Dagmar walked the halls of the temple in a grief-stricken daze. One evening, she offered to sing to him, to sing to all of them, eager to comfort but also desperate for the direction she might get from seeing their thoughts. She ended up holding Dagmar’s hands, singing senselessly while he showed her his memories. She saw a tiny babe, bloodied and newly born, clutched to Dagmar’s chest, the babe’s dead mother lying on the forest floor. The babe became a toddler who scaled walls and hoisted rocks bigger than he was. The toddler became a boy not much older than Alba who tackled a bear in the wood and stuttered a tearful promise that he would “always p-protect you, Uncle.” Then the boy became Bayr, surrounded by warriors from Dolphys, who had not looked back as he was sent away.
Ghisla had ripped her hands away and fled the room when her song was done, leaving Dagmar to his terrible pain and her sisters and Ghost to wonder if she was as unfeeling as she seemed. Dagmar’s images brought her back to where she’d started from, convinced someone had to protect Bayr, even if it meant the drought in Saylok continued. Bayr had protected everyone else . . . and she must protect him.
The king left the mount not long after Bayr was taken to Dolphys. The borders of Ebba and Joran were overrun by Hounds from the Hinterlands, and warriors from every clan joined in the battle to beat them back. When Banruud returned months later, snow was on the ground and ice hung from the temple eaves. Ivo had blocked the tunnel from the sanctum to the throne room. He did not want the king’s guard, which had grown continuously less circumspect in their dealings with the temple and the keepers, to be able to enter the sanctum at will. That didn’t stop the king or his men from entering the temple.
The night Banruud returned, he sent a guard named Bilge to retrieve Ghisla. She awoke with fetid breath in her face and a hand over her mouth, and she was thrown headlong into the nightmare she’d experienced in the cellar.
“The king is asking for you,” he whispered. He pulled her from her bed and told her to walk. The fact that he knew exactly where to find her was almost as alarming as being found.
The other girls were motionless shapes around her, but Ghisla saw Ghost peering out from beneath her covers, as if she feared Bilge would see her. Ghisla felt a flash of outrage that she would not intervene but tamped it down as she left the room. Ghost was hiding from the king, that much was clear, and Bilge was the king’s man.
Ghisla just hoped she would fetch Dagmar or Master Ivo when she was gone.
“The temple mutt is gone, isn’t he? No matter. I’ll watch out for you, girl,” Bilge said, patting her bottom like she was a mare. She lashed out at him instantly.
“Don’t touch me. Keep your distance.”
“Spirited, aren’t you? Not demure and sweet at all. I didn’t think so. Too much fire in those eyes.” He tried again, brazenly palming her breasts, and she let out a shriek that made her own hair rise.
He slapped her.
“Stop that. Shut up!” he sneered. “Now your nose is bleeding. The king won’t like that.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Bilge!” the king grunted from where he lay, sprawled across his bed, and Bilge ran his sleeve over Ghisla’s face, trying to clean up his mess.
Ghisla pushed past him, hoping the king would see and Bilge would be punished, but the king did not lift his head.
“Sing to me, daughter of Leok,” he groaned. “Sing until I’m asleep.”
She did so, grateful that his request was the same, even now that Bayr was gone. He never wanted words and he never wanted worship. He simply wanted music to combat his raging headaches and the incessant ringing that often accompanied them.
It didn’t take her long before Banruud was snoring softly. When she stopped, he did not wake.
But Bilge was still waiting outside the king’s door.
She did not hesitate, but dashed past him, reaching the stairs before he had time to react. But he was quicker than he looked. Ghisla was down the castle steps and halfway across the square when he caught her, lifting her up off her feet and burying his face in her neck.
“Let me go, Bilge. The last man who tried to take a temple daughter rotted on the north gate,” she reminded.
“One of the clanless, I’m sure. But I don’t want to kidnap you. I just want a kiss. Just one from that pretty, pink mouth. And I promise to look after you as well as the Temple Boy did. I’ll bet you gave him kisses. I’ll bet you let him touch your breasts and pet the curls between your legs. That’s all I want. And I’ll take care of you just like he did.”
She could tell by his wheedling that he expected her to cry and fight him a little, and then let him have his way. What he didn’t expect was the bloodcurdling scream-song that she released, throwing her head back and alerting the entire mount—castle, temple, and all the grounds—that something terrible was occurring.
“Stop that!” he hollered, releasing her in his surprise. He should have run then, but she’d made him angry and he slapped her. She wobbled but didn’t lose her volume. She got louder, the sound so earsplitting that the bell in the tower began to hum with the vibration.
Bilge hit her harder, slugging instead of slapping, and she fell, smacking her head against the cobblestones. It was then that he chose to make his escape, dashing across the courtyard to the palace steps and disappearing back the way they’d come.
Suddenly Dagmar was there, and Master Ivo too, helping her up from the cobbles. Ghost must have alerted them after all. She hovered by the temple door, her cowl pulled over her white hair, watching.
“Who was it, Daughter? Who has hurt you?” Dagmar asked.
“His name is Bilge. He is a member of the king’s guard.”
“It is not yet dawn . . . What is the meaning of this?” Ivo stammered.
“I sing for the king . . . when his head aches. Bayr used to go with me. But . . .”
“But Bayr is gone,” Dagmar finished, his voice hollow.
“Yes.”
“Why was I not told of the king’s request?” Master Ivo was angry.
Ghisla looked at Dagmar who looked back at Ivo.
“I did not know, Master. Bayr did not tell me.”
“And Ghost did not tell you?” The Highest Keeper was having trouble making sense of it all.
“Ghost was afraid if we said no . . . there would be trouble,” Ghisla explained, not wanting Ghost to incur the Highest Keeper’s wrath. “It was an . . . innocent request. I was not hurt . . . until today.” She did not tell them Bayr took the abuse for her.
“How often have you sung for the king?” Ivo asked.
“In these last years, mayhaps a dozen times,” she answered.
“And I was never told!”
“No, Master.”
Master Ivo glared from Ghisla to Dagmar with quivering outrage.
“I need to speak to the king. You will both come with me.” He pointed a clawed hand at Dagmar and Ghisla.
“He is asleep,” Ghisla said. It would not be wise to rouse him.
“Then we will wake him up,” Ivo raged.
But when they walked into the throne room, Bilge was already making his case to the irate Banruud. Banruud’s hair was matted and his eyes so bloodshot they appeared red in his sleep-swollen face. He was a handsome man, but pain and sleeplessness had made him ugly, and his mood was foul.