Three chieftains arrived on the first day of competition—Aidan of Adyar, Lothgar of Leok, and Josef of Joran. Elbor of Ebba arrived at dusk on the second day, and he surrounded himself with soldiers, doing his utmost to avoid the other chieftains. Benjie of Berne was notably absent.
Alba greeted the crowds with upraised arms and a welcoming smile, fulfilling her role as welcoming monarch without a hitch. When she declared the tournament open to “all of Saylok’s people, to her clans and her colors,” no fear or discomfort tinged her voice, and the people threw flowers at her feet and sang her praises. At the commencement of each contest she wished the entrants “the wisdom of Odin, the strength of Thor, and the favor of Father Saylok,” and they battled as though they had all three.
It was not until the fourth day of the tournament and well into the afternoon when a lone horn sounded from the watchtower and a cry went up.
“The king has returned! Ready the mount for His Majesty, King Banruud of Saylok.”
From the King’s Village to the top of Temple Hill, one trumpeter signaled another, each wailing a note that rose on the end like a question, the sound growing louder and louder as it climbed the long road to the mount. Along the ramparts, another chorus of horns sounded, verifying the message had been received.
The grounds were thick with clansmen and villagers, but every contest was halted as people ran to the gates and spilled down the hill. No clan wanted to be accused of not honoring the return of His Majesty, and the courtyard was flooded with clansmen mere minutes after the horns were sounded. Master Ivo clanged the gathering bell, summoning the keepers to their formation amid the columns; the daughters were required to make their presence felt as well, and Ghisla awaited the king’s arrival standing among her silent sisters in a sea of purple on the highest row. It gave them a perfect view of the entire square.
Across the courtyard on the palace steps, Aidan, Lothgar, Josef, Elbor, and Bayr awaited the king as well, their most trusted warriors behind them.
The king’s guard began to clear the enormous courtyard between the temple and the palace, forcing the curious and the clustered to move out onto the grass and the grounds to give the king and his retinue wide berth. To return during the tournament created a chaos the king’s men clearly weren’t accustomed to, and more than one villager was shoved to the ground in an attempt to clear the square. From outside the walls of the mount, a rumble began to swell and spill through the gates, a wave of shock and speculation that tumbled from one mouth to the next.
Ghisla’s stomach groaned and her palms dripped. She knew what was coming.
The horns bugled again, indicating the king was nearing the gate, and Alba appeared at the top of the palace steps in full regalia. She had opened the tournament wearing only a long white dress and a simple gold circlet on her brow. King Banruud expected a more formal greeting. Her crown was a smaller replica of her father’s, six spires with jewels that matched the colors of the clans embedded at the bases and the tips. Emeralds for Adyar, rubies for Berne, sapphires for Dolphys, orange tourmalines for Ebba, brown topaz for Joran, and golden citrines for Leok.
The chieftains moved to the sides, creating an aisle for Alba to descend between them, but she stopped in their midst, Bayr on her left and Aidan of Adyar on her right. Ghisla’s attention was drawn away from the princess when the villagers who had been cleared from the central courtyard began to point toward the entrance, to clutch each other and cower.
“He’s brought the Northmen to the temple mount,” Juliah hissed, outraged.
“It is King Gudrun,” Elayne whispered.
It was indeed, and a contingent of fifty Northmen.
Ghisla resisted the urge to crane her neck—she’d been trained to remain still and draw no attention to the daughters—but her eyes bounced from man to man, looking for Hod. He’d found a perch on a supply wagon; he’d probably ridden in it all the way. His staff was across his knees, his hood pushed back, and when her eyes settled on him, he lifted his chin as though he heard her too.
“My people. My daughter. My chieftains. My keepers,” Banruud boomed, his arms raised to call the crowd to attention. “In the spirit of peace and negotiation, I have brought King Gudrun of the Northlands to see our temple and to take part in the tournament. I bid you to welcome him and his people. We are in need of strong alliances. May this be the first of many such visits.”
The people murmured nervously. No one jeered, but there was no jubilance in their greeting, no cheers or waving of their colors. Many began shuffling toward the wide gate only to be cowed by the bone-studded, leather-clad Northmen who spilled out onto the drawbridge.
Alba began to descend the final palace steps, her sense of duty demanding she bid the visitors welcome, but Bayr moved forward with her. Aidan must have been of the same mind, for he too remained at her side. Josef and Lothgar trailed them as they walked out into the courtyard to present the princess of Saylok to the king of the Northlands. Elbor, evidently not wanting to be left behind, hurried to join them, though he cowered behind Lothgar.
As Alba neared, King Banruud dismounted and extended his hand toward her.
“Father, I thank Odin for your safe return,” Alba said, projecting her voice to the crowd. She stepped away from the chieftains and pressed the back of Banruud’s outstretched hand to her forehead in traditional greeting. Turning to the North King she curtsied, low and lovely, and rose up gracefully. “King Gudrun, we welcome you.”
There was an appreciative murmur among Gudrun’s men, and the North King slid unceremoniously from his horse and grasped Alba’s fingers as though to press a kiss on her knuckles. At the last moment, he turned her hand so her palm was facing up. With exaggerated pleasure, he licked upward from the tips of her fingers to the pulse at her wrist, and his men roared in rowdy approval.
Bayr growled, a deep, guttural rumbling that caused Gudrun to raise his eyes and withdraw his tongue.
“Is that not how it’s done in Saylok?” the North King asked Bayr, sardonic. “Or is she yours, Chieftain?”
“May I present my daughter, Princess Alba of Saylok,” the king interrupted, but his eyes censured Bayr, his expression hard, his mouth tight. “The Temple Boy has fallen back into his old ways. He returns to the mount after a decade and immediately considers himself the princess’s protector.”
“Temple Boy?” Gudrun repeated, his eyebrows raised in query.
“I am Bayr. Chieftain of Dolphys,” Bayr said carefully. Slowly. He did not acknowledge the king but kept his gaze on Gudrun.
“Ah. I have heard of you, Dolphys. You are known for your strength. I should like to test it.” Gudrun sucked at his teeth.
“These are my chieftains—Adyar, Joran, Leok, and Ebba. You’ve met Berne,” the king introduced, tossing his hand toward the men who trailed his daughter. Bayr was not the only one who bristled at the introduction. The clan chieftains were subordinate to the king, but the implication that they were “his” did not sit well.
Banruud offered his arm to Alba, who took it without hesitation, though her fingers barely touched his sleeve and her posture did not relent. Banruud nodded toward the keepers standing in silent observance on the temple steps. Ivo had moved out in front of them, a stooped crow bent around his scepter.