by Harmon, Amy
“We couldn’t do it,” Juliah said when Ghost reached her side. “We couldn’t leave. We watched from the wood, and we heard the screams.”
“We felt the earth quake and saw the dome of the temple fall,” Liis added, her face grim.
“We waited all night. We didn’t know what to do,” Elayne said. “And then we saw you on the hillside and knew it was safe.”
“Is it . . . safe?” Dalys asked, hesitant.
Ghost could not hold back her tears, and Alba clutched the girls to her, unable to speak. It was not safe; it never had been. It never would be, and the world was forever altered. But mayhaps they could make it better.
“Dagmar is gone. The keepers too,” Ghost choked out, but she could only shake her head when the daughters peppered her with anguished questions and sought further explanation. There would be time for that when she was not so worn and the loss not so fresh.
“Come,” Alba interjected. She turned back toward the eastern gate and began to climb. The group of girls and women followed, their steps slow and heavy, their thoughts unbearably loud.
“Where will we live?” a child asked from amid the tired group, voicing the fears of many. “The temple is gone.”
“You will stay in the palace,” Alba said, her shoulders set, eyes steady. “There is room enough for all of you. And we will take each day as it comes.”
“And Bayr?” Juliah asked softly, fearfully. “What of Bayr?”
“He is here,” Alba said, and Juliah’s obvious relief rippled among the women, hope quickening the last leg of their climb. When they arrived within the walls, the destruction had them clinging to one another and weeping in disbelief.
As they walked through the courtyard, the chieftains gaped and the warriors clutched their braids. Aidan rushed forward, oblivious to everyone but Elayne, and pulled her into his arms, his composure destroyed.
“I thought you were gone,” Aidan gasped. “I thought you were in the temple.”
Bayr’s face was lined with gratitude and grief, and he greeted the daughters one by one, clasping their hands and expressing his thanks. His gaze settled on Alba, and devastation rippled over his face before he bit it back. Ghost recoiled, realization dawning. He didn’t know. Bayr didn’t know.
“Bayr,” Ghost said, her hand extended, desperate to explain, but he’d already turned away. And then he stilled, his broad back obscuring her view.
Dred cursed beside him, his voice trembling with loathing, and the men around him echoed his sentiments. Alba was carved in stone, and the women drew together. Ghost shifted, stepping around Bayr to see what had so upset the crowd.
King Banruud descended the palace steps, his clothes slightly rumpled but his shoulders back. He had taken refuge, clearly, but not inside the temple. He still wore his cloak and his crown, and he clutched the hilt of his sword. A handful of his clanless guard, all able-bodied and weapon-wielding, made a sloppy perimeter around him, their eyes skittering to the unclaimed dead and the ruin of the temple. The Chieftain of Ebba followed a few steps behind them, weaving as he went. He looked as though he’d barricaded himself in the cellar with a cask of the royal wine.
No one spoke as the king approached, but every chieftain turned to face him, their tattered clansmen—most still wearing the gore and grime of battle—falling in behind them. Alba stepped forward as well, her eyes grim and her chin lifted, claiming her place among the chieftains. After all, Banruud had made her a queen.
Ghost drew Benjie’s dagger from the bodice of her borrowed gown.
“We’ve defeated the Northmen. Praise Odin. Praise Thor. Praise Father Saylok,” the king boomed, unsheathing his sword and nodding at the chieftains as though he’d fought beside them. Banruud’s retinue shook their swords at the autumn sky, shouting in celebration.
“Praise the Dolphys. Praise the keepers. Praise the clans,” Dred shouted, his own sword lifted and his voice raised above the king’s guard. Then he spit at Banruud’s boots and wiped his chin.
“You were told to leave, Dred of Dolphys, under threat of death, as was your chieftain,” Banruud said. His tone was mild, as though Dred caused him no real concern, but his eyes were on Bayr. He leveled his blade, and Bayr studied him with emotionless eyes. Alba reached out and clasped his hand, indicating where her loyalties lay.
“You severed your braid, Temple Boy. You’re a traitor to your king, and yet you stand on my mount, eyeing my daughter and my crown.”
“She is not your daughter,” Ghost said, stepping forward. Banruud’s face paled, and Ghost felt Bayr stiffen behind her. “And that is not your crown.”
“The keepers made me king,” Banruud hissed, his hand tightening on his sword. Ghost thought for a moment he would try to strike her down. She willed him to do it.
“You lied to the keepers. You lied to the clans. You lied to your son, and you lied to my daughter. We will take your crown, and we will choose a new king,” she said, demanding he hear her. Demanding he see her.
“The keepers are gone,” he sneered. “And you are a slave.”
“The keepers are not gone,” Juliah called, pushing her way through the crowd. Elayne, Bashti, Dalys, and Liis were right behind her, their purple robes attesting to Juliah’s claim. “You made us supplicants. Master Ivo made us keepers. And you are no longer King of Saylok.”
Banruud’s face flushed, and his gaze jumped to the chieftains, as if gauging their support. Aidan of Adyar gripped his braid and sawed his knife across it. He tossed the thick blond plait at Banruud’s feet. Logan of Leok and Josef of Joran did the same, their mouths twisted in disdain. One by one, every warrior cut his braid, throwing them down and severing their allegiance to the king. Elbor began to stumble back, and Banruud’s men dropped their swords in surrender, unwilling to stand against the clans.
Banruud lunged toward Ghost and grabbed her, using her as a shield as he thrust his sword at Bayr’s chest, knowing—as he’d always known—that it was Bayr who would replace him, Bayr who would take his power, and Bayr who would wear his crown. But it was Ghost who took his life.
And mayhaps he’d known that too.
She sank her blade into his belly as he held her to his chest, and she heard his sword clatter on the uneven stones. She ground her teeth and turned the blade, burying it deep, and Banruud toppled, staring up at her in odd resignation. She was the wraith who had haunted his dreams. She was the phantom he never forgot. And he was the man who had stolen her child. Yet he did not truly know her.
“Who are you?” he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.
“I am Desdemona. I am Alannah. I am Ivo, and I am Bayr. I am the daughters of the clans, and the keepers of the temple. I am Alba’s mother, and Dagmar’s friend.” Her voice broke on Dagmar’s name, but she pressed on. “I am everyone you have wronged. And I am Ghost, the new Highest Keeper.”
EPILOGUE
Bayr left the temple mount when his crown became too heavy. He never stayed away from the palace for long, and he always returned, restored by the solitude and the sense that Dagmar still walked in the Temple Wood. Sometimes Alba came with him. Sometimes they escaped to the falls and shed their clothes beneath the spray, their mouths silent as their bodies spoke. He loved his wife with an intensity that dulled the ache of Dagmar’s death and soothed the strain of Saylok’s expectations.
Alba was not with him today. Their child grew inside her, swelling her stomach and slowing her steps. She wanted a daughter—there had been many born to the clans in the first year of his reign—but Bayr wanted nothing more than a life by her side. He prayed only for the safe delivery of their child, daughter or son, and the health of its mother.
The scourge had ended, and the people of Saylok called him King and Savior, but Bayr knew he was naught but the Temple Boy, simple-minded and slow to speak. He no longer stuttered and stumbled through his words—Dagmar’s rune had healed the land and untangled his tongue—but Bayr found he still had little to say. He listened and he labored, and when th
e day was done, he slept beside a woman who was far more adept at ruling a kingdom than he would ever be. He could not have endured it without her. There was no Bayr without Alba.
It had been a while since he’d visited Desdemona’s tree. The whorls of grass and blackened earth had become part of the undergrowth, unlined and indistinguishable beside the stone that marked his mother’s resting place. There was a stone for Dagmar too, and Bayr knelt to press his forehead against it, the length of his growing braid falling over his cheek. There was much to do, but he made himself be still. He’d not been idle since becoming king.
He had fortified the borders and defended the clans. He’d gathered a hundred men and razed the invaders on Ebba’s shores, the new chieftain, Elijah, at his side; the same was done in Berne, though the Northmen had already fled, their numbers greatly reduced.
Dakin was chosen to lead the Clan of the Wolf, but Dred remained on the mount, committing himself to the service of his king. But he still called Bayr Chief. Bayr made him captain of the king’s guard and defender of the mount. He could think of no one more qualified to train a new generation of warriors.
Unlike the palace, crowded and chaotic, the forest around him was blessedly hushed. Bayr breathed in the loamy air and curled his hands in the earth, the cold press of Dagmar’s stone clearing his head. For many months the castle had been flooded with the injured and the indigent, but little by little, the wounded had gone home, and the King’s Village had absorbed the others as new families were formed and cottages erected.
They’d begun to rebuild the temple too, re-forming the walls and shoring up the foundation. The altar stone had been moved to the palace and placed beside the throne, a reminder of the balance of power and the role of the king. Ghost had supervised the removal of every stone, careful to guard what should be hidden, eager to restore what had been lost. She had made herself Highest Keeper, and no one disagreed.
It was Ghost who had placed the crown on his head and the daughters who had named him king. They had all remained on the mount, but Bayr knew that the time would come when every one of them—Juliah, Elayne, Bashti, Liis, and Dalys—would have to choose her own path. They were afraid, and they did not want to leave—Bayr knew exactly how they felt—but they were not all keepers. The thought brought Dagmar’s long-ago words rising in his memory.
“You must promise me that when the time comes, when you are grown, even if you do not want to be king, even if you are afraid, you will do what must be done.”
“I have kept my promise, Uncle,” Bayr murmured. “I have kept my promise, and I’m doing the best I can.”
A branch cracked, and Bayr raised his head, abandoning his meditation. A wolf, his coat as black as Bayr’s braid, stood several paces away, his blue gaze riveted on the kneeling king. Bayr had seen the wolf before, though it had never come this close. It didn’t seem to have a pack, and it always kept its distance.
Bayr rose slowly, his knees numb and his palms tingling. The blood that had pooled in his forehead as he prayed rushed away, leaving him dizzy and his vision impaired. The wolf made no move to depart or approach, and after a steadying moment, Bayr turned to go. The wolf followed. Bayr halted and looked back, and the wolf stopped too. Bayr waited, gazing at the animal, who stared back at him. When he resumed walking, the wolf kept pace. It followed him through the Temple Wood, all the way to the base of the hill. When Bayr began climbing the eastern slope, the wolf watched for several seconds before bounding away, and Dagmar’s voice rang in Bayr’s mind once more.
“I am yours, Bayr. Always. My heart is yours. My spirit is yours, and even when I’m dead, I will refuse Valhalla, and I will follow at your heels, watching over you.”
Bayr began to laugh, the sound echoing over the hillside. He threw back his head, and his laughter became a mournful howl, a salute to his clan and a call to the blue-eyed wolf. He was not the only one who had kept his promise.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
According to Norse mythology, Odin, the Allfather, had countless sons. Many were named and many were not; some, like Thor, are famed, and some are completely unknown. However, the god Saylok, son of Odin, as written about in The First Girl Child, is a figment of my imagination. I created him in the image of the gods of the time, gave him a story, and sent Loki, a well-known trickster in Norse mythology, to beset him. I thought about using one of the known sons of Odin as the father of my fictional land but liked the freedom that crafting a god of my own provided. If you haven’t read Norse mythology, there is a wealth of adventure waiting for you there. May the Norns beneath Yggdrasil guide you in your journey.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book pushed me more than any of the thirteen books that came before it, and it would not have happened without my husband, Travis, who was a constant source of support when I didn’t know how I was going to continue on. It also would not have happened without my agent, Jane Dystel—I even named a Dolphynian warrior after her—who makes me feel like I’m a big deal even though I’m just little old me.
Big thanks to my dear friend and assistant, Tamara Debbaut, and the rest of my team of editors and beta readers—Karey White, Amy Schmutz, Nicole Karlson, Stephanie Hockersmith, and Sue Adams—for reading and critiquing and helping me to make this story better than I could have on my own.
My gratitude to the team at 47North and Amazon Publishing for believing in me and making this adventure possible—Adrienne Procaccini and Jenna Free, in particular.
Finally, to my dad, who taught me early on what a good man was—Dagmar and Bayr are modeled after you. I hope there are many more stories set in Saylok.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Harmon is a Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and New York Times bestselling author. Her books have been published in eighteen languages—truly a dream come true for a little country girl from Utah. Amy has written fourteen novels, including the USA Today bestsellers Making Faces and Running Barefoot and the Amazon #1 bestseller From Sand and Ash. She is also the author of What the Wind Knows; the New York Times bestseller A Different Blue; and The Bird and the Sword, a Goodreads Best Book of 2016 nominee. For more information, visit Amy at www.authoramyharmon.com.