The king began to climb the steps.
“You will find Liis of Leok, and you will bring her to me in my chambers,” he insisted.
“The temple is gone, Majesty. And all the keepers with it. Did you not hear it fall?” he murmured.
“But the daughters?” Banruud gasped.
“I know not,” Hod whispered, and he spoke the truth. He knew not. “You must come and see for yourself. The people need to see their king.”
Banruud stank of long hours of sweat and tortured sleep, but he brushed off his tunic and straightened his robes before he left the palace. His cowardly cadre followed.
Hod trailed thirty paces behind, not able—or desirous—to walk among them.
When Ghisla and the other women emerged from the Temple Wood, Alba and Ghost were on the eastern slope. They began to run, the daughters up and the princess down, laughing and crying at the welcome sight of each other.
Ghost was slow to follow, but no less exuberant.
“We couldn’t do it,” Juliah said. “We couldn’t leave. We watched from the wood, and we heard the screams.”
“We felt the earth quake and saw the dome of the temple fall,” Bashti added, her face grim.
“We waited all night. We didn’t know what to do,” Elayne said. “And then we saw you on the hillside and knew it was safe.”
“Is it . . . safe?” Dalys asked, hesitant.
Ghost began to weep, and Alba clutched the girls to her. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“What has happened?” Ghisla whispered. “Please . . . tell us what has happened.”
“Dagmar is gone. The keepers too,” Ghost choked out.
Gone? Odin, no.
“And Bayr?” Juliah asked softly, fearfully. “What of Bayr?”
“He is here,” Alba said, and her obvious relief rippled among the women. “He is here. And we are . . . safe. As safe as we can possibly be.”
“What of the Northmen?” Juliah asked.
“Vanquished,” Alba said with a pallid smile. “Come,” she gestured. She turned back toward the east gate and began to climb. They all followed, their steps slow and heavy, their thoughts unbearably loud.
“Where will we live?” a child asked from amid the tired group, voicing the fears of many. “The temple is gone.”
“You will stay in the palace,” Alba said, her shoulders set, eyes steady. “There is room enough for all of you. And we will take each day as it comes.”
The destruction within the walls had them clinging to one another again and weeping in disbelief, but as they walked into the courtyard, the clanspeople gaped, and the warriors clutched their braids.
Aidan of Adyar rushed forward, oblivious to everyone but Elayne, and pulled her into his arms, his composure destroyed.
“I thought you were gone,” Aidan rasped. “I thought you were in the temple.”
Ghisla searched the faces, pausing in the place where she’d seen Hod. He’d been sitting up. Talking. Whole. But he didn’t sit by the wall any longer. He was not in the courtyard at all.
Bayr greeted the daughters one by one, clasping their hands and expressing his thanks. His gaze settled on Alba, and devastation rippled over his face before he bit it back.
He still didn’t know.
He turned away, as if the sight of her was too much to bear, and then he froze, his broad back obscuring Ghisla’s view. Dred cursed beside him, his voice trembling with loathing, and the men around him shared his sentiments. Ghisla shifted, stepping around the men to see what had so upset them, and her stomach plummeted.
King Banruud descended the palace steps, his clothes slightly rumpled but his shoulders back. He still wore his cloak and his crown, and he clutched the hilt of his unsheathed sword. A handful of his men, all able bodied and weapon wielding, made a sloppy perimeter around him, their eyes skittering to the unclaimed dead and the ruin of the temple. The Chieftain of Ebba followed a few steps back, weaving as he went. He looked as though he’d barricaded himself in the cellar with a cask of the royal wine. Limping behind them, a short ways off, was Hod, leaning heavily on his staff.
Ghisla jerked and stumbled toward him, but he stiffened as if he heard her heart and raised a hand, palm up, bidding her stay.
No one spoke as the king approached, but every chieftain turned to face him, their tattered clansmen—most still wearing the gore and grime of battle—falling in behind them. Alba moved to Bayr’s side, signaling her allegiance, and Ghisla watched as Ghost drew a dagger from the bodice of her gown as if preparing for battle.
“We’ve defeated the Northmen. Praise Odin. Praise Thor. Praise Father Saylok,” the king boomed, nodding at the chieftains as though he’d fought beside them. Banruud’s retinue shook their swords at the indifferent sky, shouting in celebration.
“Praise the Dolphys. Praise the keepers. Praise the clans,” Dred shot back, his voice raised above the king’s guard. Then he spat at Banruud’s boots and wiped his chin.
“You were told to leave, Dred of Dolphys, under threat of death, as was your chieftain,” Banruud said. His tone was mild, as though Dred caused him no real concern, but his eyes were on Bayr. He leveled his blade, but Bayr did not flinch before his sword.
“You severed your braid, Temple Boy. You’re a traitor to your king, and yet you stand on my mount, eyeing my daughter and my crown,” Banruud ground out.
“She is not your daughter,” Ghost said, drawing the king’s gaze. “And that is no longer your crown,” she added.
Banruud’s face paled. His eyes skittered from Ghost to Ghisla, as if she might rescue him with her song.
He looked away again when he found no softness in her gaze.
“The keepers made me king,” Banruud bellowed, his hand tightening on his sword. Ghisla thought for a moment he would try to strike Ghost down. Ghost lifted her chin, as if willing him to do it.
“You lied to the keepers. You lied to the clans. You lied to your son, and you lied to my daughter. We will take your crown, and we will choose a new king,” Ghost spat.
“The keepers are gone,” he sneered back. “And you are a slave.”
“The keepers are not gone,” Juliah called out, moving behind Ghost. Elayne, Bashti, and Dalys were right behind her, their purple robes attesting to Juliah’s claim. “Master Ivo made us keepers. And as keepers, we declare that you are no longer king of Saylok.”
Banruud’s eyes jumped to the chieftains, as if gauging their support. Aidan of Adyar gripped his braid and sawed his knife across it, and he tossed the thick blond plait at Banruud’s feet. Logan of Leok and Josef of Joran did the same, their mouths twisted in disdain. One by one, every warrior cut his braid, throwing them down and severing their allegiance to the king. Elbor began to stumble back, and Banruud’s men dropped their swords in surrender, unwilling to stand against the clans.
Banruud had no one. He had nothing, and the thing he had feared most had come to pass. Bayr would take his crown, and the wraith that had haunted him was no longer lurking in his tortured conscience but standing in front of him, fearless and unopposed. With a desperate roar he lunged at her, seeking to use her as a shield as he thrust his sword at Bayr’s chest.
But Banruud had failed to notice the dagger in Ghost’s hand. His actions had trapped her hand between them and drawn her knife into his belly.