by Harmon, Amy
“Once I was bound to a tree like this. A great, beautiful tree,” she murmured.
He wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. Though her words were slightly slurred, she didn’t appear to be sick or injured. Hungry, dirty, and tired. But not injured.
“You were bound to a tree?” he asked.
“Yes. The people wanted to give me to the gods. But the gods did not want me, and the animals did not hurt me. After three days the chieftain’s wife untied me and put me back to work.”
They did the same in Dolphys, in the Clan of the Wolf, though it was not a sacrifice to the gods but part of selecting a new chieftain. It was believed the wolves would not eat one of their own. Dagmar thought it ridiculous. Wolves, like men, were more prone to survival than loyalty.
“It was in Fiend. Do you know it?” she mumbled. She sounded so tired.
“Do you mean Fiend . . . in Eastlandia?” Dagmar gasped.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Eastlandia.”
“And . . . how did you find yourself here . . . in the Temple Wood?”
“I came to be a wife but remained a slave. And now, I am nothing.”
“You are no longer a slave?”
“I have no master.”
“I see,” Dagmar breathed. He knew of the raiding in villages across the sea. He knew of the trading for women and children—mostly girls—to combat the years of female drought. This girl was clearly a victim of such practices.
“But why are you . . . here?” He had not heard of an influx of females in the King’s Village. The clans who carried out the raids kept their bounty.
“Did you come from Berne?” he asked. “Did you come with the king?”
He saw the small tremor that she quickly suppressed. It was answer enough. His thoughts turned to Master Ivo’s musings, to the king’s dreams, and to the woman Bayr had seen at the parade. Of course, this was she. Dagmar’s palms grew cold, and he reached for the knife at his waist.
“Did you see the king’s procession?” he asked. The woman trembled again, and she drew her knees into her chest. “My boy told me about you. He believes you caused the horses to bolt. He doesn’t know how . . . but he believes it all the same. He was frightened.”
“I did not mean to. Horses are very sensitive to fear and . . . anger,” she whispered.
“Sensitive to your fear and anger?” he asked, not breathing.
She offered a small affirmative jerk of her hooded head.
“Why were you afraid? Why were you . . . angry?”
“I lost a child . . . not so long ago. Seeing the . . . princess . . . was very difficult for me.”
Dagmar pondered this for a moment, his eyes on Desdemona’s stone. Odd how this tree attracted the desperate and discarded. Odd how he always seemed to find them. How they always seemed to find him. Still, he could not help this woman if he did not trust her.
“Will you give me your hand?” he asked. He hoped he would not have to force her.
She lifted her chin, her hood falling away from her questioning eyes. Slowly she withdrew her hand from the sleeves of her cloak and held it out to him. Her eyes were as bleak as the tale she’d spun, and a long gash bisected her palm. He would not need to cut her anew. She didn’t flinch when she saw his knife or even ask his intentions. She simply watched as he reopened her wound.
Dagmar turned her bloodied palm and pressed it to the earth near Desdemona’s runes. He had tried to dig them up, to burn them, to remove them with counteracting runes of his own. But they remained like hoofprints baked into stone, and he could not smooth them out. The grass grew in patches and whorls around the carvings, obscuring them from view, but to his eyes, they were as plain as the stone that marked his sister’s resting place.
“Are you here to harm the girl child?” he asked.
The girl shook her head, vehement. “Never.”
“Are you here to take her from Saylok?” he added, remembering Banruud’s dreams.
Her gray eyes filled and shimmered like glass, and the denial from her lips was a broken shard. “No,” she whispered.
With the tip of his finger, he drew a simple rune of truth upon her palm, mixing the blood and the soil and watching as both cleaved to the lifeline that ran from her wrist to her fingers.
She was not lying to him. He released the girl’s hand and she let it fall, not bothering to wipe it clean or tend to her reopened wound.
Dagmar stood and extended a hand to help her rise.
“Come with me.”
“I do not wish to lie with you,” she muttered.
He flinched.
“My body is sore,” she continued. “And I am tired. But I have a piece of gold I will give you if you will leave me alone.”
If he’d wanted to lie with her, he could have stolen her gold and still taken her body, but he admired her resilience. He’d never lain with a woman, and he didn’t intend to now, though his body had tightened with alarming interest. He sighed, disappointed in his flesh, and extended his hand again, insistent.
“I do not wish to lie with you either and would never ask it of you. I wish to help you. That is all,” he said.
She gazed up at him, and he thought for a moment she would deny him again. Then her shoulders drooped, her chin fell, and Dagmar realized that she didn’t have the energy to do as he demanded. Crouching, he swept her up in his arms and, praying for a measure of Bayr’s strength, began the trek to the abandoned shepherd’s cottage on the western slope of Temple Hill.
9
The man who called himself a keeper carried her until she found the will to walk. He was surprisingly strong, but after a while she felt his arms tremble and his breath grow labored, and she knew she could not continue to lie in his arms, wishing the end would come. The end was not going to come—not without her hastening it—and the man was not going to leave her alone.
His blue eyes were pale—his resemblance to the Temple Boy was marked—but the shadows on his jaw and on the dome of his head were black. She’d seen the hairless priests in their purple robes walking behind the king with measured gaits and clasped hands, but hairlessness was clearly easier for some than others. She was tempted to run her hand across the spiky growth to see if the bristles were soft or sharp.
“I will walk, Keeper,” she whispered. “If I don’t, we will both fall.”
“It is not much farther,” he murmured.
She arched her back like an angry child, and he immediately released her legs, letting her feet find purchase on the uneven ground. She tried to take a step and swayed. He wrapped an arm around her waist and continued forward, assisting her with every stride. When she was convinced she couldn’t go a step farther, he lifted her again and walked the remaining distance with her in his arms.
The cottage was built into a cliff, more hovel than home, but to Ghost it meant shelter and the end of a journey, and her eyes clung to the small window and the closed door. Upon closer inspection, it looked sturdier than it first had, and herbs in clay pots lined the wall beneath the window.
“This is the shepherd’s cottage,” the keeper explained, setting her on her feet.
“I used to herd sheep,” she volunteered weakly. “Is it yours?”
“It belongs to the brotherhood.”
“But not to a particular . . . brother?” She was so weary, and she hoped she would not be faced with a houseful of curious faces and questions.
“There is no one here anymore. Keeper Lem, who watched the sheep, lived here when the sheep grazed in the western meadows. It was too far to move them back to the temple grounds each day. But Lem is ill and old, and his days with the sheep are done,” the keeper said and pushed through the front door with complete confidence, helping Ghost across the threshold.
A straw mattress on a wooden frame was pushed against the wall, and Ghost stumbled toward it, too spent to do anything but wilt across it. She could hear the keeper moving around the small space and sometime later felt him roll her toward him. When sh
e protested weakly, he reassured her with soft words.
“I am going to tend to your palm.”
She didn’t nod, but she didn’t fight him either. The water was cold and the wet cloth soothing, and when he was finished rinsing the blood and dirt from her hands, he wrung out the cloth and washed her face. Ghost jerked and ducked her chin, willing him to stop.
“Shh. Surely you know I will not hurt you,” he chided, wetting the cloth once more.
But he was hurting her. His kindness was like salt on raw skin. It would have been less painful if he’d struck her, and humiliating tears trickled down her cheeks and slipped between her lips. They were salty too, and the keeper sighed as he wiped them away.
“I will leave you here. There is water in the pail from a stream not too far from here and bread on the table. There’s a bit of oil in the lamp and some kindling on the hearth. I’ve made you a small fire, but only for comfort. The day is warm.”
She nodded but didn’t open her eyes.
“I will come back tomorrow with supplies. We will talk then.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, and listened for him to leave.
“What should I call you?” he asked.
“Ghost,” she whispered, and let herself sink into oblivion.
She rose when dawn peeked through the crude window, lining the floor in thin strips of light. The keeper had not opened the makeshift wooden shutters, but the sun was a nosy stranger, and it found its way inside.
She filled the tin cup beside the pail three times before her thirst was quenched. She drank another cup after wolfing down the loaf of dry bread the keeper had left for her. The fire had gone out, but the sun was sufficient to warm the small room, and Ghost opened the shutters and acquainted herself with her surroundings.
She felt oddly restored, as if tears and tender ministrations had stitched some of her broken pieces back together. The stitches were loose, and her soul was still battered, but she no longer wished to cover herself in earth and cease breathing.
A wooden barrel, a table, two stools, three shelves, and a small pine chest were the only furnishings in the cottage, but there wasn’t room for much more. A blackened pot and a matching kettle sat empty on the simple hearth. Two wooden spoons sat nearby, and a bowl and a plate matched the tin cup she’d used upon awakening. Another pail, two small lumps of soap, and an assortment of folded rags rested on a shelf. Two blankets, a needle and some thread, a small sack of meal, and a chamber pot completed the sparse living space.
She found a broom fashioned from sticks and straw propped against the chest and swept the space clean, chasing out the spiders and destroying their handiwork.
A woven rug had been tightly rolled and shoved beneath the bed, apparently to keep it from collecting dust while the owner was gone. She dragged it outside into the sunshine, beat it until her shoulders ached, and lugged it back inside. It made the room immediately cozy, and Ghost smiled down at it only to grimace at her poorly shod feet. The cottage looked much better, but she looked worse. The state of her shoes could not easily be improved, but her dress, her cloak, her hair, and her hands were in dire need of a scrubbing.
With one of the pails and a bit of soap, she went in search of the stream. To her delight, someone or something had created a small dam in the stream big enough to form a pool for bathing. Without hesitation, she shucked her clothes, gritted her teeth, and submerged herself in the cold, clear water, dragging her dress down with her.
An hour later, her hair and her skin dripping, her thin dress a little thinner from the thorough scrubbing against the rocks, she climbed from the stream, donned her still-soiled cloak, and spread her dress and underthings over sun-warmed stones to dry. Then she headed back to the cottage with a pail of water in hand.
She had company, but it wasn’t the keeper. It was the boy—Bayr—and when he saw her, he nodded and hoisted the bundle at his feet. It was almost bigger than he was and knotted in such a way that he could sling it over his shoulder.
“F-f-for y-you,” he said, patting the bundle. His voice was low and pleasing, but he struggled to release his words. He followed her inside and eased the bundle back down beside the table, opening it without delay.
He pulled a blanket, an assortment of vegetables and dried meats, six apples, a pound of cheese, and several different spices from his pack. A loaf of bread was next, followed by a purple robe, two pairs of stockings, a plain white undershift, a skein of wool, a darning needle, a mirror, a brush for her hair, and a large flask.
He didn’t speak as he set each thing aside, though she sensed he had a thousand questions. She was too overwhelmed by the bounty to do more than stare at each item, her stomach growling and her tongue dry.
She cut off a hunk of the bread with her knife and handed it to him, not knowing what to do or say to put them both at ease. He seemed hesitant to take it, but she insisted, leaving her hand outstretched until he took it from her fingers. In trade, he handed her the horn slung across his chest.
She took a deep pull of the water and handed it back. She had water in a pail and didn’t need his flask, but he shook his head.
“Keep. F-f-for t-tending sh-sh-sheep.”
She frowned, not understanding, but kept the flask.
“W-who who who—” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Who a-are . . . you?”
“No one,” she muttered.
He wrinkled his nose at her response. He patted his chest.
“Bayr.”
“I know who you are. You are the Temple Boy.”
He sighed as though he did not like the name. She did not like her name either.
He leaned toward her, tentative, clearly worried he would scare her. Then he touched her hand. “Why s-s-so wh-white?” he murmured.
“I don’t know. I was born this way. Why are you so strong?”
“B-b-blessed?” He said it like he wasn’t certain, and she laughed, charmed.
“You are blessed. I am cursed. And neither of us got to choose which.”
“G-g-ghost?” he asked. The keeper must have told him her name, though the boy seemed doubtful about it.
“That is what I’m called,” she said.
He wrinkled his nose again. “N-not name?”
“I don’t really have a name. So I suppose Ghost is as good as any.”
He looked frustrated, as though he wanted to press the issue further, but the exercise took too much effort.
“The keeper . . . Who is he?” she asked instead.
“M-my u-uncle.”
“What is his name?”
The boy stuck his finger in soot from the night’s fire and wrote a word across the smooth stones of the hearth.
“I cannot read,” she murmured, biting her lip. He clearly wanted to write the word because speaking was difficult, but she couldn’t decipher it.
“D-d-dag-m-mar,” he said, wincing. He used the broom to brush the word away. She wished he hadn’t. She would have liked to study the shapes he’d made.
“Dagmar?”
A nod.
“S-stay?” he asked, pointing where he stood. She didn’t know if he was asking her for permission to remain or if he was asking her if she was going to go.
When she shrugged, he picked up his now-empty bundle.
“Stay,” he demanded, and smiled, heading for the door. His smile touched his eyes and revealed strong white teeth. He was a handsome boy, his dark hair pulled back from a face that would grow leaner and longer with age. He would look like the keeper, but his size and strength already hinted at harsher lines and heavier limbs.
“Stay,” he said again, and seemed pleased with himself that he’d said the word twice without tripping. She didn’t think he meant to address her as if she were a dog, and she nodded, agreeing.
He smiled at her response, and he opened the door and let himself out. She wouldn’t be able to stay, but she didn’t think she was strong enough yet to go. A day or two in the shepherd’s cottage would do her good. Ju
st a day or two, and then she would leave. She needed to retrieve her gold, and if possible, say goodbye to her daughter.
“You collect strays, Dagmar.”
“Yes, Master. I seem to.”
Ivo sighed, but his mouth curled under his beaklike nose. “But the gods send them to you for a purpose.”
“Mayhaps they send them to us, Master,” Dagmar said, his voice mild, his eyes steely.
Ivo’s lips grew tight at Dagmar’s insolence, but his gaze dimmed as though he saw something that existed in another place. For several moments he sat in perfect stillness, and Dagmar waited, his head bowed.
“Mayhaps you are right, Dagmar. There will be more,” Ivo muttered.
“More, Master?”
“More strays, brother. Tell me about the latest one.”
“She is a slave with no master. From Eastlandia. A woman.”
“And why is she here?”
“She came with the king’s caravan . . . or followed them, most likely. She had a babe once, a child. I got the impression the child died. She is lost, Master. And I truly believe she has nowhere to go.”
“She is a woman. We are men. Keepers. She cannot live among us. You know this, Dagmar.”
“Keeper Lem cannot watch the sheep any longer. He is getting old, and it is too much for him. Bayr had taken over his duties, but he has other needs and . . .”
“It is not the best use of his time,” Ivo finished.
“Yes, Master.”
“So Odin, in his wisdom, has sent us someone to watch the sheep. The gods always seem to provide.”
“That is what I was going to suggest, Master. She need not ever enter the temple in order to care for the sheep, and she has been a shepherdess before.”
“What is her name?”
“She calls herself Ghost, Master. Her skin is colorless . . . her hair and eyes too.”
Ivo’s brows shot up as his black lips turned down. “I envisioned a wraith, and the gods sent me a ghost!” he cackled. “Odin is a clever weaver of dreams, is he not?”
“I have shown her the shepherd’s cottage on the western slope, Master. She is weak and tired . . . and filthy. But those things can be remedied.”