“No, Master,” Dagmar said, sighing. “I have not.”
“Hmm.” Ivo rubbed his stained lips. “You must tell me if you do.”
Ghost was weary, and her breasts ached. She’d bound them tightly to keep them from filling with milk, but the liquid seeped out and soaked the rags she’d wrapped around her chest, chilling her beneath her cloak. She expressed the milk by hand when she could, needing to maintain her flow. Her baby would need milk if ever they were reunited. Unfortunately, her scent, ripe and loamy, drew the bugs.
It was spring, and the rains were frequent, soaking the Temple Wood and making her circumstances even more difficult. She’d been a shepherd and was accustomed to sleeping outdoors, to scavenging and hunting, but she was not accustomed to patrols. The king’s guard traipsed through the forest and over the hillside as though they sought her. She’d discovered a crawl space in a small outcropping of rocks that provided a place to hide whenever they were close. She’d had to coax a family of field mice to find a new place to live, but mice and bugs were the least of her worries.
Everything she’d owned had been in Bertog’s house in the land of Berne, and Bertog’s house had been burned to the ground. She’d acquired a few things in the King’s Village—a sharp knife, a cake of soap, a length of rope, and another dress—but people stared when she made her purchases, and that terrified her most of all. The shopkeepers would remember her face if someone asked about her.
She had an iron pot and a small box filled with gold coins that she’d dug up from the charred remains of Bertog’s house. Bertog had been good with money. He collected favors the way his wife gathered eggs—gleefully, greedily, noting their size and their weight. Even the despicable Balfor had been in his debt. Bertog had kept his gold in a hole beneath his floor, but in the end, the gods—and Ghost—had owed him nothing. Ghost had seen Bertog count his gold. She’d seen him stash it too. When Balfor burned the house down, the box of coins—and the iron pot—had escaped unscathed.
Bertog and Linora had not been so lucky.
Ghost felt no sadness for them. They had been foolish to trust the chieftain. She’d been foolish to trust them. Now they were dead, and her child was gone.
Chief Banruud had stolen her daughter. He had claimed Alba as his own, he and his smiling, lying queen. And Ghost had no recourse. The knowledge filled her with helpless rage.
She had followed him from his keep, trailed his caravan like a beggar gathering scraps, walking in a sort of stupor from the valley of Berne to the rising plateau of the temple mount. It was beautiful, the soaring palace heights and the jagged temple spires, but she’d seen only the walls and the warriors and the distance from her child.
She had enough gold in Bertog’s box to run away, enough to make her life bearable for a while if she was careful. She had hidden it in the cradle of the tree, where the heavy branches left the trunk and spread outward. But she had nowhere to go and she could not leave. If she managed to reach her child, to steal inside the palace walls, she and the child would not get far. She could not escape her cursed skin. She could not hide a babe in the woods. So she haunted the hills in hopes that for once in her life the gods would be merciful and return what was hers. Or at the very least, let her slay the king.
Ghost saw that the Temple Boy, the one who’d calmed the horse, had been assigned to watch the sacrificial sheep. The old keeper who’d guarded them since she’d arrived had developed a hacking cough during the spring rains, and the boy had taken over his duties. He was a natural, keeping the herd together and happily circling the perimeter, watching for wolves and other dangers.
He’d sensed her.
Ghost had seen it in the furrow that marred his smooth brow. The sheep had sensed her too. She had that effect on animals. She always had. Often her affinity was of great benefit. Other times, like the day of the parade, she drove them mad. She hadn’t meant to spook the horses in the processional. At least not the horse that pulled the carriage. She’d been so angry—so desperately sad—and her turmoil had set them off. The king had not been harmed, but the carriage had almost overturned. Ghost had run away, terrified by the danger she’d put her daughter in, and she’d hid among the trees until the sun had set and her tears had dried.
Since then, she’d watched the boy who’d been kind to her, the boy who now herded the temple sheep, hoping his access to the palace and the temple grounds would provide her an opportunity to creep inside. He was just a child, yet he moved like a man and cared for the sheep with quiet confidence. He was not like other boys, and she studied him with growing fascination.
He didn’t sleep in the fields but herded the sheep inside the gates when the sun began to sink behind the palace spires. Each day he brought them out again, though often it was not until the sun was high in the sky. One day he brought a small book to read as the sheep grazed, and she wondered if he had lessons that kept him occupied in the morning hours.
Her chance came as chances do, suddenly and simply. A pregnant ewe, stubborn and stupid—there was always at least one—had wandered off and fallen into a thicket. She’d broken her leg, and she bleated piteously, calling to her young shepherd. Her cries echoed through the trees and over the hillside, and Ghost, lured from one of her hiding places, was tempted to cut her throat to end her misery. But Ghost hung back, not wanting to risk being seen, and watched as the boy made his way to the sheep. She wondered if he would have the skill and stomach to kill the wounded animal. It was an unpleasant task for one so young.
He sat back for a moment, hands on his thighs, head bowed in thought. Then, as though the sheep weighed no more than an unwieldy bag of grain, he scooped her up and slung her across his shoulders.
The sheep bellowed, and Ghost gaped, stunned at the boy’s strength. The pregnant ewe had to outweigh him by five stone, if not more. It was almost comical, the braying beast with her spindly legs nearly brushing the ground, draped across a back that should not have been able to hoist such a burden. Yet the boy carried the sheep with a steady tread, singing an odd chant Ghost had often heard echoing from inside the temple walls. The ewe would have to be put down, but the boy clearly was unwilling to leave her.
Evidently, he was unwilling to leave any of them, and he began to gather the grazing herd, walking the perimeter, tightening the circle. He drove the flock up the hill toward the east gate, barking and pushing, urging them onward. And all the while he carried the injured sheep. Ghost hovered at the tree line, inching up the hill behind him, watching his progress with fascination.
It took him two hours, trotting to and fro to keep the herd moving in the right direction, before he finally rang the bell on the eastern gate. The day was waning, he was drenched in sweat, but every sheep was accounted for. The dissonant clanging brought the watchman to the tower.
“Open the gate,” the watchman bellowed, seeing the boy with his staggering burden. Nothing happened, and the watchman bellowed again, clearly perturbed.
“Hold on, boy. I’ll raise it myself.”
Ghost didn’t stop to think or consider. She simply ran, flying up the rise from the little copse of trees a hundred yards from the east entrance. No one cried out from the wall, no horns bugled in alert. The Temple Boy, his view obscured by the animal draped across his shoulders, did not turn toward her. She would simply walk through the gate with the flock. If anyone saw her, she would appear to be helping him.