“You are s-still beautiful, Ghost,” Bayr said softly. “Thank you for l-looking after him.” He cast a brief glance at Dagmar so there would be no question to whom he referred.
“Your uncle looks after all of us,” she replied, and pink suffused her pale cheeks.
“You are all . . . w-women,” Bayr stammered, raising his eyes from Ghost to Ghisla and the other daughters, who had stopped a few paces behind her. He gripped his braid as though he greeted the king, his reverence and fealty bringing to mind the day so long ago when they’d been brought to the temple as scared little girls.
“You are all beautiful women, g-grown,” he marveled.
In response, Juliah grasped the heavy coil that circled her head.
“Mine is not a warrior’s braid, but a warrior’s crown,” she said, a smirk twisting her soft lips.
“The Warrior Queen?” Bayr asked, and Juliah’s smile widened.
“There has been no coronation, but I accept your title,” she said, lifting her chin like royalty, but her eyes caught on Alba, who stood framed in the light of the gray afternoon beyond him. The heavy temple doors had been pushed wide upon Bayr’s entry and never closed, and no one had even seen her enter in their eagerness to greet their returning friend.
“Bayr?” Alba called.
Bayr froze, as though he knew exactly who spoke. He seemed to brace himself before turning, but the shudder that wracked him was visible to all who observed.
“Alba?”
She was tall for a woman, taller than many of the keepers, and straight and strong in her carriage and character. She wore her hair loose around her shoulders, the pale waves like moonbeams against her deep-blue gown. The light at her back shadowed her features, but her eyes, dark as the soil of Saylok, were fixed on Bayr’s face.
A heartbeat later, she was hurtling through the entrance hall, her skirts clutched in her hands to free her flying feet, her hair streaming behind her. Then she was in Bayr’s arms, caught up against him, her feet no longer touching the floor, as though she’d leaped past the last few steps.
All was silent around them, as the stunned observers watched a reunion that was as wrenching as it was wonderful. Bayr and Alba did not speak at all, but stood, locked in a desperate embrace, clinging to each other in quiet commiseration. Ghisla could not see Bayr’s face, but Alba had begun to weep, her shoulders quaking, her face buried in Bayr’s neck. Bayr simply turned, still clutching her to his chest, her feet still dangling, and strode across the wide foyer and into the sanctum. He closed the double doors behind him with a shove of his boot.
They sat in the sanctum all afternoon, their voices and Alba’s laughter trickling out and echoing over the stone walls. The keepers moved in hushed happiness, keeping their ears attuned to the glad sound, and the Highest Keeper instructed those on kitchen duty to prepare a feast for the return of the favorite son.
No one seemed to know what to do—decorum dictated that a man and woman not be alone together behind a closed door, yet no one wanted to deny or diminish the joyous reunion, and so Master Ivo left it ajar. Ghost hovered near the sanctum door, shamelessly eavesdropping, and Dagmar kept finding reasons to join her, though the front entrance hall contained nothing but stone, space, and staircases.
At sundown, Ghisla joined the daughters and the keepers in songs of worship and took Ghost’s hand as they sang the final praise.
Ghost’s thoughts spun in dizzy wonder, sugared and pink, her joy for her daughter the constant in her unfiltered musings.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies, divine.
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
Ghost wished for one thing above all others: Alba’s happiness. Ghisla suspected it was the mantle of motherhood, to gladly sacrifice for the sake of your child.
Or mayhaps it was just the mark of true love; Ghisla would endure the rack to save Hod from it. He would do the same for her, and the simultaneous terror and joy of having and holding such devotion was more than she could comprehend most days.
But yes, she would endure the rack for Hod. It couldn’t be worse than the torture she felt now.
Bayr had returned. Of all the times to finally come home. And she could not warn him. Not yet. Not at all? How would Bayr handle such a warning? She suspected he would handle it the way he’d handled every duty placed on his shoulders throughout his life. He would battle the Northmen, defend the mount, and protect his king. He might die doing it, but that would not be his concern. It would be Hod’s concern. Saylok’s concern. To warn him would be to seal his fate and destroy all chance of a peaceful revolution—if there was such a thing. So somehow, Hod had to get him off the mount.
Ghisla succumbed to her worry and went to the rune. She pricked her finger, traced the star, and said Hod’s name, grimacing in anticipation. One didn’t always know what waited on the other side of an unlocked rune.
She was suddenly doused—rather unpleasantly—in the sights and smells of unwashed men, seawater, and dark shores. A group of Northmen were gathered around a huge fire, drinking and belching and speaking of people and things she cared nothing about. Hod stood on the edge of the circle, his hands on his staff, his shield on his back, and his feet planted in the sand like he expected a bottle to be thrown at his head at any moment.
They were in Berne, and he was whole. She wiped the blood from her scar and severed her sight. It did her no good to look on him if she could not warn him or even talk to him. She vowed not to look again.
The gathering bell was rung for supper, and she joined the others in the dining hall, taking her usual place at her regular table and, like everyone else, spent the meal watching Bayr, who sat at the head. He was completely at home among the shiny pates and narrow shoulders, and the keepers peppered him all through the meal, making him answer question after question, though Bayr struggled through each one.
“Brothers. I am w-well. Dolphys is well. I want to hear from all of you. P-please don’t torture me thus.”
“But . . . why now, Bayr? Why have you come now?” the Highest Keeper asked softly, saving his question for last. The room fell silent as if each man and woman had wondered the same thing.
“We cannot continue as w-we have done. Saylok is . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right word, and he held up his big palms in frustration.
“Collapsing,” Ghisla blurted out. Heads swiveled toward her in surprise, and Bayr raised his eyes to hers across the long table. She bowed her head, mortified that she had spoken aloud. She had not meant to. The word had risen to her lips and jumped of its own accord.
Bayr nodded, his mouth pursed in concern. “Yes, Liis of Leok. Saylok . . . is . . . collapsing.”
The mood in the room flattened like an underbaked cake.
A frown dripped from the Highest Keeper’s face, and his eyes searched Ghisla’s before he thumped his scepter on the stones.
“We have survived twenty-five kings. Surely we can survive this one,” the Highest Keeper refuted. “Sing for us, Liis of Leok. Tonight is not a time for dour predictions. Let us celebrate.”
Hod and King Banruud did not return with the Northmen. Not the next day or the next. The grounds began filling with the tents and wagons of tradesmen preparing to sell their wares at the games, and overnight, the mount was flooded with clans and chaos as the Tournament of the King commenced without the king. The temple opened her doors to travelers making their yearly pilgrimage to worship in her walls, and the keepers heard the complaints and the confessions of the disconsolate.