by Harmon, Amy
“Gudrun, may I present the daughters of the clans,” Banruud boomed, striding toward the robed assembly. Gudrun followed eagerly. Gudrun’s men dismounted, eyes suspicious, hands on their weapons, and trailed after their king.
“I see only old men,” Gudrun mocked. The daughters had melded back behind the rows of keepers, who stood with their hands folded and their heads down, creating a wall of faceless purple around them.
“We want to see the daughters, Master Ivo,” Banruud ordered, coming to a halt before the Highest Keeper.
“They are not yours to command or display, Majesty,” Ivo replied, his tone mild, like he spoke to an insistent child.
Banruud moved so close to the Highest Keeper he appeared to be speaking to a lover, whispering assurances in his ear, but the Highest Keeper raised his eyes to Gudrun, who stood over the king’s shoulder, and spoke to him directly, ignoring King Banruud.
“What is your purpose here, Northman?” Ivo queried, his tone so cold the crowd shivered.
“I want to see your temple, Priest.”
“I am not a priest. I do not save souls or speak for the gods. I am a Keeper of Saylok.”
“And what treasures do you keep, old one?” Gudrun grinned, and his men laughed around him.
“Let us see the daughters,” Elbor shouted, showing his support for the wishes of the king. “They belong to the people. Not the keepers.”
A few people cried out in agreement. Others protested, frightened by King Banruud’s company, unnerved by the Northmen inside the walls of their precious mount.
Benjie, still seated on his horse with a handful of Gudrun’s men and Banruud’s guard, raised his voice in agreement.
“You worship the gods, but you obey the king, Highest Keeper,” he said.
Lothgar grunted his agreement and Josef stepped forward, demanding a viewing as well.
“Daughters of the clans, come forward,” Banruud bellowed, his hand on his sword. The keepers shifted, a pathway opening among them, and the five daughters, their eyes fixed above Banruud’s head, their robes hiding them from neck to toe, stepped down from the steps.
The crowd strained to get a better view, and Gudrun smirked as they stopped in a straight line before him, not shrinking, but not acknowledging him in any way.
The North King touched the fiery coils of Elayne’s hair. She swallowed, her pale throat working to stifle her fear, but she did not pull away.
“Elayne of Ebba,” Banruud said.
“Elayne of Ebba,” Gudrun repeated, his eyes shrewd. He moved on.
“Liis of Leok,” Banruud intoned. Gudrun studied Liis, his brows raising at her golden beauty and piercing blue eyes. He moved his face within an inch of hers, willing her to meet his gaze, but she was stoic, even as he blew a stream of warm air against her pink lips. He laughed as though her stillness impressed him and moved onto Juliah as the king said her name.
Juliah was not ice, she was fire, and when he paused in front of her, she glowered at him disdainfully, her top lip lifted in the smallest of sneers.
“Juliah does not like me,” he murmured. “Though I might enjoy changing her mind.”
“Dalys of Dolphys,” King Banruud intoned.
Dalys had begun to shrink, her slim shoulders bunching around her ears, but Gudrun ran the tip of his finger along the silky underside of her jaw and demanded she lift her face.
When she did, his lips curled.
“Your chieftain is so big.” He shot a look toward Bayr. “But you are a runt. I want a woman,” he said, dismissing her without another word. The crowd rumbled and the Highest Keeper hissed, but Gudrun wasn’t finished. He moved to Bashti, who met his gaze with all the disdain he’d just shown Dalys. She was not a big woman either, but she demanded attention. Gudrun gave it to her.
He pressed his thumb to the swell of her full lips as though he intended to check her teeth. When she snarled and snapped at him, he laughed and lifted his eyes to Banruud, releasing her before he lost a finger.
“You have six clans, Banruud . . . but only five daughters,” he mused.
“The princess is of Adyar.” Aidan spoke up. “She represents our clan among the daughters of the temple.” Aidan had remained by Bayr’s side though his eyes had clung to Elayne of Ebba throughout the North King’s inspection. His voice was controlled but his hand gripped the hilt of his sword, and Bayr wondered if he was not the only chieftain who nursed secret affections.
Gudrun turned and considered Alba once more. Like the daughters, she was unflinching beneath his scrutiny. Bayr was not. His stomach was filled with hot coals, the heat wafting from his mouth and his eyes, steaming from his ears and causing his palms to tremble and his legs to shake.
It would take so little to make him draw his sword and ease his agony. He would slay the North King first. Banruud would follow.
Bayr felt Ivo’s gaze, cold and creeping, like icy fingers across his blazing skin and knew the Highest Keeper divined his fury. Ivo simply shook his head.
“I think you lie, Chieftain. Who is that?” Gudrun pointed, his eyes sharp. “Do you seek to hide the white daughter from me?”
Ghost stood among the keepers, Dagmar beside her, but the hood of her robe had fallen back a few inches, and her thick, white braid was a stark contrast against the vivid hue of her robe.
If Bayr had not been so aware of Alba, he would have missed the moment Banruud recoiled, drawing Alba back with a vicious jerk. His eyes were wide with horror.
“I want to see her, Keeper,” Gudrun insisted, curling his fingers at Ghost, beckoning her forward. Ghost had already ducked her head, shrinking back into her robe, an ivory slice of cheek the only visible part of her face. Dagmar was rigid beside her.
“She is not a daughter of the temple, King Gudrun,” Ivo replied, but his eyes were glued to Banruud.
“No?” Gudrun sneered. He began mounting the stairs, shoving keepers aside. The crowd cried out, frightened by his aggression. Gudrun stopped in front of Ghost and pulled her hood from the wreath of her silvery-white hair. Her chin snapped up, her eyes gleamed, and Gudrun cursed and stumbled back, almost falling when his foot glanced off a step. The crowd gasped, the collective inhale like a crack of angry thunder.
“She is not a daughter, Majesty,” Ivo repeated, though it was not clear to which king he referred. “She is a keeper.” He paused, his gaze still clinging to King Banruud. “We call her . . . Ghost.”
“I want to see the temple,” Gudrun demanded, his voice ringing imperiously, but he had retreated several more steps. Ghost did not re-cover her hair or drop her gaze, but Dagmar had taken her hand in his, and without a word, the robed keepers moved back around her protectively.
“And you shall see it, King Gudrun,” Banruud promised, finding his voice, though it rattled oddly. “It is open to all during the tournament. But we’ve traveled far and you are hungry. We will dine first and enjoy the games. The temple can wait.”
Clutching Alba’s arm, Banruud turned away, dismissing the Highest Keeper and drawing Gudrun and his men forward with a flick of his hand. Gudrun followed him reluctantly, turning back more than once to study the temple, her daughters, and her rows of huddled keepers.
Bayr and the other chieftains fell into step behind him, grim-faced and silent. Even Elbor seemed shaken. The king had some explaining to do, and Bayr, signaling to Dred and Dakin to accompany him, was not willing to let Alba out of his sight.
26
Ghost didn’t feel herself fall. She must have locked her legs or forgotten to breathe, but one moment she was staring into the pale green eyes of an unkempt king, and the next she was in Dagmar’s arms being carried into the shadowed recesses of the temple, the daughters hovering around her, Ivo’s staff clicking against the stones from somewhere behind them.
King Banruud had seen her. He’d seen her and he knew. The memory flooded back, the snippet of time she’d lost, the details etched in black and underscored by the sharp gasp from the horrified crowd.
She’d grown complacent. She should have kept her head down. She’d been facing the setting sun, the pinks and golds of Saylok’s skies warming the temple stones and her pale cheeks. She’d forgotten herself in her fear for the clan daughters—in her fear for her own daughter—and she’d stood among the keepers instead of staying safely inside the temple walls.
He’d seen her, and he knew.
“Are you unwell, Ghost?” Elayne asked as a gentle hand passed over Ghost’s brow. Her kohl-rimmed eyes met Ghost’s, and Ghost shook her head in shame.
“I’m a fool, Elayne. I was afraid, and I forgot to draw sufficient breath. I’m fine. See to the others. You were all so brave . . . and I am so proud.”
“Go, Elayne,” Dagmar urged kindly. “I’ll look after Ghost.”
“Our life together is marked by moments when I find myself in your arms, and I never get to enjoy it,” she whispered at Dagmar as he eased her down onto a cold bench in the sanctum. Ivo had instructed she be brought there.
He grinned back, his eyes wrinkling at the corners, his concern easing infinitesimally, but his mirth died without having fully lived.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered, and he shook his head, helpless. He rose from her side and stepped away, turning as Ivo entered the sanctum, his black robes melding with the shadows that jumped from stone to stone.
He did not sit upon the dais but stopped in front of Ghost, his hands wrapped on the knob of his staff, his chin resting on his hands. She tried to rise, but her head swam and she closed her eyes, gathering her courage and finding her balance.
“Why does Banruud fear you, Ghost?” he whispered, his voice curling under her closed lids and skittering beneath the folds of her robe to settle on her cold skin.
“He does not fear me,” she choked, but the truth of her past clawed at her throat and a scream was building on her tongue.
“He will give the princess to the North King to stop their advance into Saylok, and young Bayr can do nothing to stop it,” Ivo said, his voice so soft it should have been lost in the temple dome, but it hovered instead, inflicting guilt and pain.
“I will go with her,” Ghost panted. The scream grew another tail that beat against the back of her teeth.
“You are a keeper—you will not,” Dagmar shot back, incredulous. “You’ve been entrusted with the knowledge of the runes. And that knowledge stays here, in the temple.”
“I gave my word to the princess,” she ground out, her jaw locked.
“You gave your word to me,” Ivo hissed. “To Dagmar. To Saylok.”
“I care nothing for Saylok,” she bellowed. “I care nothing for the bloody runes. What good are the runes if they can’t protect us? If they cannot right these wrongs?”
Ivo swayed as though he too had lost the strength to stand, and he turned away from her and walked up the long aisle to the dais, his head bowed, his shoulders stooped, and Ghost rose and followed him, Dagmar beside her, unable to resist the pull of his displeasure.
“He is going to her,” Ivo accused, sinking down into his chair. “Even now. And you say nothing.” Ivo raised his black gaze to Dagmar. “Have you not seen the way they look at each other?”
Dagmar halted as though he’d been struck, and the scream in Ghost’s mouth slipped out as a moan.
“These secrets have been kept too long, and this one will destroy them, Dagmar. And still . . . you . . . say . . . nothing.”
Tears had begun to course their way down Ghost’s cheeks, the pressure building beyond her ability to contain it.
Dagmar replied, “They do not understand that the connection they feel is a connection of the blood, of the heart, but it can never be a connection of the body.”
“It is . . . not . . . a connection of the blood,” Ghost wept, the words so faint she wasn’t sure she’d even said them. But she had. She’d said the words aloud. Dagmar turned shattered eyes to hers, and Ivo beckoned her forward, curling his fingers toward his palm.
“Tell me!” Ivo hissed.
“Alba is not Banruud’s daughter. She was not Alannah’s daughter. She is not a daughter of Saylok at all. She is the daughter of a slave.” Her words had wings, and she felt the fluttering in her chest as she released them, letting them go free. Her silent scream rose up into the dome and dissipated without ever having been uttered, and Ghost began to shake.
“Banruud took her from her mother only days after she was born. And you made him king,” she mourned. It was not an accusation, but an explanation. “You made him king. You made her a princess. And I could not take that away from her.”
“But . . . in my vision . . . I saw . . . her mother’s . . . joy,” Ivo stammered. “Alannah gave birth to a child. I saw it.”
“And I saw . . . her mother’s pain,” Dagmar whispered, understanding dawning. “You are the slave girl, Ghost. You are Alba’s mother.”
“I am Alba’s mother,” she breathed. “I am Alba’s mother.” She wanted to shout so the whole temple mount would quake, but the truth was too precious, too sacred for sound, and when she said the words again—“I am Alba’s mother”—they were hardly more than a whisper.
“Tell me everything,” Ivo demanded, harsh and exacting, and Ghost submitted, spilling the story with the relief of the long damned.
“My masters . . . a farmer and his wife . . . brought the babe to the Chieftain of Berne. They told me it was custom—law—and that they would return with the child and a piece of gold. I waited for hours. I worried. I needed to feed her. I went to the chieftain’s keep and watched them come out. They didn’t have my daughter. They said . . . they said the chieftain wanted to bring her to the Keepers of Saylok to determine whether she was a changeling . . . a monster . . . or a blessing.”
Dagmar blanched and cursed beneath his breath, but Ghost continued, needing to confide, desperate to release what she’d kept secret for so long.
“I watched her—I am called Ghost for my skin and my hair. But I have become one. I have learned how to blend in, to disappear, to be invisible. I waited and I watched. I planned. And then one day, I got my opportunity. But I couldn’t do it. As much as I hated the king for what he’d done, what he’d taken from me. I could not hate the queen, a woman who so obviously loved and cared for my daughter. She held her so gently. She was so patient . . . and kind. And she was able to give her a life . . . that I could never give her.” Ghost raised her eyes to Dagmar and then to the Highest Keeper, pleading for them to understand. “My daughter was a princess. And I was a ghost. I could not take her from the people who loved her so perfectly. There would have been nowhere I could go, no place to take her where I wouldn’t have been hunted down. In this world, in this temple . . . she had a protector.”
“Bayr,” Dagmar whispered.
“Yes. And all of you.”
“That is why you are here. That is why Banruud dreamed of pale wraiths who came to take his child. Today the king . . . has seen his ghost,” Ivo said, sinking back into his chair, his staff clattering to the floor.
“He thought I was dead. He sent men to kill me then. He will send them to kill me again.”
“What have you done?” Ivo moaned, and Ghost’s grief swelled into fury at his condemnation.
“I have watched my daughter grow. I have seen her raised as a Princess of Saylok. She is loved. She is protected. She is safe.” The final words rang false, and Ghost closed her eyes on her fear.
“She isn’t safe, Ghost. You aren’t safe! Banruud saw you, and Alba is about to become Queen of the Northlands,” Dagmar moaned.
“Better Queen of the Northlands than the daughter of a ghost,” she shot back, wounded, and Dagmar touched her hand as though he’d forgotten Ivo observed. But Ivo was already speaking, his voice a weary wail.
“We made Banruud king. We made him king. And the curse upon the clans continues. We have failed the people. Bayr was our salvation. And I knew it. I did not listen to the gods. Now it is too late.”
“You m-made Banruu
d king,” Ghost stammered. “You gave him his power. Can you not . . . take it away?”
“How?” Ivo asked, raising his clawed hands to the heavens. “We are a temple of aging keepers and hunted women. We have no power to remove Banruud. Should we seek to remove him by the sword? We have lost the faith of the people and the support of the chieftains. You heard the crowd today. The keepers have failed them. The Northmen are at our door, the king conspires to sell our daughters, and the temple—even Saylok—hangs in the balance.”
“Surely . . . surely the runes . . .” Ghost pled, desperate against Ivo’s despondence. Dagmar stood silent and grim beside her.
“The runes are only as powerful—and as righteous—as the blood of the men and women who wield them. And we have tried every rune, beseeched every god, and bled into the soil of every clan,” Ivo said. “The keepers have failed. I have failed. And Saylok will fall.”
The feast was raucous and rowdy, the North King taunting the chieftains and refilling his goblet with abandon. Banruud made no effort to subdue him, though he dismissed Alba before the first course was finished. Bayr watched her go, his teeth clenched in helpless fury. He was not alone in his frustration, for when the meal was done and Gudrun lay stretched out in front of the hearth on the black bearskin of the king’s clan, Lothgar rose, Aidan beside him, and demanded an audience with their king.
Banruud, his blade drawn to pick at his teeth, sat back as though he considered refusing the big Chieftain of Leok. When Bayr joined Aidan and Lothgar, and Chief Josef followed, the king sighed and sheathed his knife.
“So be it.”
“Benjie and Elbor should be p-present as well,” Bayr demanded.
“By all means,” Banruud mocked. “It will be your first council, Temple Boy. We welcome you.”
Banruud snapped his fingers and instructed half his guard—a guard mostly made up of the clanless, well paid and wanting in every area except savagery—to accompany him. He bade the other half remain behind with the sleeping North King and his unruly cadre.