself for that day.”
“W-when I am grown, I w-won’t b-be a-afraid,” Bayr murmured, hopeful.
“You’ll still be afraid. But you must do what is right, what you must, despite that fear.”
“Are y-you a-afraid?”
“Yes. Every day,” Dagmar said, laughing when Bayr frowned in disbelief. But his laughter quickly faded into memory. “When your mother brought you to me, Bayr, and asked me to take you, to raise you, I was terrified. I didn’t want to be a father. I didn’t know how to care for a child. But I did it anyway, because you needed me, because it was the right thing to do. And you have been my greatest joy.” Dagmar’s tears collected in his throat, and for several seconds he couldn’t continue. Bayr’s lips trembled, and he threw his thin blanket aside and crawled into his uncle’s lap, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his head beneath his chin.
“When you were born,” Dagmar whispered, fighting the emotion, “your mother told me you would have great strength. She also named you, and she said you would bring salvation to Saylok.”
“Wh-what is s-sal-v-vation?” Bayr asked, pulling back to see his uncle’s face.
“Hope. Rescue. Saving. You are a protector, Bayr. And I believe you’ve been given power to defend this land—every clan. You are not Bayr, the Temple Boy. You are not Bayr of Berne or Dolphys. You are Bayr of Saylok, and you must defend this land from her enemies within and without.”
“I will p-pro-te-tect the princess.”
Dagmar smiled, surprised. “Just her?”
“F-for now. Sh-she is p-precious.”
“She is, indeed.” Dagmar sighed, but there was more he had to impart, and it involved only pieces of the truth.
“When you were born, your mother was very angry. She didn’t want to leave you, and she cursed all of Saylok with a blood rune.”
Bayr’s eyes gleamed and his mouth trembled. He knew blood runes were forbidden to all but the keepers, and even then, they were to be used only for wisdom, not for vengeance or power.
“Why w-was she a-angry?”
“She loved a man who did not love her.”
“My father?”
“I think so, yes.” Dagmar steeled his expression for the lie. “Though I do not know his name.”
“I w-want you to b-be my f-father,” Bayr whispered.
Dagmar kissed the boy’s head. “I am your father. And you are my son. But I must tell you about your mother. And you must try to understand.”
Bayr nodded, so serious, so intent.
“Desdemona—your mother—was very sad. And very . . .” Dagmar struggled to find the right word.
“A-alone?” Bayr supplied.
“Yes. Very alone. Men can be cruel, especially to their women. So your mother promised that there would be no women in Saylok for men to misuse.”
“But not all m-men are b-bad.”
“No. And not all women are innocent. But Desdemona was angry. She was dying. And she did a terrible thing. And now Saylok suffers—the innocent and the guilty alike—and I don’t know how to fix what has been d
one.”
“B-but there is a g-girl child.” Bayr smiled hopefully.
“Yes. And it has given me great hope that your mother’s rune has weakened, and that Saylok has shaken off the sickness in her soil.”
“I w-will w-watch over her. Over A-Alba. I-if I take good care of h-her . . . may-ha-haps the gods w-will bless us w-with more.”
“Mayhaps,” Dagmar whispered. “It is all we can do. Now it is time for you to sleep. No creeping across the turrets and the walls, my son. I cannot bear to lose you, and I do not think our new king would approve of your spying.”
The boy slipped from Dagmar’s lap and crawled into his bed, burrowing down into the pillow and yawning convincingly. Dagmar stood and, with a brush of his hand over the boy’s hair, turned to go, but not before extracting the promise that had inspired the entire conversation.
“The gods reward our faith in the face of fear, Bayr. On the other side of fear is triumph. You must promise me that when the time comes, when you are grown, even if you do not want to be king, even if you are afraid, you will do what must be done.”
“I promise, Uncle,” Bayr murmured, his tongue freed as he slipped into sleep. “I will do what must be done.”
7
Word of the girl child had spread, and all of Saylok wanted to see her. Bayr abandoned his spot overlooking the temple entrance and the road leading down into the King’s Village and wove his way through the throng, finding a perch here and there before abandoning each for something better, something closer, where he too might be able to see the baby girl.
He missed her.
The thought made him laugh. He’d stared down at her from the beams high above the altar, and she’d gazed back at him. She was only days old and so small he wouldn’t dare touch her, even if it was allowed. She hadn’t smiled at him even though he’d grinned down at her. He wasn’t certain babies knew how to smile. If he saw her again he could teach her. He hoped one day to be closer than the beam above the altar.
He’d seen so few babies. There were other children in the village, but he spent so little time outside the temple walls among the people that the day felt like a holiday in more ways than one. A new king had been crowned, a girl child had been born, and Saylok’s citizens had set their labors aside for a day of celebration. Dagmar had warned him to not stray too far from the temple and palace grounds, but Dagmar was walking in the king’s processional and wouldn’t know whether Bayr was as obedient as he’d promised to be.