Eleven tunnels crisscrossed the mount. Tunnels from the temple to the castle, from the sanctum to the throne room, from garden to garden, and from the cellar to the hillside. Bayr had shown her all of them.
But now Bayr was gone. The occupants of the temple were reeling. Dagmar had shut himself in the sanctum, and Ghost had disappeared after supper, though Ghisla thought she was probably with Alba, who had been inconsolable since saying goodbye to the boy who had guarded her since birth.
Poor Alba.
What would they all do without him? Elayne’s question had echoed continually. Ghisla would have to face the king alone. She would have to sing for him without Bayr nearby. The thought made her innards twist in terror. She’d sung for the king a handful of times, and had managed, after the first time, to keep her distance and not touch him at all.
And yet . . . Ghisla rejoiced that Bayr had been saved. That he’d been protected at last. He would be in Dolphys, away from the king. He would be safe—as safe as a warrior of Saylok could be—and he would be free. Free. Dolphys would make him their chieftain—she had no doubt—and all of Saylok would be better off for it. The chieftains were the only ones who could truly challenge Banruud, and someone would have to challenge him eventually.
Ghisla pricked her finger and had just begun her song to summon Hod when two figures appeared below her, emerging from the side of the hill as if they too had made use of the network of tunnels from the temple.
Ghisla ceased her song, slinking down into the grass, her palm bleeding, her heart galloping. With the tournament ended, Temple Hill had emptied of her visitors, but Ghisla knew better than to believe she was safe. She peered out over the ledge in front of her, trying to gauge the danger of discovery.
It was Dagmar and Ghost, hand in hand.
Hand in hand.
When they stopped, directly below her, and collapsed onto the grass, she moaned in apprehension and discomfort. She did not want to witness a tryst or eavesdrop on a highly personal conversation, but she was well and truly stuck.
It was them, no doubt. Ghost’s pale skin glowed like the moon, and Dagmar was speaking, his voice strangled as though he fought tears.
“Twenty years ago, when I was the same age as Bayr is now, I left Dolphys for the temple,” Dagmar choked out. “I was so confident. So sure. I knew where I belonged. Now I know nothing. I am powerless. Unsure. And my heart is, at this moment, traveling back to Dolphys.”
He paused, and Ghisla realized she was not witnessing an illicit tryst but a confessional.
“Bayr is the king’s son, Ghost. He is Banruud’s son,” he said, and his tears began to fall.
Ghost swayed, as if in shock, and Dagmar pulled her down to the grass, enfolding her in his arms as though he was desperate not to lose her too.
He would not lose Ghost. Ghisla knew that much. Ghost loved him, she worshipped the ground he walked on, and Ghost had her own secrets. She would not leave him.
“Oh, Dagmar,” Ghost gasped, holding him, stroking his shorn head.
“Bayr does not know,” Dagmar wept, the sound so raw and wounded that Ghisla wept with him, pressing her hands to her lips so she would not reveal herself.
“And the king?” Ghost asked. “Does he know?”
“My father claimed him as Desdemona’s son. The king is not a fool. I think he has suspected all along,” Dagmar moaned.
“You must tell me everything from the beginning,” Ghost begged, and after a brief hesitation, he relented.
Ghisla thought about covering her ears. She should shield herself from his burden. But she didn’t. She listened as his words spilled out, giving her more secrets to carry, more sorrow to shoulder.
“When my sister died . . . she drew two blood runes,” Dagmar explained. “Runes she should not have known. One of them required her life in exchange. But she was already dying. And she was angry, bitter. She cursed all the men of Saylok. She said there would be no girl children, no women for such men to love. She cursed Banruud by name.”
“How?” Ghost gasped. Ghisla bit back a moan, and the rune on her hand burned. Hod was waiting. She could feel him as though he stood on the other side of a wall, but she could not call out to him.
“She said Bayr would be his only child,” Dagmar continued. “In the second rune, she said Bayr would be powerful, so powerful that he would save Saylok, yet his father would reject him.”
“His only child?” Ghost repeated numbly, and Ghisla knew what she didn’t say: Alba was not the king’s child, and Ghost knew it.
“The runes are not all-powerful. Clearly,” Dagmar answered. “Banruud has another child. A daughter. He has Alba. Yet . . . the curse continues. The power of my sister’s blood rune persists. I don’t know how to break it, or if it can be broken.”
“Have you told Ivo . . . of the runes?” Ghost asked, her shock evident.
“No,” Dagmar breathed. “I can’t.”
“You must. He will know what to do.”
“I can’t,” Dagmar insisted again, and Ghost said nothing, her hand still stroking his head.
Dagmar straightened, releasing her so he could look down into her face, and his agony was on full display to Ghisla. To move would expose her to view, so she lay, helplessly listening, painfully witnessing all.
“If Ivo knows, he will be forced to act,” Dagmar said, his voice harsh with the truth. “As Highest Keeper he will do—he must do—whatever is necessary to destroy the power of Desdemona’s rune.” Dagmar paused briefly and then choked out, “I cannot take that risk.”
“But . . . is that not . . . what you want?” Ghost asked.
“What if Bayr is the only one who can break the curse?” Dagmar cried.
“I don’t understand,” Ghost said. “What are you telling me?”
Dagmar began to weep again, his sobs the scrape of metal on metal. It was the worst sound Ghisla had ever heard, and she buried her face in her arms, but she had to know. What curse?
“What do you mean, Dagmar?” Ghost asked.
“Bayr’s birth marked the beginning of the drought.” Dagmar spoke as though he impaled himself on each word. “What if his death marks the end?”
Ghisla did not rise and go back to the temple through the long, dark tunnel when Dagmar and Ghost left. She was too depleted. Too frightened. And too numb.
She needed Hod. She had to tell someone. The blood on her hand was dry and her throat even drier. She jabbed at her finger and watched the droplet form and trickle down her finger and pool at its base. She smeared the blood through the lines of the rune, trying to sing. It was no more than a whisper, but Hod was there, waiting, as she finished the simple verse. And she told him everything. She told him about Dred taking Bayr to Dolphys. She told him about Ghost’s silence, Dagmar’s secrets, and Ivo’s ignorance. And she told him Dagmar’s dilemma.
“Dagmar has not told Ivo about the runes. He is afraid if Ivo knows, he will be forced to act. He is afraid the end of the scourge will only come with Bayr’s death.”
“He’s afraid the Highest Keeper will try to kill Bayr if he knows about the runes?” Hod asked.
“Would you? Would Arwin? If you thought it would end the drought?”
He was silent for a moment, considering. He did not answer directly.