The First Girl Child

by Harmon, Amy

“Not so long as that, Alba.”

  “But I can’t be a queen if I am not yet a woman.” In Alba’s mind womanhood was most likely old and stooped, just like the women who worked in her father’s palace and lived in the King’s Village.

  “You will be a woman before you are gray. And you will be a queen when your father decides to wed you to a king,” Dagmar said.

  Alba frowned, a deep groove forming between her dark brows, so at odds with her flaxen hair.

  “I will choose a man of my own,” she insisted.

  Dagmar sighed, but his lips twitched.

  “I hope you will do what is best for Saylok, Alba,” he murmured. “We need you.”

  “Do what is best . . . like Bayr did?” she asked quietly. His name was a wound that never healed. He’d been gone for over three years, and Dagmar knew Alba missed him every day. Dagmar missed him every day. He knew Alba feared they would never see him again.

  “Like Bayr did,” Dagmar agreed. He thought she would leave then, joining the girls in the temple gardens to soak up the lingering rays, but she remained sitting.

  “Did you always want to be a keeper, Dagmar?” she asked.

  “Yes. Always.”

  “My father says you should have been a warrior for your clan, for Saylok. He said men like you should fight, not pray. Men like you should breed. That’s what he said.”

  Dagmar choked again, and drew the star of Saylok on his forehead, reminding himself that he served the gods and Alba was still, mostly, a child. She made him laugh.

  “We all have a purpose, and mine was never to wage war,” he replied evenly.

  “Or to breed?”

  “Or to breed,” he agreed, biting back the mirth bubbling behind his teeth.

  “Bayr told me once that you threatened to kill yourself if Master Ivo refused to accept you at the temple. What if I refuse to be given away? I don’t want to marry a king. Even for Saylok.”

  “Why?” he gasped. The girls talked incessantly of becoming mothers and queens, rulers of their own homes and their own lives, free of the confines of the temple grounds.

  “I want Bayr.” Alba’s voice was firm and her eyes fierce.

  Dagmar’s heart ceased beating.

  “When I am a woman, he will come back,” Alba whispered. “Surely I can marry him. A god is better than a king.”

  “Oh, child. That will not happen,” Dagmar moaned.

  “Why?” The word was infused with anguish.

  “Because . . .” Dagmar couldn’t tell the girl Bayr was her half-brother. The words would never cross his lips. Such words could get him killed. And more importantly, he did not believe them. Desdemona had said Banruud would only have one child. Dagmar had come to believe that Alannah had taken a lover, and her indiscretion had fathered a daughter. No wife’s infidelity had ever blessed her husband more. But Dagmar would never tell.

  “Because Bayr is not a god . . . or a king. And you must marry a king, Alba. You must not marry a man of Saylok,” Dagmar said instead.

  “Why?” she pressed, insistent. Angry even.

  “Because we must have more daughters, or eventually, the clans of Saylok will cease to exist.”

  The people of Dolphys never called him Bayr. He missed the sound of his name—sometimes he whispered it to himself, feeling the word on his tongue, remembering the boy he’d been on the mount. They called him Chief or the Dolphys. He found it wasn’t so different from being called the Temple Boy. His grandfather called him Chief too, his voice proud, his eyes bright. It served to remind Bayr who he was expected to be, and he didn’t mind terribly. If his clansmen called him the Dolphys, or Chief, he didn’t have to introduce himself. He worked hard, fought harder, and did his best to avoid a speech. When he wasn’t fighting he was tilling the ground, or casting nets, or hunting in the hills. He had nothing else to give, and so he gave his strength and his stamina and his service wherever he could.

  He lived in the chieftain’s keep and slept in the vast chieftain’s chamber, the fur and antlers of beasts he hadn’t killed lining the walls. Dirth had left behind a wife, Dursula of Dolphys, who had resided in the chieftain’s keep since becoming Dirth’s bride at sixteen, more than thirty years before. In the clans, it was the new chieftain’s duty to care for the old chieftain’s family, and Bayr bade Dursula stay in the keep. She had outlived her husband and her sons, and her daughter was grown and gone. Bayr had no woman, no family in Dolphys but Dred, and he welcomed her presence. She ran the household—a household Bayr dwelled in but never called home—and tried to mother him, though he’d never been mothered before. Dred was fond of her and spent more time in the keep because of her, which also suited Bayr. Space and solitude invited loneliness, and loneliness invited thoughts of those he’d left behind.

  Dred had been right about many things. Bayr loved Dolphys, he loved the people, and though he tried not to dwell on thoughts of his uncle, he saw Dagmar in his grandfather, in the stubborn set of his shoulders and the size of his hands. Sometimes he slipped and called Dred Dagmar, and Dred would laugh and shake his head, and that too would remind Bayr of the man who had raised him.

  Alba’s birthday had come and gone. One year. Two years. Three. Each year, Bayr sent a rider from Dolphys to the temple mount to deliver letters for everyone and gifts for Alba when her day drew near. Eight perfect feathers from a peacock, nine crystals from Shinway, ten silver bangles, eleven silk kerchiefs from a marooned ship of trade. She always replied with sweet thanks and a missive that brought her to life on the page. She was a far better writer than he, brimming with things to say, and he missed her desperately. Dagmar always sent letters back too, letters filled with tales of the temple and the girls that lived within her walls. After Alba turned eleven, he sent a letter that made Bayr so homesick and heart weary, he could hardly finish it.

  My Bayr,

  We all live for your letters. As for Alba’s gifts, you have created an expectation that will be a problem in coming years, I fear. What will you do when you reach even greater numbers? I marvel at your ingenuity thus far. We are as well as can be expected. The daughters are growing and learning, and I find joy in them as I found joy in you.

  Bashti longs for a life beyond the mount. She is a master at disguise and improvisation, and she has run away from the temple a dozen times. Her darker skin makes her more conspicuous, but like Ghost, whose skin is far more noticeable, she has learned to adapt and blend when need be. She claims when she is grown she will go back to Bomboska—she may be called Bashti of Berne, but she feels no allegiance to the clan. I fear Bomboska will not be what she imagines. No place ever is, and she is of Saylok now, whether she realizes it or not. I’ve come to believe that home is not a place. Home is inside of us. Home is the people we love. Home is what we strive for. Bashti is from Bomboska, but that is not who she is. In her heart Bashti knows this, for when she runs, she always returns.

  Elayne of Ebba is a woman now, and her kindness and beauty are something to behold. Her only rebellion came when, two years ago, she refused to crop her hair. It is a glorious red, as you likely remember. She promised to braid it tightly around her head so it would not draw the eye. The other girls were quick to follow, and now all wear their hair in the same plaited wreaths. Even Ghost has quit shearing her locks, and it circles her head like a white crown. I fear the style does not accomplish what a shorn head would, but they have conformed in so much, Ivo has allowed it.

  Since you left, Juliah of Joran has taken it upon herself to become their protector. She has demanded the daughters become proficient with a sword, and they spend time in instruction each day. Ivo has encouraged it with great enthusiasm. As you well know, all keepers, even the aged, must be able to protect the temple. We have never neglected the necessity of the warrior in ourselves and must not neglect it in these girl children. I see them with their heavy swords, and I think of you as a child, my Bayr, wielding your own, mimicking the movements of the keepers in their exercises, dueling with the king’s guard,
small yet full of grace and strength. I suspect you have grown since I saw you last.

  Liis of Leok sings to us sparingly. She will join her voice with ours, and we all find ourselves singing as softly as we are able so that we can hear her, but she rarely sings alone. There is great power in her song. I think she fears it. She has rune blood, young Liis. But to be a keeper with rune blood is to carry the weight of worlds. We have not burdened her with knowledge that we can’t expunge. If she is to be a keeper in truth, she will be committing her life to the temple, and that is a choice not made lightly. We will not force it upon her.

  Alba has rune blood as well. You know this, as you warned me of the things she can do. She joins us in the temple for instruction—even instruction with a sword—but her father has suddenly become aware of her, and she has very little freedom. Mayhaps it is that she stands on the cusp of womanhood, and he knows her value. She is blessed with beauty and a placid wisdom that reminds me a little of Ghost. Mayhaps it is the time they spend together. I fear for her, Bayr, and I know you do as well. Know that, for now, she is well and whole, and in a time such as this, the restrictions on her freedom may be warranted.

  There are still no daughters of Saylok. Daughters from other lands have come to the clans only to give birth to sons, and the drought continues. It has been eleven years since Alba was born, eighteen since your mother died, and I fear nothing will cure our ills.

  We have more women at the temple now, from every clan. One by one, they began arriving at the gates of the temple mount with no place else to go, seeking asylum and sanctuary. Though most women are greedily guarded and accounted for in the clans, there are the few who have lost their protectors or been driven from their homes by raids or war. Some of them are grown—women of Saylok born before the scourge—some are children, brought here by trade or raid or by the marriage of their mothers.

  We’ve become a school instead of a temple, a haven instead of a holy place. Ivo says we are Keepers of Saylok, and all who come to us are supplicants to be considered, though we haven’t accepted a new brother since the daughters were entrusted into our care. If this continues, there will be more females than keepers in the temple. A few were only with us for a short while. Two women married members of the king’s guard, and one girl’s father came looking for her. She’d thought him dead and was overjoyed to see him. We do not demand that anyone stay, but if they do, they are taught the ways of the temple and the history of Saylok. We have not attempted to impart the wisdom of the runes or in any way share their power. It is not knowledge for the faint of heart or the shelter seeker. Those who are fully entrusted with the knowledge of the runes—true keepers—won’t ever be able to leave the temple.

  But I have digressed from my accounting of the daughters that you know. Dalys of Dolphys is still frail. The braid round her head is bigger than she is, and her eyes seem to be the only part of her that grows. She is older than Alba but much smaller. She makes lovely pictures and is quite content to dwell in her paintings where she is the master and creator. She cannot wield a sword, and we dare not spill her blood, even to power a rune. She becomes ill at the sight, and her illness doesn’t pass. Ivo suspects she has rune blood, but we do not know. Do your people ask about her? I’ve wondered if the clans take courage from the temple and the torch that continually burns in honor of these daughters—of all the clan daughters—young and old. Do they represent hope or simply a world that is separate from their own struggles?

  Saylok is suffering and splitting at her seams. I feel it. Ivo feels it, and it has aged him. I don’t know if the king senses how volatile it has all become. Surely he must, as Ebba has been invaded twice and Erskin slain. The new chieftain, Elbor, was Banruud’s personal choice. Dred was not in favor, as I’m certain he communicated to you. But the people of Ebba—what is left of them—supported Elbor’s claim.

  My father is proud of you. He reports that you have the love of the people and work tirelessly in their behalf. It is what I expected. I hope you will come to the mount when you are able. We miss you terribly. Do you remember when I promised I would refuse Valhalla and follow in your footsteps? I think of that often, as my heart is always where you are.

  Be well, my boy.

  Your Dagmar

  The chieftains were often summoned to the temple mount, to the palace of the king, but each time Bayr had been afraid to leave his lands unattended and sent Dred and a handful of warriors in his stead. The attacks from the Northmen on Berne had bled down into Dolphys, and attacks from the Hinterlands on Ebba had done the same on their southern borders. Dred argued that Bayr had to present himself at the king’s table and take part in the tournaments, but Bayr refused. He had little to say and no one had the patience for him to say it. They would not miss him at the council, but Dolphys would miss him on the battlefield. His very presence served as a deterrent.

  Another year dawned and died, then two more, and Bayr stayed away from the Temple of Saylok. Instead he sent twelve colored stones from the Northlands, thirteen pouches of the sweetest tea from Bomboska, and fourteen pairs of new stockings along with a pair of beautifully crafted calfskin slippers from his own village.

  When Alba’s fifteenth birthday approached, Bayr sent fifteen vials of precious oil from the lavender fields that bordered Dolphys and Berne. The next year, he sent sixteen medallions, no bigger than his thumbnail, painted by an old deaf woman who had fled Ebba and taken refuge among the Dolphynians. Each medallion was decorated with a tiny, intricate scene that created an entire tale. He included a magnifying glass so Alba could discover them. But though Dagmar wrote him a lengthy letter to answer the one he’d sent, Alba did not. A simple piece of parchment rolled and bound with a bit of string was all he received from the girl. It read:

  Bayr,

  My sincerest gratitude for the lovely gift.

  Alba

  He scoured Dagmar’s letter for news of her, for the details he craved, but she was not mentioned. He fretted, but knew if something was amiss, Dagmar would have told him. The only indication he had of her at all was in his uncle’s parting line:

  You promised you would return. We patiently await that day.

  22

  These Eastlanders did not want to talk. Bayr could not blame them. They were angry. Afraid. Their village had been ransacked by clans of Saylok before. Blood had been shed. Lives ruined. Bayr had hoped to negotiate with their lord, to make a trade. He and his men had waited on the beach for a sentry to arrive. But none had, and Bayr had known then that there would be a battle. They did not want to talk, and they did not want to trade. They poured from the trees with faces painted for war, and Bayr stood on the shore with the warriors of Dolphys and Berne, waiting to kill them.

  Surely it was not what the gods had intended when they gave him such strength, to kill men who had just cause to come against the clans in battle. But he was Bayr of Dolphys, he’d been charged with the defense of his land, of his clan, and he had little choice in the matter. He would kill the men who ran toward him, teeth bared and swords drawn, because if he didn’t, they would kill him, and they would kill men beside him. If he died, his clan would come against the Eastlanders again, provoked to vengeance, and the never-ending cycle of desperation and demand would repeat itself. His clansmen had not sought women from the Eastlanders to satisfy their lusts—not entirely. They took them because if they didn’t, Saylok would perish.

  The men he would kill this day did not deserve to die. But he would still kill them. He silently begged the Allfather for mercy and asked his mother to lift his shield and guide his sword. She had called down this plague upon them, and he prayed for the salvation she’d promised he would provide. Then he raised his arms, roared like the bear for which he was named, and charged forward, Alba’s face in his mind’s eye, her name on his lips.

  The blade scored Bayr’s arm before he removed it from the woman’s clenched fist, and Daniel lifted his hand to reproach her.

  “No,” Bayr grunted, restrainin
g Daniel with an arm to his chest. The woman collapsed, sobbing, at his feet, and Bayr handed her blade to his protective friend.

  He helped the woman rise, trying not to get his blood—blood that she’d spilled—on her dusty clothes. He kept his hands on her shoulders, just to make sure she wouldn’t attack again. She was trembling with outrage.

  “I w-won’t harm you,” he promised.

  “You killed my husband!” she shrieked, her face wet with tears and red with fury.

  “Your husband died in battle, woman!” Daniel roared in outrage. “He died with a sword in his hands! Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

  “We have killed their men, Chief. What are they to do now?” Dakin murmured, his eyes on the women and children huddled in the church, the largest structure in the village.

  Bayr was silent, fighting the urge to run, to flee back to the shore, to throw himself into the sea to wash off the blood and grime that still stained his skin. A warrior never washed before he demanded his winnings. It was proof that he had battled and that he’d been the victor. He would not have killed their men had they not attacked. But Dakin was right. He’d killed them all, and now these women looked at him with rage and fear.

  “We will take them back to Dolphys with us. Half for us, half for Berne. There are two dozen women and at least twice that many children, half of them girls. They will thank us for providing for them now that their men are gone. ’Tis what we came for, after all,” Daniel said, shrugging.

  “We c-came to negotiate,” Bayr muttered. He closed his eyes, trying to find wisdom and patience, but saw only the manic flashing of blades and the bodies falling around him.

  “Tell them w-why we’ve come, Daniel. Tell them we did not c-come to slaughter but to seek. Tell them about Dolphys and Berne. About Saylok. About our n-need for women,” Bayr ordered. Daniel’s inability to keep his mouth closed made him a convincing storyteller.

  “We will sound weak, Chief,” Daniel argued under his breath.