“We can keep our own women safe, Majesty,” Lothgar growled.
“They are not your women, Lothgar. They are Saylok’s salvation,” Banruud roared.
“So clever of you, Majesty. If you control the women of Saylok . . . you control the men,” the Highest Keeper mused, and the atmosphere in the room throbbed and thrummed.
“The mount cannot hold all the daughters of Saylok. Even with the drought, there are hundreds of daughters between the ages of twelve and twenty,” Ivo added, his voice soft but his eyes sharp in his withered face.
Lothgar grunted and the chieftains began to nod. Banruud felt a swell of desperation in his chest.
“Then bring me one. One young daughter from every clan. If not for safety . . . then for symbolism. They can be raised in the temple by the keepers. Kept, like the sacred runes, safe and sound.” Banruud had meant to mock, to shine further light on the ineptitude and uselessness of the keepers, but Master Ivo nodded as though he agreed.
“You mean to separate them from their families?” Chief Josef interrupted, troubled.
“A supplicant leaves his family when he comes to the temple, does he not, Master Ivo?” Banruud asked, though he knew the answer.
“He does,” the Highest Keeper murmured, nodding.
“Well then.” Banruud raised his palms with a shrug, as if his solution was a simple matter.
“Women cannot be supplicants, Majesty. And keepers are not nursemaids,” Keeper Amos argued.
“But Master Ivo is the Highest Keeper. He can make it so. The Keepers of Saylok have the power to choose kings. Surely you have the power to do this. Women can be gods . . . Why not supplicants?” Banruud purred.
Amos bowed his head. Banruud turned his attention back to the Highest Keeper, sensing victory.
“Do you think you are above the gods, Ivo?” Banruud pressed.
Ivo regarded him silently.
“Why would the daughters be supplicants? You have no intention of them becoming keepers,” Ivo stated.
“Do all supplicants become keepers?” Banruud inquired, innocence dripping from his words. “Your duty is to see to the continuance of the clans of Saylok. There will be no kings if there aren’t women to birth them. There will be no keepers either, though I’m convinced you, Master Ivo, were hatched from an egg,” Banruud said. No one dared laugh.
Ivo was silent so long the chieftains began to shift and squirm.
“Very well,” Ivo whispered. “Bring the daughters here. Bring them to the temple.”
“Very well,” Banruud echoed.
“Six daughters of Saylok—one from each clan—will become supplicants,” Ivo intoned, his voice dark, his eyes lit with unholy fire. “The king has decreed it. We have all witnessed it. Who am I to disagree?”
“She is seven years old. Her mother was a concubine in King Kembah’s court. They called her Bashti. King Kembah has more daughters than he knows what to do with. He is fond of his wives, but eager to make trades for his daughters. He gave us ten of them—all ages. Bashti was the youngest. I don’t know what happened to her mother.”
“Bashti of Berne,” Chieftain Benjie grunted. “She will do.”
“But she is not . . . of Berne, Lord,” the warrior said.
“She is now.”
“But the king wants a daughter of Berne,” the warrior protested.
“Do you want to give your daughter to the temple, man?” Benjie asked, churlish.
“I have no daughters, Lord.”
“No. Neither do I,” Benjie snapped. “Do any of you want to give your daughters?”
The men who had daughters hung their heads. The men who did not stared at the little girl with the corkscrew curls and the dark eyes. She was as brown as tree bark and dressed like a little boy, though her hair and fine features made the attempts at disguise ineffective. She did not look like she hailed from the Clan of the Bear. No one would believe she was from Berne. Not the keepers, not the king. But she was a girl, and that was all that really mattered.
“Is she healthy?” Benjie pressed.
“My wife says she’s never been sick . . . not even once. But she has a temper and doesn’t like to keep still. The temple might not be the place for her.”
“We will let the keepers worry about that.” The Chieftain of Berne pricked the tip of his finger with his blade and smeared his blood on the little girl’s brow. She didn’t flinch but watched him with her hands clenched and her eyes wide.
“You are now Bashti of Berne. Daughter of the bear. Child of this clan. Supplicant to the Keepers of Saylok.” Chieftain Benjie turned away and sheathed his knife, but not before muttering, “We’re all doomed.”
“The chieftain says we must have a daughter from Ebba. You will live in the temple. You will be safe,” the woman said, trying to smile at her daughter, trying to convince her.
“I will work harder. I won’t eat as much. I’ll sleep with the animals,” Elayne pled, clinging to her mother, frantic.
“Elayne, my sweet daughter. I am not sending you away. I am giving you to the gods.”
“The gods do not need me. You and Father need me. My brothers need me,” Elayne begged.
“I care only for your life. You are twelve years old. There have been no daughters in our village since you were born. You are one of the last. In a few years you will be pressed to marry and have children for the clan. You are so young, and I want so much more for you. If you go to the temple, you will be protected. Even . . . worshipped. At least for a while. Lord Erskin says the keepers will teach you. It will be a better life, Elayne, than the one we can give you,” the woman cried. Her red hair and freckled cheeks were faded, as though strife had leached the color from every aspect of her existence. Someday Elayne would look just like her.
“Please don’t do this,” Elayne wept. “I don’t want to go to the temple. I want to stay with you.”
“You must do this for me, daughter. You must do this and give me hope for your life and your happiness.”
“I could never be happy without you.”
“And I will never be happy if I don’t make you seize this chance.”
“But what if . . . it is a bad place?”
“It cannot be worse than this,” Elayne’s mother whispered. “We are at war. To become a woman in the temple will be better than becoming a woman in Ebba.”
“How old are you, girl?” the Chieftain of Leok asked. He’d demanded every girl child be brought before him. Thus far, not one family had obeyed the summons. The word had spread among the people that a daughter of Leok would be sent to live in the temple among the keepers, and none of them were willing to part with theirs. But one girl had come, seeking entry in his hall, asking for “Lord Lothgar.”
She was small, but her sharp eyes belied her size. He repeated the question when she failed to answer him.
“I don’t know how old I am,” she answered, impudent. Her shoulders tightened and she stared down at her bare feet. They were black with filth.
“Where did you come from?” he pressed.
“I am of Leok.”
“If you were born in Leok, I would have known.”