The First Girl Child

by Harmon, Amy

  “He will not fight for me. He will not fight for Saylok. He will not even fight for you, Daughter.” His words burned her skin. “So why . . . are you fighting . . . for him?”

  “What have you done?” she whispered.

  “I have done nothing. The dog has gone back to Dolphys. You will be a queen. And you—and I—will never see him again.”

  29

  From two hidden doors in the sanctum wall, two tunnels forked. One led down to the hillside overlooking the Temple Wood, and one snaked beneath the palace and ended in the throne room, where kings of Saylok’s past had reigned with the authority granted them by the keepers. During Banruud’s rule, the passage had been neglected, and in recent years, Ivo had sealed the iron door with an intricate rune. Banruud had not sought their counsel from the beginning, and the keepers had feared for their safety.

  Their fears had proved well founded.

  There was no key to open the door to the throne room. Rune blood was required, and Ghost raised her lamp to press her scored palm into the dust of a decade. The door groaned open with an inward swing, and Ghost moved into the narrow channel, trying not to brush the crawling walls. Dagmar had begged her to leave, to take the daughters and the refugees out onto the hillside, but Ghost had not lived in the shadow of the temple for seventeen years to turn her back on her daughter now. They’d all heard the shouting when she was found.

  “Go to Dolphys. Follow the stream,” Dagmar had insisted. “You will be safe there. I will come for you when the trouble has passed,” he promised. But she’d seen his face in the wood and felt the goodbye in his long-awaited kiss.

  The final day of the tournament and a sudden betrothal demanded a great deal of the palace staff, but the throne room was empty and silent, the banners of the clans and the tapestries of bygone eras muting the clamor in the corridors beyond. Ghost drew a rune to hide herself and closed the wall behind the throne to obscure the secret passageway, praying it would open for her again. Then she slipped out into the hallway.

  The palace was a flurry of frantic activity—guards and gardeners, counselors and cooks, men and maids all tripping around each other to carry out the king’s orders. Ghost was not detained or even glanced at. The guards outside Alba’s chamber stared, puzzled, when Ghost depressed the latch on the door and walked inside, but when they stuck their heads into the room to verify the princess was where she belonged, they closed the door again, having never noticed Ghost at all. Ghost pulled her hood from her hair and rubbed at the rune on her palm, wiping it away.

  Alba stood in front of the window, looking out over the queen’s garden, her golden tresses curled and braided in elaborate swirls and waves. Flowers wreathed her head, and her gown was the pale pink of early-morning skies. Her beauty battered Ghost’s chest, and when Ghost said her name, gentle, beseeching, the word sounded like a prayer.

  Alba turned at her greeting. Her brown eyes were shadowed, and her skin was pale, but her chin carried the stubborn set of a settled mind. She clutched a long black braid in her hands, and Ghost knew Banruud had done his worst.

  “You must come with me, Alba,” Ghost said.

  “And where will we go?” Alba whispered, her lips curving sadly.

  “We will go to Dolphys. You and me, and every woman in the temple. We will all go. We will be safe there. Dagmar has seen it.” Ghost repeated Dagmar’s assertion, though she didn’t believe it herself. She needed to convince Alba; she would worry about everything else later.

  “And will Dolphys be safe if I am there?” Alba asked. “Or will I drag hell to her doorstep?”

  “I fear hell awaits you at Gudrun’s side,” Ghost answered, dread tightening her stomach and emotion welling in her eyes. She had not expected Alba to argue. She should have known better.

  “I cannot leave you,” Ghost pled.

  “And you cannot come with me,” Alba agreed, nodding. “I know. I was foolish—selfish—to ask. You are a keeper.”

  “I am a mother first,” Ghost said, and her tears began to fall, coursing her cheeks. She swiped at her face, impatient. She had a lifetime of pent-up rain and precious little time to weep.

  Alba stepped toward her, not understanding. “You’re a mother?” she asked, her voice raised in soft surprise.

  Ghost fought the urge to lie, to recant, to draw a rune to make the words disappear. But there was no rune to alter the truth and no time to make it more palatable.

  “Your name means ‘sunrise’ . . . Did I ever t-tell you that?” Ghost stammered, not answering directly, needing to help Alba understand.

  “Yes. You did. Once . . . long ago,” Alba murmured, tilting her head to the side. She touched Ghost’s cheek with compassion, wiping her tears away, and Ghost clasped her hand for courage.

  “There was so much pain . . . so much fear . . . and then the sun rose, pink and gold and soft . . . and I held you in my arms. I have never known such joy . . . such perfect, inexpressible joy . . . and I have loved you the very best I could since that day.” Ghost stumbled over the words, stifling her sobs.

  “You held . . . me?” Alba whispered, her hand falling away.

  Ghost covered her mouth with a trembling hand, desperately trying to quiet her grief, but her confession continued to tumble forth.

  “I carried you inside me. I felt you grow. I felt you move. And I watched you come into the world,” Ghost gasped, her throat raw with suppressed emotion.

  “You are my mother?” Alba asked, the words barely audible.

  “I am your mother,” Ghost repeated, each word a plea for mercy.

  Alba’s legs folded as though they’d lost all feeling, leaving her a crumpled pink flower in the middle of the floor. She braced her hands on the floor, her hair a veil around her, and Ghost knelt at her side, afraid to touch her, afraid to say more. For a moment, there was only silence, suspended breath, and disbelief.

  “And Banruud?” Alba asked, her voice strangled and small. “Is Banruud my father?”

  “Banruud took you away from me when you were only days old.”

  “He took me away?” Alba whispered, dumbfounded. “He took me away,” she repeated, more firmly.

  “He said you were his . . . and everyone believed him.”

  “He . . . is . . . the . . . reason . . . you . . . hide.” Alba lifted her stunned gaze.

  “Is he not the reason we all hide?” Ghost murmured, quietly weeping.

  Alba’s face crumpled, and she shook her head as though she couldn’t grasp what she was being told.

  “Banruud is Bayr’s father, Alba. Not yours. He has no right to give you to the North King. He has no claim to you at all,” Ghost said. Time was growing short. Dagmar would be frantic.

  “Bayr’s father?” Alba gasped, horrified. “He is Bayr’s father?”

  Ghost could only nod in commiseration. “Banruud told him. He told Bayr you were his sister . . . and Bayr severed his braid.”

  “Oh, Bayr. Oh, my sweet Bayr,” Alba moaned, pressing Bayr’s braid to her lips, talking to Bayr as though he could hear. “What has he done to you? Where have you gone?”

  “We will find him together. But you must come with me now, Alba. You must come with me to Dolphys,” Ghost begged, rising to her feet and tugging on Alba’s arm.

  Alba seemed too shocked to think for herself, and she rose woodenly, letting Ghost settle her cloak on her shoulders and draw a rune upon her palm. Ghost had no plan but to flee, but hiding the princess was a start.

  “No,” Alba said suddenly, pulling her hand away. “No.” She shook her head, fierce. Adamant.

  “We have to go, Alba. There is no time,” Ghost pled. “They will be coming for you.”

  “I can’t. Don’t you see? If I go, people will die. I have a duty to stay.”

  “You are not the Princess of Saylok,” Ghost argued, aghast. “You are my daughter, and I cannot leave you behind.”

  For a heartbeat, Alba wilted, her chin falling to her chest, but when Ghost sought to take her hand o
nce more, she resisted.

  “Alba . . . please,” Ghost urged, but Alba slowly shook her head again.

  “It was not my father who made me Alba of Saylok. It was you. It was the keepers. Bayr told me I was blessed on the altar of the temple, and a star was painted in blood on my brow.”

  “Oh, daughter,” Ghost wept. “I can’t save you. Not this time. You have to save yourself.”

  “Bayr never tried to save himself,” Alba said, adamant. “Not even once. I will not start a war others have to fight.”

  No warriors from Dolphys took the field for the melee. The clans met in the wide castle yard lined with flags of every color. Adyar, Berne, Ebba, Joran, and Leok assembled their strongest men, grim-faced and with teeth gritted, the tension between warriors indicative of the broader plight of Saylok. They squared off in strategic huddles, their chieftains standing at the edge of the field, the king and his guests from the north filling the seats on a makeshift dais. Alba sat beside the North King, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. Her back ached and her head pounded, but she had no hope for rest or relief. She breathed, in and out, and did her best to empty her head. If she did not think, she would not feel.

  “I see only five clans. Where are the warriors from Dolphys?” King Gudrun asked, his tone suspicious. “Why are they not here?”

  “The Dolphynian wolves have gone home with their tails between their legs,” King Banruud said. “There will only be five clans in the melee this year.”

  Gudrun grunted and eyed his men. He seemed pleased by the news.

  “Would you like to participate?” Banruud asked the North King, his brow lifted in challenge.

  Gudrun spit and looked at Alba. “I will save my strength for better things.”

  The horns sounded and Banruud lifted his hand, indicating the melee should proceed. The field became a swarm of stampeding men, hurling each other to the ground as the crowd roared and the Northmen watched silently.

  The warriors from Dolphys weren’t the only ones not in attendance. The Daughters of Freya and the keepers of the temple did not make their customary lines behind the king and the chieftains. They were being kept away. The king’s guard ringed the temple; the people assumed it was to protect them from the Northmen. Alba knew better. Ghost had told her Ivo was dead. Banruud had killed him. Hopefully Ghost and the Daughters were at this very moment headed toward Dolphys. They didn’t need to leave the temple by its doors to leave the mount. But mayhaps they would wait for darkness.

  Mayhaps they would wait for her.

  Alba bowed her head, willing her weakness away.

  The crowd screamed, and the Chieftain of Berne stood and pounded his chest. A moment later it was Lothgar who thundered. Alba raised her head. Lothgar’s son stood over the flattened figure of an Ebban warrior, his hands clenched and his mouth gaping on his roar. With fewer men on the field, the melee didn’t last as long as usual, and when an Adyar contender was bested by a man from Joran, only to be tossed to the ground himself, the Clan of the Lion found themselves the victors.

  Barrels of the king’s wine were rolled out in royal congratulations, and the warriors raised the cups in a show of goodwill and gracious loss. The drinking always began early on the last day of the tournament, especially when one celebration spilled directly into another.

  Alba was escorted into the great hall on the arm of King Banruud. The final feast of the tournament had been transformed into a marriage celebration fit for a false princess. The late queen’s garden had been stripped of every last bloom to decorate the tables and adorn the room.

  “To King Gudrun and Princess Alba,” Banruud cried, lifting his glass. Alba lifted her own, but she did not drink. She was afraid if she began, her will would weaken. Gudrun drained his goblet, but when his glass was refilled he abstained.

  “To the late queen,” Aidan of Adyar added, making a toast of his own. “Alannah is here in spirit, if not in body. Your mother would be proud, Alba,” he said, meeting her gaze. She looked away. Ghost was her mother. Ghost, who promised to find her, who swore that when the danger was past, she would travel to the Northlands and never leave her side. But Alba feared the danger would not pass.

  Aidan had always been her champion, and she had always called him uncle. But he was not her uncle, and he was not her champion. Not now. He had not stood against the Northmen, he had not stood against her father, and he had not stood up for her.

  Round after round of spirits and spiced ale, roasted pig and duck, and platters of lamb and tender veal were passed down the long tables. Baskets of bread of every kind, stuffed with fruit or cheese or dipped in butter and sugar and spice followed. The chieftains and their warriors ate and drank with the gusto oft displayed toward good food after competition. The feast after the melee had always been Alba’s favorite part of the Tournament of the King, with the endless food, countless flowers, and more excitement than her life typically provided, but tonight her stomach would not settle and her throat refused to swallow.

  When Banruud stood and announced that the wedding processional would begin, the room was stuffed and slightly drunk, making it a jovial wedding party that left the hall and crossed the courtyard to the temple steps. The king’s guard had stepped back to make themselves more discreet, and the massive temple doors were pushed wide and welcoming as though a joyful event were about to take place. Inside, the keepers were robed and silent behind Dagmar, who stood behind the altar in the black robes of the Highest Keeper. Confusion trickled through the clansmen as they whispered and wondered about the whereabouts of Master Ivo, but Banruud kept the processional moving forward, his men lining the aisle and manning the doors.

  The daughters sat on the front row, across from the altar, but if Ghost was present she remained hidden. King Gudrun leered at them, but he seemed more fascinated by the sanctum itself, and his eyes lingered on the tangled runes carved into the altar—lines and blots and intersecting shapes that had no meaning to anyone but the keepers who had passed the knowledge down, keeper to keeper, through the ages. The runes were intertwined to obscure their true form and function, and Alba had grown dizzy trying to unravel them in years past. There were such runes, camouflaged and cloaked, in every corner of the temple. To bleed on the walls would be to unleash hell on the world.

  The ceremony was a ruse, designed to appease the people; the princess could not be sent to the Northlands without becoming a bride. There would be vows, but vows were meaningless without belief, without intention, and Gudrun was not a son of Saylok. The service meant nothing to him.

  Gudrun would not kneel at the altar. Nor would he allow the keepers to touch him. His men stood around him, their swords drawn and their eyes jumping. The bones in their braids clicked with every swivel of their heads.

  Dagmar did not draw the star of Saylok on their brows as was customary in the rituals of the clans. He intoned the tale of Odin and his sons, of Father Saylok and his animal children. When he asked Gudrun to take Alba’s hand, Gudrun took her arm instead.

  “Be done with it, Priest,” Gudrun hissed.

  Dagmar pronounced them man and wife, tracing the star above their heads, his voice gentle, his expression bleak.

  Alba of Saylok became Queen of the Northlands, and Gudrun dragged her toward the temple doors. The bells began to toll, a deafening clangor that rattled her teeth and reminded her of the day Queen Alannah died. But there was no keeper song to mourn the passing, and no Bayr to shield her eyes or shoulder her cries.

  Bayr stood in the sanctum among the keepers and the king’s guard, his vision cloudy and his arms weak. He was not himself. His body was frail and small, the bones of his hands brittle like a bird’s, the skin on his arms like parchment beneath the sharp tip of his nail. Mayhaps he dreamed or mayhaps he had died; but neither felt true.

  “Where is she, Ivo?” Banruud hissed, bearing down on him, and Bayr lifted his chin to meet the king’s gaze. Odd, to be so short when he was accustomed to being so tall. King Ban
ruud sounded hollow, like he spoke from inside a tomb.

  “Where is who, Majesty?” Ivo’s voice rattled from Bayr’s chest and whispered past his lips.

  “Where is my daughter?” Banruud asked. His image undulated as though Bayr gazed on him through a pool of water.

  “You don’t have a daughter, Majesty. Only a son . . . and you’ve sent him away,” Ivo replied, and Banruud spun away, his countenance black, shouting orders and searching for Alba.

  Alba. Where was Alba? Bayr turned Ivo’s head and found the huddled daughters of the clans, their hair streaming and their feet bare. Ghost was not among them. Dagmar was absent as well. Bayr felt Ivo’s relief swell in his own chest. But where was Alba? Where had she gone?

  You don’t have a daughter. Only a son.

  “Where is she?” Banruud was back in front of Ivo, his face flushed, his eyes gleaming.

  “Who, King Banruud? Who is it you seek?” Ivo answered, his voice gentle inside Bayr’s head.

  “The white woman. The wraith. Where is she?”

  “Ah. The ghost. You have sought her for some time. Mayhaps she has taken your daughter. Or . . . mayhaps . . . you . . . have taken . . . hers.”

  Pain skewered Bayr’s belly, hot and cold, sharp and dull, and Ivo fell to the stones of the sanctum, his runes unfinished, his breath burning in his chest.

  “Bayr,” Ivo warned. “There is no daughter without the son, no son without the daughter.”

  Bayr opened his eyes, and Ivo melded into changing leaves and gnarled branches. The dome dissolved into a drawn and quartered sky, peering through the boughs. The sanctum stones softened to earth and grass, and Ivo’s pain became the anguish of waking and the agony of remembering.

  The stream gurgled beside him, and the night chirruped and hummed. He’d fallen asleep with his face in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and his back against a tree, miles deep in the Temple Wood.