“It is better not to remember,” Liis said tremulously, drawing the eyes of her sisters. She turned away, folding her dress inside the chest at the foot of her bed.
“I do not look like a Daughter of Freya,” Bashti cried, and Liis relaxed. She hadn’t meant to interrupt.
“The keepers all attempt to look alike,” Elayne said. “But I think . . . it makes them . . . disappear.”
“Disappear?” Juliah scoffed. “I sometimes wish Keeper Amos would disappear. He drones on and on and never ceases.”
“The keepers want to disappear as individuals,” Elayne explained. “They want to blend into each other. To present oneness. But I like that I am different. That we are different. None of us are the same. Not me, or you, or Juliah, or Dalys, or Liis. I do not want to disappear. Do you?”
Bashti shook her head. “No. I want everyone to look at me.” They all laughed because it was true. Bashti wanted to be the very center of attention, all the time. The only one who got more attention was Alba, though she was happy to share.
“I do not know why Ghost hides,” Elayne said. “But you should never hide. If people stare, it is because you are special. You are Bashti, the performer. Bashti, the dancer, and Bashti the jester. You are a daughter of the temple, and there is only one of you. You are rare and wonderful.”
“Rare and wonderful?” Bashti said, her pout giving way to a grin.
“Yes. And beautiful, though rare is far better than beautiful. Rare is never ugly,” Elayne said, smiling too. “Now, please . . . can we go to sleep?”
Elayne doused the light and they all crawled into bed, and for once the dark silence was not a relief. It felt more like . . . disappearing.
“Will you sing to us, Liis?” Dalys asked sweetly. “When you sing, I see the colors.”
When Liis did not answer immediately, Juliah grumbled.
“Liis does not want to be rare and wonderful. She wants to be invisible. She wants us to be invisible too.”
I don’t want you to be invisible. I just don’t want to see more than you want me to see, she thought, but as usual, she said nothing. She’d found most thoughts were not usually kind. Not because people were unkind, necessarily, but because feelings were unguarded and . . . true. At least, they were true in the moment they were felt. She didn’t want to dislike her sisters. And she didn’t want to hear their dislike for her.
“You are being unfair, Juliah,” Elayne murmured, always the peacemaker.
“I am being honest,” Juliah retorted.
Bashti grunted her agreement and Dalys sighed in gusty disappointment.
“All right . . . I will sing you a lullaby,” Ghisla relented. She was safe from their thoughts underneath her covers, the soul rune tucked beneath her chin.
“I want ten lullabies,” Dalys pled, but her voice had already grown sleepy.
“I will sing until you are asleep,” Ghisla bargained, and five rare and wonderful girls drifted off to places unknown as the room reverberated with Songr lullabies.
“Liis . . . Liis, wake up.”
For a moment she was still lost in the lullaby, in soft breezes and long grass, and her mother was there. But Ghost was not her mother, and the soft sounds of the girls sleeping around her were not Gilly and Abner.
“Bayr is here. The king sent him to get you. Pull on your keeper’s robe and your shoes.”
“Why?” Ghisla said, suddenly wide awake, but Ghost laid a finger across her lips.
“Shh, do not wake the others.”
Liis slid from beneath her covers and pulled her purple keeper’s robe around her shoulders and shoved her feet into her leather slippers.
“Bayr will go with you. Don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you with Bayr near.”
“What does the king want?” she asked, following Ghost from the room. No one else even stirred.
For a moment Ghost didn’t answer, and her silence only increased Ghisla’s fear. As if she felt her terror, Ghost reached out and took her hand.
“He wants you to sing to him,” Ghost said as they descended the east staircase to the huge entrance below. Bayr was waiting for them.
Ghisla had sung for the king and the chieftains at the council many times before. Usually just worship songs and a simple song of Saylok that Dagmar had taught the daughters.
Take my eyes and give me wisdom.
Take my heart and give him strength.
I will fight beside my brothers.
I will battle with my men.
We will fight to see the day
When the daughters live again.
The song was meaningless to her. Silly. She’d meant not a word. But the chieftains and their warriors always banged their feet against the floor and lifted their swords in appreciation and patriotic fervor, and Ghisla and the daughters were then escorted back across the square, appearances made, their duty done.
But this was different. It was late and the other daughters would not be with her. And there were no chieftains on the hill.
“The k-k-king i-ins-sists,” Bayr stuttered in explanation, his eyes weary. His braid was rumpled and his face creased, like he too had been pulled from sleep to do the king’s bidding, but he had not awakened any of the keepers. Only Ghost. Or mayhaps she had not yet been to bed.
“If we tell Dagmar or the Highest Keeper, they, of course, will refuse to send you,” Ghost explained, her eyes pleading forgiveness. “And there will be . . . bloodshed. Bayr says the king has not slept in days, and he is . . . desperate.”
“The k-king is ill. B-bet-ter to s-sing than . . . f-f-fight. But I w-will s-stay with y-you,” Bayr promised.
“But what can I do?” She still did not understand.
“He does not trust the keepers to administer the runes, though Ivo could ease his suffering,” Ghost explained. “Bayr says your voice soothes him.”
“I w-will n-not leave y-you,” Bayr promised again. He extended his hand, waiting for her consent. She took it, but instead of leading her through the temple doors, he entered the sanctum and pushed against the wall behind the altar. The wall rattled slightly, the scrape of stone brushing stone, and an opening appeared. Bayr entered without hesitation, though the darkness was absolute.
“There are t-tunnels all over the m-mount,” he stammered. And he left it at that.
The distance felt interminable, though in truth it probably took mere minutes. When Bayr stopped and thumped the stone, the rock rumbled and an opening emerged before them, depositing them in the throne room of the king.
He was pacing and groaning, his advisors and a few of his men standing by, nervous and perspiring. The one named Bilge eyed Ghisla’s bare ankles and her messy hair and smirked as though he liked what he saw.
Bayr tried to announce her presence, but King Banruud cut him off, impatient.
“Go,” he roared, waving at the room. His advisors were eager to be gone, and Bilge swiped a bottle from the table and slinked for the door, shooting another look at Ghisla and her silent escort. Bayr did not leave.
“I w-will s-stay,” Bayr said, firm, though his stuttering tongue made him sound unsure.
“You will go.”
Bayr did not even flinch.
Banruud strode toward him—toward them—and swung at the boy. The air whooshed over Ghisla’s head and Bayr grunted, absorbing the backhand to his cheek, but he did not move. The king tensed to strike him again.