Ghisla heard the wet clasp and suck of the blade being turned.
The clatter of his sword on the cobbles was accompanied by his dumbfounded groan. He should have pled for forgiveness, but he only wanted answers.
“Who . . . are . . . you?” he gurgled, the words soaked in blood.
“I am the daughters of the clans, and the keepers of the temple. I am Alba’s mother, and Dagmar’s friend.” Ghost’s voice broke on Dagmar’s name, but she pressed on. “I am everyone you have wronged. And I am Ghost, the new Highest Keeper.”
The king brayed, the sound terrible in its dread and dismay, the bawl of a downed bear, and he fell to his knees, swaying and searching the faces of his condemners.
“Hod?” he moaned. “Where are you?”
“I am here,” Hod said softly from the edge of the circle. He made no move to approach his father, and he did not weep, but his face was lined with compassion.
“Liis . . . Liis of Leok,” Banruud groaned. “You must sing to me. You must sing to me. I am dying.”
He reached a hand toward her, beseeching, but the effort made him topple onto his side. She clutched her hands to her chest, unwilling to touch him and unable to comfort him.
There was no time for a song.
Banruud groaned again, a deep, pained rattle, attempting to ward off what was to come, and then his eyes closed and his body softened, sighing against the stones.
For several long seconds, no one moved or breathed or spoke.
“The king is dead,” Hod said. “His . . . heart . . . beats . . . no more.”
The eyes of every man, woman, and warrior turned to look at him, and Ghisla moved toward him, desperate to guard him from their wary gazes. But Hod did not shrink or slink away. He used his staff to pick his way to the body of the king, and when he reached her side, Ghisla stood over him, guarding his back as he crouched beside Banruud.
Ghost had begun to weep. Alba too. Bleak, stunned faces, blood-streaked and coated in ashy grime, surrounded them. No one rejoiced at the king’s death, and no one argued its justice.
“Who are you?” Bayr asked. “You fought beside us . . . but I do not know you.” His words were slow, careful, the way they’d always been, but he did not stumble over a single word.
“He is the confidant of Gudrun and henchman of the king.” It was the captain of the king’s guard who accused Hod; he feared his fate would be the same as Banruud’s.
A rumble of agreement swelled among some of the sentries and clansmen.
“He sailed with Gudrun and guarded the king,” a warrior of Berne protested.
“But he fought with us,” Dred said.
“I was with him on the wall,” another man vouched. He was the archer Ghisla had seen with the rune.
“But who are you?” Bayr repeated softly, still gazing at Hod, and Hod answered without argument or defense.
“I am called Blind Hod. I was an apprentice to Arwin, the cave keeper of Leok. And I am the devoted servant of Ghisla of Tonlis, Liis of Leok.”
Ghisla’s sisters gasped, and Ghisla held her breath, but Bayr simply waited for him to continue.
“I am also the son of Bronwyn of Berne . . . and the late Banruud.”
A hiss snapped and sizzled among the small crowd, but Dred of Dolphys raised his sword to the sky, as if signaling his support.
“And I am elder brother of Bayr of Dolphys, the rightful king,” Hod finished.
“Bayr of Dolphys, the rightful king,” Dred boomed, and the men of Dolphys raised their swords beside him.
From Banruud’s lolling head Hod slipped the amulet of the king, the one he’d used to burn Ghisla’s hand, the one that had been passed down through all the rulers of Saylok. Hod rose, swaying but solemn, and drew it over Bayr’s matted, blood-soaked hair.
“You have always been the rightful king, brother. The Highest Keeper knew it when you were brought to him the day of your birth. And our father knew it too. It destroyed him, but it did not destroy you.”
“Long live the Temple Boy,” Alba said, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks.
“Long live the Dolphys,” Dakin cried.
“Long live King Bayr,” Ghost choked, her bloody blade raised in agreement.
“Long live Baldr and Hod,” Ghisla whispered.
And Hod stepped back and reached for her hand.
EPILOGUE
He had not grown accustomed to happiness; mayhaps he never would. He and Ghisla had said their vows at the altar uncovered from the rubble of the temple, and King Bayr had pronounced them man and wife, though he’d stumbled over Ghisla’s name. She would always be Liis of Leok to Bayr and her sisters, and she answered to both. She did not want to return to Tonlis, though he’d offered to take her. He was confident he could make his way across the sea now, especially with her eyes to guide him.
“This is my home. You are my home,” she said without hesitation, and he had vowed to make it a good one.
They’d been given a room in the palace—a room for honored guests—though he would have been happy in the little chamber by the stairs. Ghisla had never had a room of her own or even a space of her own, and she had easily adjusted to the order he required.
“I find it amazing that you can hear when I am hungry but you trip over my shoes,” she teased him.
The palace was teeming, but they had a corner to themselves. A happy, glorious corner. It was all he’d ever wanted.
He’d been welcomed by all and shunned by none, though Ghost had reservations. She was mourning. She had made herself Highest Keeper, and she worked tirelessly day after day, but her heart was broken. She did not trust Hod—his strangeness was too much like her own—and Master Ivo’s suspicions, and probably Dagmar’s too, had colored her view of him.
He’d been raised up to be a keeper, and he offered to assist in preserving and cataloging the rubble of the temple. He knew the names of the runes and how to draw and unlock them, but Ghost was not ready for his companionship or his counsel, and Hod kept his distance. He was not even certain he cared whether the runes were preserved.
It was a conundrum; to rebuild without understanding the past—both the triumphs and failures—was to start over instead of moving ahead. Saylok could learn from the runes, but they would be better served not to worship them. Saylok needed keepers to hold a king’s power in check, but mayhaps they should be keepers of faith and justice instead of keepers of runes.
Princess Alba—Queen Alba—had embraced him with open arms. She asked him almost daily to put his hands upon her belly and listen to the child within her.
“Can you tell today if it’s a daughter?” she would ask.
“I have no experience with such things, Majesty,” he always said. “But the heart is strong and steady . . . and if I had to bet upon it, I would say it is a girl child. A daughter’s heart is . . . different.”
A heartbeat thrummed in Ghisla’s womb as well. Two of them. And if he had to guess again, he would wager they were boys. Brothers.
“We will call them Baldr and Hod,” Ghisla proclaimed, and he could not sway her against it.
He had not grown accustomed to such happiness. Mayhaps he never would.
He was getting to know his brother. Bayr had no artifice and very little ego. He was fierce in his duty, fierce in his love, and mild in his manner. Sometimes Hod would hear his mighty heart and think of Banruud—the sound was the same, like the sea in a storm, the wind moaning through the cave where he’d been raised. Their voices were the same too—the gravel tones and the rumble from their chests. Ghisla said Hod sounded the same, though he couldn’t hear it.