“The gods have forsaken us,” Amos intoned. “We have failed to lift the scourge.”
“The king must die,” Juliah growled.
“We must get a message to the chieftains. We must tell the people what he has done,” Elayne pressed.
“None of them will care,” Keeper Dieter argued.
“Aidan of Adyar will care,” Elayne shot back. “Lothgar and Josef will care.”
“No one will stand against Banruud,” Ghisla said. The time had come. She could wait no longer. “There are Northmen on our mount. The clans are afraid, and the king has offered a solution.”
“What solution is that?” Dagmar asked, harsh.
“He has announced the marriage of Princess Alba to the North King. Gudrun has promised to leave the mount and to withdraw from Berne,” Amos supplied, a hint of admiration tingeing his words. “It is really the only solution.”
“Why would the North King agree to such a thing?” Dagmar hissed.
The keepers gaped, not understanding, and Amos was the first to recover. “The princess is beautiful. She is a great prize, a valuable treasure. She is the hope of Saylok,” he stammered, outraged.
“The hope of Saylok,” Dagmar repeated softly. “And what assurances does the king have that Gudrun will leave?” Dagmar asked.
The keepers had no answer, and their aging faces grew grim. Ghost turned from the altar, her gaze clinging to Dagmar’s.
“He wants the temple,” Juliah muttered.
“And the mount,” Bashti added.
“He wants Saylok,” Ghisla said. “He won’t leave.”
“And if no one will stop Banruud . . . who will stop Gudrun?” Dalys asked, and her cry echoed in Ghisla’s chest.
“We will stop him,” Dagmar whispered, but there was no victory in his voice. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Master Ivo has already begun.”
“We have to leave the mount,” Ghisla insisted. “All of us. If Gudrun will not leave, there will be a battle. The keepers cannot stand against the Northmen. We can’t hide in the temple any longer. We have to go.”
Her sisters stared at her, stunned. It was so rare that she voiced her opinions or took the lead.
“Where will we go?” Dalys whispered.
“We must go to Dolphys . . . with Bayr.” With Bayr and Hod. Oh, gods. She prayed Bayr would keep on going, and Hod would follow.
But they could not leave without Alba, and Alba was missing.
Dagmar solved that problem the same way Master Ivo had to find Bayr—with a seeker rune—and he raised weary, blood-streaked eyes to Ghost mere seconds later.
“She was waiting on the hillside . . . probably for Bayr, but he was not with her. She is coming back now.”
“I will go to her. I will tell her what has happened. And we will go. We will all go,” Ghost said.
But when Ghost came back an hour later, her face streaked with tears and her white hair escaping her braided crown, she shook her head.
“She will not leave.”
“She has to!” Ghisla shot back.
“She won’t,” Ghost whispered. “She is convinced if she leaves, war will follow, and she will not bring death to Dolphys. She is the princess, and a princess has a duty to her people.”
“She is right,” Dagmar whispered. “Banruud will not let her go. He will declare war on Dolphys, the clans will take sides, and Saylok will . . . collapse.”
He looked at Ghisla, using her word from the night they’d celebrated Bayr’s return.
Ghisla’s legs could no longer hold her. It was all spiraling out of control. If Alba would not leave, Ghost would not leave. If Ghost would not leave, Dagmar would not leave. The keepers were already murmuring among themselves that their duty was to the temple.
“We do not know that the North King will break his word,” Keeper Amos argued, hopeful. “Mayhaps he will marry the princess as the king has announced, and he will take his filthy soldiers and leave.”
“Mayhaps we are anticipating an attack that will never come,” another keeper protested.
Ghisla did not know the plan or the precise way events would unfold. She doubted even Hod knew the specifics. Mayhaps the attack would come after the nuptials, and mayhaps it would happen during. Images of the Northmen wreaking havoc in the temple, striking down keepers and congregants swelled in her thoughts. Whenever it happened, she had no doubt an attack would come.
“He does not have enough men to take the mount. There are three hundred clan warriors on the hill right now, not counting the king’s forces and the clanspeople. It makes no sense to attack this way,” Dagmar agreed.
“He has seen inside the walls now. He knows the position of the king’s men. He knows the strength of his forces and the numbers in the clans,” Ghost murmured.
“Mayhaps . . . he is simply gathering information for a . . . future . . . attack?” Amos sounded so wistful at the thought of pending—and not immediate—doom.
“We need to go,” Ghisla urged. “All of us. Together. Now!”
“I’m not leaving,” Juliah argued. “If there is to be a battle, I want to fight.”
“You will be hewn down or worse!” Ghisla cried. “I will drag you from this hill if I have to, but we are leaving.”
“No. We will stay in the temple,” Keeper Amos said, assuming the mantle of leader. “We are as safe here as anywhere.”
“We have never been safe here!” Ghisla shouted, desperate. Why would they not listen?
The others stared at her as if she’d sprouted wings and a forked tongue. She closed her eyes and prayed for deliverance. Mayhaps her tongue was forked. She was complicit, and her guilt was almost as great as her fear.
“The women must go,” Dagmar agreed. “Gather whatever you can easily carry.”
“The king will notice immediately if Liis is gone,” Elayne said quietly. “If there is a wedding . . . we . . . all . . . must be in attendance.”
Ghisla hung her head in defeat.
“Very well.” Dagmar nodded. “Go and prepare. Rest if you can. As soon as the ceremony ends and the temple empties, you will go through the tunnels and into the wood. If the North King leaves . . . you can return. If he does not, you will keep walking until you reach Dolphys.”
When Hod heard Bayr again, he’d stopped moving altogether. The hour was late, and the forest was both sleeping and waking. Hod had followed the stream which would keep widening and strengthening until it reached the river Mogda in Dolphys and, beyond that, the East Sea that lay between Saylok and Eastlandia.
Bayr’s breaths were slow, like he’d stopped to rest and fallen into exhausted slumber. From the position of his heartbeat and the angle of his breath, he’d fallen asleep propped against a tree.
Hod did not want to approach; it would startle him. Hod was many things, but he was not especially stealthy when he navigated unfamiliar surroundings.
His own weariness burned in his back and dulled his senses. He could not remember the last time he’d slept. It was only yesterday he’d climbed aboard the provisions wagon and rolled the final miles to the mount, surrounded by Northmen and two repugnant kings that thought they each held the better hand. They’d circled each other warily for the better part of two weeks, each of them pulling Hod aside to divulge the other’s secrets. Gudrun had threatened and Banruud had implied, and Hod had kept his mouth closed.