“Bayr,” Dagmar supplied.
“Yes. And all of you.”
“That is why you are here. That is why Banruud dreamed of pale wraiths who came to take his child. Today the king . . . has seen his ghost,” Master Ivo said, sinking back into his chair, his staff clattering to the floor.
“He thought I was dead. He sent men to kill me then. He will send them to kill me again.”
“What have you done?” Ivo moaned.
“I have watched my daughter grow,” Ghost shot back, defensive. “I have seen her raised as a princess of Saylok. She is loved. She is protected. She is safe.” The final words rang false, and Ghost closed her eyes as if to hide her doubt.
“She isn’t safe, Ghost. You aren’t safe! Banruud saw you, and Alba is about to become queen of the Northlands,” Dagmar lamented.
“Better queen of the Northlands than the daughter of a ghost,” she retorted, wounded, and Dagmar touched her hand as though he’d forgotten all of them observed. But the Highest Keeper was already speaking, his voice a weary wail.
“We made Banruud king. We made him king. And the curse upon the clans continues. We have failed the people. Bayr was our salvation. And I knew it. I did not listen to the gods. Now it is too late.”
“You m-made Banruud king,” Ghost stammered. “You gave him his power. Can you not . . . take it away?”
“How?” Master Ivo asked, raising his clawed hands to the heavens. “We are a temple of aging keepers and hunted women. We have no power to remove Banruud. Should we seek to remove him by the sword? We have lost the faith of the people and the support of the chieftains. You heard the crowd today. The keepers have failed them. The Northmen are at our door, the king conspires to sell our daughters, and the temple—even Saylok—hangs in the balance.”
“Surely . . . surely the runes . . . ,” Ghost stammered.
“The runes are only as powerful—and as righteous—as the blood of the men and women who wield them. And we have tried every rune, beseeched every god, and bled into the soil of every clan,” Master Ivo said. “The keepers have failed. I have failed. And Saylok will fall.”
The mount was crowded and Hod’s senses reeled. He was no good in a crush—not to himself or anyone else. One heartbeat reverberated into another, and he climbed from the wagon of provisions and, using his staff and his general ability to repulse, moved among the masses.
He tracked the dulcet tones of Ghisla’s heart and the butterfly wings of her indrawn breath. She was still among the keepers; they’d withdrawn from the steps after Gudrun’s inspection, and twenty-six soldiers now guarded the temple doors. The North King’s arrival had struck terror into every breast: the chieftains, the princess, the keepers, the citizenry. And Bayr. Bayr was not supposed to be on the mount.
He left the courtyard and drew a pail of water from the well and took the stairs to his room, addressing the servants who bustled in and out of the yard with a terse “good day.” The king’s return had sent them all into a frenzy. He washed the dust from the journey off his skin and patted himself dry. Ghisla’s scent still lingered on his bed and in the towel beside the basin. He tracked her heart again, unable to help himself.
“Hody, Hody, Hody.” She was singing his name. It wafted in on the breeze, and as he listened, she grew closer.
She was trying to find him. Or mayhaps . . . she already knew where he was.
He heard her climb the steps, her treads soft but hurried, like she dashed to avoid detection.
He turned and strode to his door, pulling it open as she reached the corridor. She tumbled into his arms a moment later.
“I knew you would hear me, and I prayed you would be here,” she cried.
“You could have been seen,” he chided, shoving the door closed behind her, but he was too glad to see her, too eager to greet her, and he kissed her, allowing himself a brief respite from his crippling concern.
She smelled of rosewater and incense, of panic and tears, and he lapped at the salt of her mouth and shuddered beneath the clutch of her hands. Her breasts were pebbled against his chest, and her limbs were trembling with need. It was not anticipation or desire, though he felt that too.
She was afraid.
“Ghisla,” he soothed, stroking her silken cheek as he softened his kiss, but she shook her head, resisting his comfort and seeking her own. Her hands dug into his hips, urging him to her. And he understood. He gathered her skirts in his hands and found the slick heat of her body beneath them. She shuddered against his mouth, and he urged her onto his bed, freed himself from his breeches, and sank inside her without another word.
She quaked against him, her mouth on his mouth, her chest to his chest, her legs cradling his hips, and for a brief, mindless moment, unparalleled pleasure drenched a month of unbearable strain.
Then the present returned, the tower bells tolled, and their pleasure fled in the face of their fear.
Hod smoothed Ghisla’s skirts and gathered her into his arms. Her heartbeat made love to his, though their time together was gone.
“You must go, my love,” he urged.
“I know.”
“You must gather the daughters and the keepers, bar the temple doors, and leave through the tunnels. You must get off the mount tonight.”
“What of Alba?”
“Ghost must decide if she wants to keep her secret or save her daughter.”
“She told Master Ivo. She told Dagmar. Just now, in the sanctum. Her secret is out. Banruud saw her. She has haunted him all these years. I think he convinced himself she wasn’t . . . real.”
Hod had heard the exchange on the temple steps. He’d heard Banruud’s gasp and smelled the terror that rose on his skin, but he had not known how to interpret it. “He’s shaken. But it will only harden his resolve. He will announce the betrothal tonight, and there will be a wedding in the morning. He thinks the Northmen will leave and his troubles will be averted.”
Ghisla groaned with such pain that he tightened his arms, as if he could protect her from it all. He couldn’t.
“Alba and Bayr . . . He is in love with her. She’s in love with him. They’ve tried to keep it hidden, but . . . I know it’s true.”
“Oh no,” Hod rasped. “This cannot be.”
“The betrothal will destroy them both. She cannot marry the North King.”
“We will get her off the mount. She must go with the daughters,” Hod said, scrambling to process the unraveling of his plans.
“But Hod, what of Bayr? If the Northmen attack, he will fight! He will fight for the mount. He is a chieftain of Saylok. He will fight.”
“I will take care of Bayr,” he vowed, though he didn’t know how. Bayr should be in Dolphys. In ten years he had not come to the mount! “I will protect Bayr. I will guard him with my life.”
“And who will guard you?” Ghisla wailed, her hands clutching his face. For a moment he gave her his mouth, pressing his entreaties into her lips and her skin.
“You must not give up,” he whispered, and her tears began to fall. “Shh. Ghisla. You promised you would not give up on me.”
She groaned again, her teeth grinding, her fists clenched against his chest.
“I will do . . . whatever . . . you say,” she bit out, “but you promise me that I will not have to live without you again.”