Bayr’s eyes snapped to his uncle’s, gauging Dagmar’s disappointment.
“Are y-you a-angry?” Bayr murmured. He didn’t deny his presence in the sanctum or seek to excuse his behavior.
“Not angry. But if you don’t do as I say, how can I trust you? You know the sanctum is holy. It is for sacred ceremonies. For keepers. Not for curious little boys with more skill than sense.”
“T-today was s-special. N-not j-just for keepers.”
Dagmar sighed heavily, acknowledging the truth of the boy’s statement. The chieftains had been present; why not the boy who had almost been king?
For a moment they sat in silence, each pondering their private thoughts, until Dagmar, reaching a decision, took the boy’s hand. Bayr’s nails were dirty and broken, his palms stained deep in the crevices. It didn’t matter how many times Dagmar instructed him on the importance of cleanliness, he was a boy, and he was always dirty. Dagmar rose and dipped a cloth in the water basin atop the small table in the corner. Sitting back on the stool, he washed Bayr’s hands and used his blade to clean his nails. When he was finished, Dagmar set the cloth and the knife aside and ran his thumb across Bayr’s knuckles, oddly close to tears. They were still dimpled with the softness of youth; Bayr was so young, so precious, and the gods had so much in store for him. It made Dagmar’s heart quake.
“Master Ivo wanted you to be king, Bayr,” Dagmar whispered, knowing he had to prepare his boy.
Bayr’s hand jerked in his.
“M-me?” Bayr stuttered.
“Yes. You.” Dagmar met the boy’s gaze and held it, compelling him to understand. Bayr’s face had grown pale, and his eyes were luminous in the paltry light. “You are not like other boys, Bayr. You know that, don’t you?”
Bayr stared, the way he always did, intensely, demanding with his gaze that Dagmar explain.
“Surely you’ve noticed that you can do things others cannot?” Dagmar pressed.
“I-I’m s-s-strong,” Bayr admitted.
“Yes. And fast. And agile. And very, very brave. You are but a boy, but you battle grown men in the castle yard with the skill of a seasoned warrior. The keepers and the palace guard are in awe of your prowess. Your reputation has spread throughout the clans.”
“I-I am n-not b-brave. I a-am a-afraid,” Bayr confessed, bowing his head.
It was Dagmar’s turn to wait, urging the boy on with kind eyes.
“I d-don’t w-want to b-be k-king, Uncle,” Bayr whispered.
“I know. And I don’t want you to be king. But, Bayr? There might come a time, when you are no longer a boy, when Saylok will need you to lead her. There might be a day when you will be called on to rule, and you must prepare yourself for that day.”
“W-when I am grown, I w-won’t b-be a-afraid,” Bayr murmured, hopeful.
“You’ll still be afraid. But you must do what is right, what you must, despite that fear.”
“Are y-you a-afraid?”
“Yes. Every day,” Dagmar said, laughing when Bayr frowned in disbelief. But his laughter quickly faded into memory. “When your mother brought you to me, Bayr, and asked me to take you, to raise you, I was terrified. I didn’t want to be a father. I didn’t know how to care for a child. But I did it anyway, because you needed me, because it was the right thing to do. And you have been my greatest joy.” Dagmar’s tears collected in his throat, and for several seconds he couldn’t continue. Bayr’s lips trembled, and he threw his thin blanket aside and crawled into his uncle’s lap, wrapping his arms around him and tucking his head beneath his chin.
“When you were born,” Dagmar whispered, fighting the emotion, “your mother told me you would have great strength. She also named you, and she said you would bring salvation to Saylok.”
“Wh-what is s-sal-v-vation?” Bayr asked, pulling back to see his uncle’s face.
“Hope. Rescue. Saving. You are a protector, Bayr. And I believe you’ve been given power to defend this land—every clan. You are not Bayr, the Temple Boy. You are not Bayr of Berne or Dolphys. You are Bayr of Saylok, and you must defend this land from her enemies within and without.”
“I will p-pro-te-tect the princess.”
Dagmar smiled, surprised. “Just her?”
“F-for now. Sh-she is p-precious.”
“She is, indeed.” Dagmar sighed, but there was more he had to impart, and it involved only pieces of the truth.
“When you were born, your mother was very angry. She didn’t want to leave you, and she cursed all of Saylok with a blood rune.”
Bayr’s eyes gleamed and his mouth trembled. He knew blood runes were forbidden to all but the keepers, and even then, they were to be used only for wisdom, not for vengeance or power.
“Why w-was she a-angry?”
“She loved a man who did not love her.”
“My father?”
“I think so, yes.” Dagmar steeled his expression for the lie. “Though I do not know his name.”
“I w-want you to b-be my f-father,” Bayr whispered.
Dagmar kissed the boy’s head. “I am your father. And you are my son. But I must tell you about your mother. And you must try to understand.”
Bayr nodded, so serious, so intent.
“Desdemona—your mother—was very sad. And very . . .” Dagmar struggled to find the right word.
“A-alone?” Bayr supplied.
“Yes. Very alone. Men can be cruel, especially to their women. So your mother promised that there would be no women in Saylok for men to misuse.”
“But not all m-men are b-bad.”
“No. And not all women are innocent. But Desdemona was angry. She was dying. And she did a terrible thing. And now Saylok suffers—the innocent and the guilty alike—and I don’t know how to fix what has been done.”
“B-but there is a g-girl child.” Bayr smiled hopefully.
“Yes. And it has given me great hope that your mother’s rune has weakened, and that Saylok has shaken off the sickness in her soil.”
“I w-will w-watch over her. Over A-Alba. I-if I take good care of h-her . . . may-ha-haps the gods w-will bless us w-with more.”
“Mayhaps,” Dagmar whispered. “It is all we can do. Now it is time for you to sleep. No creeping across the turrets and the walls, my son. I cannot bear to lose you, and I do not think our new king would approve of your spying.”
The boy slipped from Dagmar’s lap and crawled into his bed, burrowing down into the pillow and yawning convincingly. Dagmar stood and, with a brush of his hand over the boy’s hair, turned to go, but not before extracting the promise that had inspired the entire conversation.
“The gods reward our faith in the face of fear, Bayr. On the other side of fear is triumph. You must promise me that when the time comes, when you are grown, even if you do not want to be king, even if you are afraid, you will do what must be done.”
“I promise, Uncle,” Bayr murmured, his tongue freed as he slipped into sleep. “I will do what must be done.”
7
Word of the girl child had spread, and all of Saylok wanted to see her. Bayr abandoned his spot overlooking the temple entrance and the road leading down into the King’s Village and wove his way through the throng, finding a perch here and there before abandoning each for something better, something closer, where he too might be able to see the baby girl.