Bayr thought he saw Dagmar racing toward him, but the king demanded his attention.
“What is your name, boy?” Banruud asked, lifting his voice for the sake of the crowd. He’d brought his own horse to heel and seemed cross that the carriage driver had not been able to do the same. His procession had suddenly become a fiasco, and he was no longer the center of attention.
Bayr tried to answer, but the word clung to his tongue. He tried again, stammering pitifully, and hung his head in embarrassment.
“His name is Bayr, Sire.” Dagmar lifted his arms to pull Bayr from the back of the white mount, but Bayr clung to the horse’s mane, afraid to release him for fear he would bolt again.
“Release the horse, Bayr. You’re hurting him,” Dagmar insisted, and Bayr, surprised, loosened his arms. The horse wilted, hanging his head in dizzy relief, and Dagmar pulled the boy from his shuddering back, clutching him to his side. The king watched with glittering eyes and frowning lips.
“Dagmar of Dolphys. It has been too long,” Banruud boomed. “Or must I call you Keeper Dagmar?”
Dagmar bowed deeply.
“A dozen years, Sire. At least. Congratulations.” He didn’t remind the new king that he’d stood in the sanctum during the selection process, that he’d taken part in the coronation, and that he’d borne witness to the blessing of his daughter. He’d purposely hung back. Blended in. Averted his eyes. In his purple robes with his shaved head, standing among brothers similarly adorned, he was easy to overlook, and Banruud had clearly not noticed him until now.
The king reined his horse around and approached Bayr and his uncle, who watched his advance with shared trepidation.
“Bayr. It is a good name,” the king said, nodding to Bayr. “You have shown great skill . . . and courage.” The king’s jaw was tight, and his nostrils flared like those of a beast catching the scent of his prey.
“The Temple Boy has saved the princess and the Lady Queen!” someone shouted, and Temple Boy, Temple Boy, Temple Boy rippled among the horde, reaching those who had not seen the events unfold.
The king unsheathed his sword and, playing to the crowd, laid the broad side of his blade on the boy’s bowed head. Dagmar flinched, but Bayr remained still, silent, subservient.
“I dub thee a protector of the throne and a friend of the king, young Bayr.”
The crowd roared again in a new wave of wonder. Bayr shrank back into Dagmar, embarrassed by the adulation, and King Banruud withdrew his blade. The king turned away and raised his sword, and with a blast of the trumpet, the procession continued without the queen, who, along with the princess, was being escorted back to the castle in a cart pulled by men and surrounded by an armed guard.
“I th-thought h-he was going to k-kill m-m-me,” Bayr stammered, turning to his uncle with wide eyes.
Dagmar shuddered and said nothing, but his silence reinforced Bayr’s conviction: the king did not like him.
“The p-p-pale w-woman s-scared the h-h-horses,” Bayr whispered, badly shaken.
“What woman?” Dagmar replied.
Bayr shook his head and shrugged. It was too hard to explain, and he didn’t want to get the woman in trouble. The king wouldn’t like her either, Bayr was certain of it.
“I fear that we have placed a masked man on the throne,” Ivo grumbled, after asking Dagmar to remain when everyone else had left the sanctum. It had been several weeks since the coronation, and Temple Hill had been a flurry of activity. A new king meant new policies, new rules, new discomforts. Banruud was preparing for war, with whom no one knew, and his warriors were in constant training, making worship and reflection on the adjacent grounds much more difficult. Banruud had very little interest in the keepers—or the temple—though he’d sought Ivo’s company once to query the gods. He’d been having bad dreams.
“He has a fear of ghosts, of pale wraiths stealing his soul . . . and his daughter,” Ivo revealed. “He has his men on the lookout for phantoms. I told him the gods have assigned the princess a protector in young Bayr. The king did not seem to like that response. He has demanded a sacrifice be made to Odin and runes hidden over every door.”
“What do you mean, a masked man, Master?” Dagmar asked.
“Banruud is two men. One you see, and one you don’t. If you loosened his braid, I suspect you might see another face, hiding beneath his hair.”
Dagmar shivered at the image that rose behind his eyes. Ivo had a flair for the dramatic.
“I don’t understand, Master. He was a good chieftain. Berne is wealthy. His people have not registered complaint. He is a powerful warrior and a worthy leader.”
“This is all true. And yet . . . our duty has never been to embrace the obvious . . . or the easy. I fear we have done both.”
“Master—” Dagmar protested, his guilt doubling the size of his chest.
Ivo waved his hand, silencing him. “Enough, Dagmar. You were not wrong. You love the boy. And you chose for him, not for me. Not for yourself. Not even for Saylok.”
Dagmar’s guilt grew another head. “Saylok needs a man on the throne, Master. Not a boy,” he argued, weary. He had made the argument more times than he cared to.
“Better a boy than a beast.” Ivo sighed, a petulant ruffling of feathers. “But it is done. And we must make the best of it.”
“Do you truly think he is a beast?” Dagmar whispered.
“If Father Saylok had wanted only one man to choose the king, he would have appointed only one keeper. Our system has worked for centuries, and I trust it will continue to work, regardless of my distrust of—and distaste for—the new king,” Ivo said, relenting.
“And the girl child?”
Ivo huffed, but his ruffled feathers settled as a rueful grin twisted his black lips. “She is a wonder. I have great hopes for little Alba.”
“As do I, Master,” Dagmar agreed. His hope had had him kneeling for hours in supplication.
“The king would do well to heed my advice,” Ivo mused.
“Oh?”
“He should keep the boy close,” Ivo said.
“I would rather he not.”
“You speak selfishly, Dagmar. Bayr is a guardian.”
“Bayr is Banruud’s son,” Dagmar whispered, trying not to hiss.
“And a threat to his power,” Ivo said, nodding. “Banruud is jealous of the boy. But still . . . the king should heed my counsel, for the sake of the princess. The boy will not fail her. He will protect the girl child. I have seen it.”
Dagmar’s hands shook beneath the wide sleeves of his robe, and he folded them together. He did not want to know all that Ivo had seen. Sometimes visions made a keeper blind to intuition. Dagmar’s intuition screamed that Bayr should stay far away from Banruud.
“Was there something else you wished to tell me, Master?” he asked, desperate to leave the sanctum. The day had been long, and he hadn’t seen Bayr since dawn.
“You have not seen any pale-faced wraiths . . . in your dreams or otherwise, have you, Dagmar?”
Dagmar didn’t believe in ghosts. Surely the gods called all spirits home. Briefly he considered the woman Bayr had seen on coronation day, and then dismissed her with a mental shrug. It was not a crime to be pale-skinned, and she was a woman, not a wraith.