by Harmon, Amy
For several moments they were both silent.
“It was so cold. So sharp and stinging . . . I kicked and clawed my way to the surface. It was too hard to drown, and sadly . . . I knew how to swim.”
“Why . . . sadly?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She was certain he understood.
“I did it again. Every time the clouds wrapped themselves around those cliffs, I would throw myself from them.”
“Why?” he pressed.
“Because the beauty of the fall was worth the pain of landing.”
His eyes fell to her lips, and her pulse galloped.
“And falling was never fatal,” she said.
“Mayhaps one day . . . it would have been,” he breathed.
“We do not live to endure. We endure so someday we can . . . live. I have endured a great deal, but there have only been a few moments when I have truly lived.”
With a deep inhale, she threw herself from the cliffs once more, knowing the impact would be painful, knowing the risk was worth it.
“I said once . . . long ago . . . that I did not want to lie with you. And you said you would never ask it of me,” she blurted.
“I won’t,” he whispered but she rushed ahead.
“But I do want to lie with you. I ache with wanting. But it is an ache I can endure . . . an ache I will endure . . . happily . . . if I can only be near you. You are my dearest friend.”
“Please,” he moaned. “Please don’t say these things. You will make things impossible between us.”
“They are said,” she murmured, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t see his dismay. “But they are just words. And you have only to ignore them.”
She heard movement and felt the warmth of proximity before his lips brushed her closed lids. Her fingertips rose to his rough cheeks, disbelief stealing her breath. She’d been brave when she believed him unaffected by her, brave when she believed he wouldn’t bend. But now she was afraid; it was not only she who was truly alive in the moment.
Dagmar’s breath was shallow, and his male scent filled her nose. She knew they would not speak of love again. He would not be this close, his breath on her brow, his pulse thrumming beneath her fingertips. Then his mouth brushed hers, a kiss no deeper than a raindrop, and she tightened her hands at his face, holding him to her. For a heartbeat they simply stood, mouths touching, and he began to say the words to the Prayer of the Supplicant.
“‘I cannot see, my tongue is a traitor,’” he whispered, the whispered words tickling her lips.
“‘My flesh is a foe, my heart a betrayer,’” she added and felt his intake of breath. He had not expected her to join him.
“‘My eyes will I blacken, my lips will I close.’” His voice was so low she could only feel the shape of words on her mouth.
“‘And let the runes lead me down paths I must go,’” she murmured, the words unintelligible with his mouth pressed to hers.
“‘No man can follow. No man can lead. No man can save me, no man can free.’” They said the final lines together, whispering the words, their lips moving around the plea, touching and receiving, and then the prayer was finished, the kiss complete, and she stepped away from him, one step and then another, until the shadows swelled between them and she had the strength to turn away.
“Goodnight, Keeper. From now on, I will do my best to guard myself against you as well.”
This time he did not protest but let her walk away.
“Goodnight, my Ghost.” Regret rang in his words.
She knew he wished to better explain, but he needn’t. His heart was already divided, and he worried that his love would be used against him, against the secrets he’d been entrusted with.
She understood.
She had secrets of her own. Secrets to guard. But he saw her the way she saw him, and in that, she rejoiced.
The Tournament of the King happened every year when the harvest was over and the cold had not yet come. The clan chieftains and their warriors would gather on the temple mount to compete in a slew of contests designed to measure strength and skill and to determine the fiercest clan. The tournament winners became the fodder of legends—usually started by the winners themselves—and for a week, the temple mount became an anthill. Great swaths of color snapped in the breeze—green, gold, red, orange, blue, and brown, and of course the purple of the Keepers and of Saylok itself.
The flags raised along the temple walls whipped and welcomed the citizens making the yearly pilgrimage to partake in the festivities. The temple doors were opened and the keepers on hand to bless and advise, to pray and pardon. During the festival, hundreds who received a hearing with the keepers were granted “new life” and absolution from their sins and sentences. In Saylok, the king made the laws and the chieftains enforced them, but the keepers could mete out mercy.
Justice was swift and severe in the clans, and very few of the accused or condemned actually made it to the temple mount to claim sanctuary or beg an audience with the keepers. The absolution granted was usually spiritual and rarely criminal, but during the Tournament of the King when the temple was opened, there was always at least one infamous outlaw who was granted pardon.
The king had decreed that the daughters of the clans, housed in the temple for over a year, would be on display at his side along with Princess Alba. The keepers had decided the daughters would wear the purple of the temple, but each would hold the flag of her clan to inspire and remind the people that all was well, even in a time of war. The king had even agreed to let Alba hold the gold flag of Adyar, the clan of her mother, so every clan would be represented.
Bayr had looked forward to the tournament with great anticipation. At previous tournaments, he had lurked on the edges or watched the contests from a perch on the parapets, longing to measure his skills against other men’s.
But this year, he was fourteen years old—the age of manhood in Saylok—and he would be able to take part. With Alba and the temple daughters in the company of the king and his guard, Bayr planned to compete in every arena. He had no clan, but as long as he had a patron—in his case the Keepers of Saylok—and the entrance fees, he could enter as many contests as he was able. He had already pledged his winnings to the temple and to the Daughters of Freya. Master Ivo had assured Bayr he would be victorious and informed him that the brothers would be watching in “pious pose as he destroyed the competition.” Dagmar had urged Bayr not to be boastful or to flaunt his abilities, but he too had given Bayr his blessing.
There had been some question whether the games would be held at all. Dirth of Dolphys had been killed in an attack on the east shores, and Dolphys—and much of Saylok—was in mourning. He had been the chieftain of his clan for three decades, groomed by his father to lead, but gifted by the gods to inspire. He’d been well loved, and Dagmar had grieved when he’d heard the news. Dirth of Dolphys had given him permission to become a supplicant to the temple when Dred, Dagmar’s own father, had forbidden him to go. It had caused a rift between the two warriors that lasted many years.
“I don’t know if my father ever forgave him. He certainly hasn’t forgiven me,” Dagmar mused.
“Who w-will b-be chieftain n-now?” Bayr asked. “D-does Dirth h-have a s-son?”
“He had two. And he outlived them both. To be a warrior in Saylok—especially in Dolphys—is to tempt the Norns. There are no warriors fiercer. It is often said in Dolphys that the Norns collect our braids.” Dagmar ran a hand down Bayr’s black plait, his eyes distant and troubled.
“Uncle,” Bayr chided. Dagmar dropped his hand and released his breath, his eyes refocusing on his nephew.
“Bayr.”
“The ch-chieftain?” Bayr pressed.
“I do not know whom Dolphys will choose, but some say the selection will occur after the tournament, while the clans are still gathered and Master Ivo can bestow his blessing. The warriors of Dolphys have requested his counsel and the recommendation of the king. There are a number of
warriors from Dolphys who could take the place of Dirth of Dolphys, but no one will easily fill his shoes.”
The clans were a warring people, but the tournament was not about bloodshed. Clansmen killing clansmen was not in the best interest of Saylok, and the events were more about skill than destruction. Six events took two weeks to complete. Some contests had so many entrants that bracketing was designed, each chieftain choosing how their warriors were stacked up against opposing clans. The bracketing was an art in itself. A chieftain didn’t want his best warrior out in the first rounds of competition or too tired too soon. Some events required less time and fewer rounds—the footraces took place within the clans first so the fastest warriors moved ahead into the final contest. The clanless ran a race of their own, the fastest five advancing to compete again.
Bayr won the first race by several seconds, the next race by more, and even in the final race, against the fastest men in the clans, by a full body length. He was dominant in contests of strength—outlifting men twice his age and weight. He was not yet as tall as some warriors, nor as broad, but he was big. His power was impressive, but his speed took many by surprise. He did not have the experience of some of the best archers and was defeated by a bowman from Ebba who congratulated the boy when it was over, claiming Bayr’s arm strength alone would have worn down the competition eventually.
“Accuracy is key, Temple Boy, but an archer without stamina is no good to his clan. He’ll weaken on the wall. You don’t weaken.”
Bayr threw the axe with such force, even from thirty paces, that the handle vibrated like a lute string. He was viewed with awe by the shifting crowds and a begrudging respect from the warriors, who considered themselves the best Saylok had to offer. He wrestled the winners of past tournaments with a gleeful innocence, tossing one and then another from the circle with the joy of a child and the prowess of a seasoned competitor. He didn’t study technique or prepare mentally for the bouts. He simply stepped into the circle and battled with all the fervor in his heart.
He was clapped on the back and roundly lauded, and he smiled and nodded and offered his hand, but he avoided conversation so completely that many assumed he’d been born with strength and not sense. Some even suggested he couldn’t hear and forgot themselves in his presence, assuming he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—repeat what they complained about. He let them believe what they would, slipping away when the competition was done to guard the king’s daughter and toss his winnings among the temple tithes.
At the end of the first week, flush from a triumph, Bayr was approached by a warrior he’d never met before. The man had not competed in the contests, nor had he sat among the chieftains who occupied positions of honor on the king’s dais. But he looked like a man of consequence in Dolphys, the blue cloak all the indication one needed to determine his clan. A few warriors followed several steps back as though they were his guards or an entourage.
He was tall and muscled like a man in his prime, but his black braid was streaked with a wide strip of silver, indicating he might be a decade or two past it. Scars, both puckered and smooth, large and small, crisscrossed his powerful arms and bisected his sharp face. He looked as though he’d spent his entire life at war.
“Who are you?” the man asked, his brows, still black and thick, lowered over ice-blue eyes.
“Bayr . . . of . . . Saylok.” Bayr breathed between each word the way he’d practiced with Alba, picturing the word before he released it. He did not want to stammer in front of this warrior. He looked like an older, wilder version of Dagmar, and Bayr was drawn to him.
“The Temple Boy?” the man asked, his eyes sharp.
Bayr nodded, not bothering to point out that he was no longer a boy.
“Who was your mother? What was her clan?” the man pressed, taking a step closer.
Bayr studied the man before him, not certain whether he should reveal such information to a stranger. No one had ever asked him about his mother. Usually, when he identified himself as Bayr of Saylok—the Temple Boy—everyone assumed he had no clan, that he had simply been born in the King’s Village.
“Are you slow?” the man growled, impatient.
Bayr’s hand shot out, unsheathing the man’s knife even as he took the man’s legs out from under him with a sweeping kick. The man landed hard on his hip but was up and reaching for his blade with impressive speed. His eyes widened when Bayr returned his knife as swiftly as he’d taken it.
“Only slow of speech,” Bayr said, each word distinct.
The man threw back his head, his skunk tail of silver-and-black hair swinging with his mirth.
“I am Dred of Dolphys, Bayr of Saylok. You remind me a little of my son.”
“Who . . . is . . . your . . . son?”
“Dagmar of Dolphys. He is a Keeper of Saylok.” The man’s voice was smug, but Bayr was too busy reeling from his revelation to register the surprising paternal pride, though he would remember it later.
“My mother . . . was Desdemona of D-Dolphys,” Bayr said, so softly he hardly heard himself speak.
Dred of Dolphys became stone, hard and cold, and for a moment he simply stared at Bayr, showing neither motion nor emotion.
Bayr took a tentative step and then another. He was taller than Dred of Dolphys—he was taller than most men—but not a great deal taller. Bending down, his eyes holding the older man’s gaze, he pressed his forehead to Dred’s, and held it there for the space of two deep breaths before stepping away.
“Grandfather,” Bayr said.
The man’s eyes grew impossibly bright and his lips trembled. For a moment, Bayr thought Dred of Dolphys would weep. Then his jaw hardened, his eyes closed, and the emotion retreated as though it had never been.
Dred stepped forward and pulled Bayr’s face to his own, their foreheads pressed together, their eyes—identical in shape and color—locked in acknowledgment.
“Bayr of Dolphys,” Dred growled. “Grandson of Dred. Son of Desdemona.”
“Nephew of D-Dagmar,” Bayr murmured, determined to give his uncle his due, and he felt the tremor travel through his grandfather’s body and tighten the hand still clasped around the back of his neck.
“He didn’t tell me about you,” Dred hissed.
“No,” Bayr acknowledged.
“I should kill him for that.”
“You would . . . have to k-kill me first.”
Dred released him and stepped back with a sharp-toothed grin. “I would rather know you than kill you.”
Bayr smirked and stuck out his hand, indicating they were in agreement.
Dred laughed, and his laughter became a shout, calling out to the men he commanded, telling them one of their own had been found.
Then heads were thrown back and howls of jubilant welcome echoed over the mount as the Clan of the Wolf welcomed a bear into their pack.
17
“Is she truly gone?” Dred of Dolphys asked, his voice low. He’d dragged Bayr to a feast in the tent of his clansmen, and Bayr, hungry for more than just meat and bread, had been unable to deny him.
Bayr set his goblet down, not certain he understood, not certain he was being spoken to. “What?”
“Desdemona. Dagmar said she was dead. He showed me her grave. Did he deceive me in that too?”
“She is d-dead,” Bayr said softly. “I never knew h-her.”
“And your father, does he know?”
Bayr frowned. “I d-do . . . not know who . . . my . . . father is.”
“Dagmar did not tell you?”
“He d-does not know.”
Dred’s eyes blanked, and tension shifted and resettled over his features. “He does not know?” Dred asked, the words almost a whisper, and his hand moved unconsciously from his goblet to his sword.
“Dagmar is my father,” Bayr insisted, unyielding. “I c-care not who sired me.”
Dred nodded slowly, eyes glittering, lips pursed. But he said nothing more. Bayr was relieved. He had no desire to converse more than was nece
ssary. His jaw was beginning to ache with the effort to control his stuttering tongue.
“Are you as strong as they say?” Dred asked, changing the subject and raising his voice to include his clansmen.
Bayr shrugged. He didn’t know what people said. He certainly didn’t care enough to ask.
“You are quick. And you are big. I watched you compete in the contests. But the tales . . . are they all true?” Dred pressed.
Another shrug.
“You must have a weakness.”
Bayr thought of Alba with her pale hair and flashing smile. She was his weakness, if he had one, but he was sure that was not what Dred of Dolphys meant.
Bayr touched his lips.
“You’ve got a tangled tongue.”
Bayr nodded.
“You need a wench to straighten it out for you . . . to show you how to use it.”
Dred’s suggestion triggered guffaws and groans. Bayr didn’t think his grandfather was talking about speaking at all, and he flushed, wishing he’d not been so quick to confess his shortcoming.
“We brought back twenty harlots from King Kembah’s harem in Bomboska. He won’t miss them. He had ten times that many in his palace. We left the gold. We left the jewels. We just took a few women. He should be grateful. We could have taken his head.”
As if on cue, a handful of women, their arms bare, their hair flowing free, and their bodies wrapped in brightly colored scarves and little else, entered his grandfather’s tent.
Bayr gaped. Women from every clan came to the tournaments. But he’d never seen women like these before. One woman approached Dred and stopped beside him, but she trailed her finger down Bayr’s braid, her face friendly and her gaze warm.
“She will show you how to use your mouth,” Dred said, his eyes twinkling, his tone dry.
“You’ll not stumble for your words when she’s done with you, Temple Boy,” a warrior with a gleaming pate and no braid said, smiling his reassurance.
“He won’t be able to speak at all!” another warrior belched.
“There are many things my son didn’t teach you, many things a man cannot learn in a temple. How many women have you known?” Dred asked.