The First Girl Child

by Harmon, Amy

  Bayr shook his head. He’d known no women. Not the way his grandfather meant. His female interactions had consisted of the temple girls, Alba, Ghost, and a handful of villagers and women who worked in the palace. He’d never known women like these.

  The woman tugged on his braid and blood surged in Bayr’s loins. She released him and stepped back, expectant. When he stared at her blankly, she began to dance away, but extended her hand as if she wanted him to follow.

  “She wants you to go with her, son. See how she beckons you?” Dred murmured.

  Bayr stood, hypnotized by the curling fingers urging him forward, by the rhythmic sway of rounded hips and slim arms.

  “Just don’t let her get your knife. She knows how to use that too,” he heard his grandfather warn, but his thoughts had already left the circle of men and the smell of roast pig and warm mead to trail after the woman who would teach him how to use his tongue.

  Twenty minutes later, he knew a great deal more than he’d known when the night began, but he wasn’t ready for all the lessons the harlot seemed to want to teach him.

  “No,” he panted, the urgency of her hands and her mouth making him tremble and quake, but he pulled back and gently pushed her away.

  “Why?” she gasped.

  He wouldn’t explain it to her. Doing so would take more time and energy than he had, and if she grew weary of waiting for him to spit out the words and began to coax him with her soft body and insistent hands, he might not leave at all.

  “Ch-children,” he said instead, hoping she could deduce the rest.

  “You don’t want to put a baby in my belly?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is that not . . . the goal?”

  He shook his head again and righted his clothing, keeping his eyes averted from her creamy flesh and splayed limbs. The warriors of Saylok rutted like mindless bulls, spreading their seed across the clans, convinced that it was their only hope. Bayr did not want to father a son he might never know, with a woman who was not his own, the way his father had sired him.

  Dagmar had suggested that Bayr’s seed might be the salvation his mother had spoken of, but one man’s seed did not a civilization save, and he didn’t have the arrogance or the desire to test his uncle’s theory. Their father, Saylok, had sought to lay with a woman in every village, and his children were turned into beasts. Bayr did not want to follow in his stead.

  When he fled back to the tent and begged for a jug of mead, stuttering through the request, his grandfather raised his eyes to the thirsty boy.

  “Your tongue is still tangled,” Dred remarked.

  Bayr nodded, wiping his mouth. “I s-suppose I . . . need . . . more i-instruction.” He smirked.

  Dred howled with laughter, the sound like a hungry wolf on the hillside, and the men around him joined in, not even knowing why they wailed.

  The melee was the final event of the tournament, and it was a contest open only to clansmen. Each chieftain chose ten warriors to compete, and all six clans were represented. Sixty warriors took the field in their clan colors, and only one clan could claim victory. The object was to be the last clan standing, even if it was only one warrior. There were no weapons, and no rules but one: take every man down. Once a man’s body hit the ground, he was required to leave the melee until only one man—or one clan—remained.

  Different techniques were employed by different clans, and the game was played year-round in Saylok to sharpen a clan’s skills. A warrior seen as the biggest threat was often targeted first by a handful of warriors working together, but that could backfire as well. If a man fell in the process of toppling another, he too was eliminated. Every clan had known victory in the melee, but one year, before he was king, Banruud and the nine other warriors from Berne so soundly dominated the other clans that all ten of them were still standing when every other warrior from all the other clans had been taken down. Such a feat had never happened before or since.

  The king didn’t take part in the melee. His presence on the field was too dangerous to his person and too intimidating to the clans. And no one wanted to tangle with the king for fear that besting him on the field would result in quiet consequences off the field. As king, Banruud was required to be partial to none, but he was of Berne, and his preference was known. He sat, waiting for play to commence, Queen Esa, Alba, and the clan daughters on his left, the keepers behind them, and the clans creating a perimeter on every side. Bayr took a knee in front of the daughters, his hand on his blade, trying to keep his attention from straying from his duties as protector. As one of the clanless, he would not be participating in the melee.

  “We’ve only nine, Majesty,” Dred of Dolphys called out, striding forward. “We’re a man short.”

  The crowd groaned. They’d been hopeful the melee was about to begin. The king raised his arms to quiet the commotion.

  “Then choose another, Dred. Surely you have another warrior from the Clan of the Wolf willing to enter the melee.”

  “I claim him. I claim the Temple Boy.” Dred raised his arm and pointed at Bayr.

  The crowd crowed and the king laughed.

  “He is not of Dolphys. He has no clan. He cannot fight with you. Choose another,” the king replied. Bayr’s heart began to race.

  “I claim him,” Dred insisted, planting his feet. “We have not yet chosen a chieftain. But I speak for my clan, as the oldest warrior on the field.”

  The crowd grew quiet, confusion rippling in silent waves. Dred of Dolphys was a seasoned contender, and he knew the rules of the melee. It was a contest among the clans. The clanless were not allowed.

  “He is of Dolphys,” Dred intoned.

  “What are you babbling about, old man?” the king growled. His eyes were hard and his hands curled around his big knees.

  “He is the son of my daughter, Desdemona, shield maiden in the Clan of the Wolf.” Once there had been a contest for the women—a battle among the shield maidens—but the king had suspended it. The shortage of women in Saylok had made the clans cautious, and they did not want their women to be warriors. It was a risk they’d become unwilling to take.

  The king grew eerily still and the crowd followed suit, the hush of a thousand held breaths. No one knew why the king had turned to stone, but none of them dared break the spell.

  “He is fourteen years old, Dred of Dolphys. Why have you not claimed him before? This is highly suspect,” Aidan murmured, the only man not cowed by the king. Yet even he recognized the king’s shock and moderated his tone.

  Dred replied, “I did not know he lived. His mother—my daughter—is dead. She has been dead since his birth fourteen years ago, Adyar.”

  “He is naught but the Temple Boy,” the king ground out. The color had leached from his face and gathered in his dark eyes.

  “That may be true, Highness, but he is also of Dolphys. And I claim him. We claim him. It is my right as acting chieftain unless . . . he has already been claimed by a clan or . . . a king.” Dred’s voice was mild and the onlookers nodded. It was the law of the clans. A man—or a woman—could be claimed, even if there was no familial connection. Adoption into a clan was common, especially in an age of raid and conquest. But a claim could be refused.

  “Is this true, boy?” the king sneered, finding his composure. “Are you of Dolphys? If you accept this claim, you must live among your clan.”

  The crowd shifted, a nervous shuffling. A man—or a boy—was not required to live among his clan, but no one would argue with the king.

  “Highness, it is a ploy,” Lothgar interjected. “Dred knows he cannot win the melee with his pack of aging wolves. He thinks the Temple Boy is Odin’s hound. He’ll abandon him when the battle is over. Leave the boy be.” The warriors already assembled for the melee, their blood pumping and feet stomping, grunted and agreed, pressing for a commencement of the contest.

  “What’ll it be, boy? Do you want to live in Dolphys?” the king pressed, venom dripping from his query.

 
“I a-am a s-servant of the t-t-t . . .” Bayr winced and tried again to spit out the final word. “T-temple.” The warriors on the field laughed. Dred’s face darkened as the king chortled with them.

  “Do you withdraw your claim, Dred of Dolphys?” the king asked.

  “I cannot withdraw my blood from his veins, or his from mine, Highness. But I’ll not take the boy from his home . . . or his duties. We will play with nine. And we will win.”

  The warriors behind Dred reacted—clansman and opponents alike—with cries of denial and protest rising to chase away the awkward encounter, and Dred of Dolphys turned away, abandoning his claim. Bayr wanted to turn away too, to run away into the setting sun, to flee the walls and wait among the trees for the warriors of Dolphys to head for home. He would join them and escape the confines of his confusion. He was not a keeper. He was not a warrior. He was a guard dog, The Temple Boy. He hated the king and would welcome the day when he never had to look on him again.

  But he loved Dagmar. He loved Ivo. He loved pale Ghost and the temple girls. And he loved Alba. Little Alba. He would not leave her. Even to belong to a clan. Even for his grandfather. His grandfather. The thought made him want to wail like the wolf he descended from. His grandfather had claimed him and he’d been humiliated in front of the melee. In front of the king. Bayr had rejected his claim.

  The melee ensued but Bayr did not watch. His eyes were fixed upon his feet, and when Alba began to droop on her little stool, Bayr stepped forward and, with great care, lifted her into his arms. Lady Esa rose as well, trailing him to the castle, calling to the handmaid who waited, and Bayr never discovered who prevailed. He had lost, and that was all he knew.

  Bayr awoke to pain and a jolt to his chest. The king should not have been able to surprise him, but he had. Mayhaps it was that the king was not an intruder, not a threat to the princess. He was a threat to Bayr, but Bayr had never been as aware when it came to his own well-being.

  The whites of the king’s eyes reflected the light when all else was darkness, as though he was from the Clan of the Wolf and not the Clan of the Bear. Or mayhaps it was simply Bayr’s fear that made him focus on the king’s eyes and not the weight of his fists. The eyes would tell him whether he would survive the night.

  It had happened once before, this awakening to terror and pain. The night of the temple ceremony a year before, the night when Bayr had pledged his protection to the clan daughters. That night the king was angry and mean with wine, but the beating hadn’t lasted long, and Bayr had never understood what he’d done wrong.

  He’d told Alba, when he couldn’t hide his bruises, that he’d battled a dragon.

  “What kind of dragon?”

  He tapped his ear, and she had immediately begun to construct a story just as he’d known she would.

  “Was it the dragon who lives in the cliffs of Shinway?”

  He nodded.

  “The one with all the colors of the clans in his wings?”

  Another nod.

  “Did he come to take me away?”

  He nodded again.

  “But you stopped him?”

  He wasn’t sure she was particularly happy about that.

  “I would like to fly with a dragon, Bayr. Do you think next time you could let him take me? Maybe ask him if we could both go?”

  He tried to smile.

  “H-he is n-not a g-good d-dragon.”

  “Not like the dragon that lives beneath the temple?” It was another story that she’d conjured on her own when Master Ivo had promised that the Hearth of Kings would remain lit. She was certain the ever-burning torch was dragon breath, and she was comforted by its presence beneath the temple. Alba was comforted by odd things.

  “No. H-he is n-not. And I c-can’t t-talk to d-dragons,” he said.

  “True. I think I could. The mice and the birds and the pigs and the horses all listen to me. I’m sure the rainbow dragon would listen to me too. So wake me next time, please.”

  She was always telling him what to do. Such a bossy little thing. And so smart.

  He had let her chatter, nodding as she imagined him bravely dancing around the room with a sword and leaping here and there, stabbing at the winged creature while taking a beating with his powerful tail.

  “Thank you for not letting him take me, Bayr,” she said. “I really don’t want to live with a dragon.”

  Bayr had simply dropped a kiss on her soft hair and said goodnight. He chanted a prayer in his head until dawn, the words tripping through his mind though his tongue stayed silent. Alba already lived with a dragon, and it was a dragon he could not defeat.

  But the king was not drunk this night. Bayr came to his feet, not to battle but to submit with dignity. He could not raise his fists to the king.

  Banruud did not beat him with implements, but with his own fists, as though flesh hitting flesh gave him greater power, as though causing pain to one who did not resist created a dominance all its own.

  “Your duty is here. You are a servant. You are the Temple Boy, not a prince. Not a chieftain, not a god. And you will not forget it again, will you?”

  When Bayr did not answer, but bowed his head in silent submission, the king spit on his tightly coiled braid and slapped his face, begging for an excuse to claim an attack, to run the boy through, but Bayr did not speak or even lift his arms to shield himself. He’d seen what the king had done to Agnes. Bayr would not forget himself. If the king was going to end his life, Bayr would not dishonor himself by giving him reason.

  Banruud resumed punching, and when Bayr failed to respond or even fall beneath his fists, the king resorted to using his feet. Bayr braced his legs and absorbed the blows. The king was going to kill him. The king’s rings were sharp, and in some places Bayr’s skin had broken. His eyes were swollen shut, his nose bent, his lips split. But there were no defensive wounds on his hands or his forearms. The bruises bloomed like thunderclouds across his torso and over his shoulders, seeping down his back and covering his legs.

  When Banruud used the butt of his sword against the side of his head, Bayr felt his consciousness ebb and his legs buckle. His slide to the floor was a merciful sinking.

  “Will you not fight back, Temple Boy? Are you not the son of Desdemona of Dolphys? Are you not a warrior?”

  Bayr did not answer. He hardly even groaned. The fog in his head and the damage to his mouth had put him beyond speech, even if he’d been able to convince his tongue to form coherent words.

  This time, Alba was a year older and a decade wiser, and Bayr was too sore to stand. When Bayr tried to blame the dragon, she raised her eyes from his bruised flesh and shook her head.

  “You are the strongest boy in the whole world. Why did you let him hurt you?”

  He had no answer.

  “We must draw the rune,” Alba demanded. “The one that drives the crawling things away like Dagmar does.”

  “I don’t r-remember it.”

  “I do. I love to draw.”

  “Yes y-you d-do . . .” His voice trailed off. It hurt his mouth to speak.

  Alba dipped her finger in the blood dribbling from his split lip and drew a spider on his forearm, a spider with spindly legs, all of them folded across the body, giving the appearance of death. She hadn’t missed anything. Her lines and her angles were perfect, and Bayr marveled at her abilities.

  “That will help with festering, but the cuts aren’t bad or deep. It’s the bruises that we need to fix,” she said, matter-of-fact.

  “Th-they w-will heal.”

  “Yes . . . but you’re hurting.” The tremor that shimmered in her voice made him wince. She was afraid for him.

  “T-tell me all the th-things that m-make you h-happy,” he said, trying to distract her. It was a game they played.

  “I am happy when you aren’t hurting,” she said, and her chin wobbled. She screwed up her nose and closed her eyes, as though trying to remember something that eluded her. She was so smart. So smart, and he was so proud of her.<
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  “There is a rune for pain. I saw Dagmar draw it on Elayne’s forehead when her head ached so terribly. I just need to remember it. He washed it away . . . but I think I can draw it.”

  “D-don’t,” he whispered. Playing with runes was dangerous. He well knew it.

  “I drew it in my mind so I wouldn’t forget.” She dabbed again at his lip like an artist needing paint and, next to the spider, began to place the lines and shapes that became a rune of relief. He closed his eyes, trusting her, and felt the moment she was done. The pain ebbed as though it descended a ladder, each rung allowing a little more space between pressure and peace.

  “Don’t f-forget to w-wash the rune away,” he whispered, the cessation of pain making him weak and weary. His swollen lids closed, and he didn’t feel it when she did as he asked.

  When he opened his eyes again, Dagmar’s face loomed above him. He felt better. Alba’s rune had eased his pain and left him drowsy. He should tell Dagmar to take more care. She would remember whatever she saw.

  “I’m s-sorry. I w-was so t-tired,” he muttered, and attempted to rise. The dawn had deepened into late morning, and he was still lying on Alba’s floor where he’d stumbled after the king had finished with him. A bolt of panic lanced his heart. “W-where is Alba?”

  “She was afraid and came to find me. She said she put you to sleep. She is in the temple.” Dagmar cupped his cheek, his eyes tragic. “What has happened to you, Bayr?”

  Bayr looked into the face that had loved him all his life, and he could not speak. Shame filled his chest.

  “Your face is swollen. Your eyes are black. Your lips are bloodied, and you sleep as though you’re in need of healing.”

  “W-why does the k-king hate me, Uncle?”

  “Did he do this?” Dagmar gasped.

  Bayr closed his eyes and for a moment they each waited, willing the other to answer first.

  “Tell me, Bayr. Tell me,” Dagmar pled. “I can’t protect you from what I don’t understand.”