Aidan was purposely trying to inflame the other chieftains and Banruud ignored him, waving his hand toward his manservant, who trotted forward to assist the lord of Adyar, signifying his dismissal. Alba was guarded by the Temple Boy and tended by servants. The king rarely saw her. Still, Lady Esa could take Alannah’s chamber if she wished. It made no difference to him. He was more interested in the girl children assembled to greet him.
“This is Elayne of Ebba,” Chieftain Erskin announced, bowing slightly. He looked weary and planned to leave again at first light. The trouble in Ebba was worsening. Banruud had promised to join him soon, and the chieftains in every clan were sending warriors to his aid.
The girl curtsied deeply but didn’t raise her red-rimmed eyes to the king. Her hair was a fiery tangle, her nose freckled, her lips full. She might grow to be a beauty or become plainer by the day. It was too soon to tell. She was lean and long and the biggest of the lot. In a few years, she would be old enough to wed. She’d clearly been born before the drought.
Banruud moved on to the next chieftain, his cousin from Berne. Benjie had always been easy to manipulate and control. Banruud doubted this time would be any different. A girl with glowing brown skin and coiled black curls watched him approach. She was dressed from head to toe in the deep red of Berne, but she was a stranger to the clan. The Bernians were typically pale-skinned.
“Who is this?” Banruud murmured. The girl did not shrink before him though he towered over her.
“This is Bashti of Berne,” Banruud’s cousin grunted. Benjie put his hand on the girl’s back and urged her forward. She planted her feet and pressed back.
“Bashti of . . . Berne?” Banruud questioned.
“Bashti of Berne . . . daughter of Kembah, most likely.”
“If she is a daughter of Kembah, she is not a daughter of Berne, Benjie. Plus, Kembah is a king,” Banruud disagreed. “I doubt this girl is Kembah’s. But if it suits you to pretend, cousin, I will not argue.”
“Mayhaps when she is grown we can make an alliance,” Benjie offered. He had clearly thought through his presentation on his journey from Berne.
“Mayhaps. If she has a womb she will grow into, it is enough.” Banruud raised his voice, including the other chieftains in his query. “Have you all brought me foreign wombs to beget other wombs?”
No one answered. No one even breathed. But Banruud knew they had. They’d brought him the cast off and the captured. All except Erskin, who’d brought him the redheaded girl from besieged Ebba. Erskin said her mother had begged him to take her. He wondered if more would come, seeking sanctuary at the temple mount. Banruud’s power would grow with their numbers.
The chieftains regarded him silently, their insolence and displeasure rolling from them in black waves.
“You said to find daughters. We found daughters, Majesty,” Dirth of Dolphys ground out, his jaw tight, his blue eyes black with resentment.
“So you did,” Banruud said. He only pretended displeasure. The assortment was exactly what he had expected. The children ranged from six to twelve years—five girls with bowed heads and thin backs, all of them older than Alba. Chieftain Josef had brought a girl named Juliah, her long dark hair braided tightly like that of a budding warrior. Josef said she’d been raised by men, and her hair bore witness to the fact. Lothgar had presented “Liis of Leok,” her eyes as old and stony as the temple mount itself. Her golden hair, falling loose around tight shoulders and clenched hands, would draw the eye of kings. The girl called Dalys, sloe-eyed and sooty-locked, delivered by Dirth of Dolphys, clung to the chieftain’s hand as though life in bloody Dolphys was better than life with a king.
“They will stay in the castle, under my watch,” Banruud ordered, turning back toward his palace, indicating an end to all debate.
“You said they would be raised by the keepers,” Lothgar protested. “In the temple.”
“They will be raised with my daughter, in my house,” Banruud shot back. “Princesses of Saylok, all.”
“They are supplicants to the temple. It is what was agreed upon. They will live in the temple and be guarded by the keepers.” Master Ivo stood in the courtyard, the light from the fat moon glancing off his face and hollowing out his black eyes and lips like caves in pale sand. He and his brethren had entered the gathering with no one noticing, their robes melding with the evening sky. His rasping voice raised the hair on Banruud’s neck and the resentment in his chest. The Highest Keeper was a constant thorn in his side.
“It was what we agreed upon, Banruud,” Aidan repeated, still astride his horse. Banruud’s servant hovered helplessly.
“You have no say in the matter, Adyar,” Banruud shot back. “You have come to the temple mount with your hands empty.”
“I have promised this girl’s mother she will live in the temple and be raised in the safety of the sanctum,” Erskin of Ebba protested.
“I have made the same promise to Juliah’s grandfather,” Josef said, his eyes touching on the girl child with the warrior braid.
As if the gods chased her, Alba chose that moment to dash from the arched entry, coming to a teetering halt in front of the assembled chieftains and their retinues. The Temple Boy, her constant shadow, was only steps behind. A gasp rippled through the gathering. The chieftains had not seen the child since Banruud had taken the throne. He had kept her tucked away. Hidden. Even when the clans had come to the mount each year for the tournament, she and the queen had not taken part or made an appearance. Banruud had been afraid someone would take her—take them—from him. Men had tried. But mayhaps he needed to remind his chieftains that he had a girl child. A small, perfect girl child. And they had made him king because of it.
She was a breathtaking creature—light and dark together, as though the moon had made love to midnight and given birth to a human child. The chieftains fell to their knees, Aidan sliding from his charger without a word. Their foreheads touched the earth, and their braids, long again with the five years of his reign, coiled in the dirt beside their heads. Banruud felt a surge of power, and he swept Alba up in his arms. Her small body stiffened in surprise. He had not held her since she was an infant, since he had laid her in the arms of his queen. The chieftains did not bow to anyone . . . but they bowed to her. And because of her, they would continue to look to him.
“These clan daughters will be raised like princesses,” Banruud repeated, pointing at the trembling girl children. “They will be raised beside my own daughter.”
The five girls, standing by the kneeling chieftains, slowly sank to their knees as well. They were in the presence of the princess, the hope of Saylok, and Banruud held Alba even higher, reminding his audience what he had given them.
“No, Highness. They will be raised by keepers,” Master Ivo insisted again. The Highest Keeper had not fallen to his knees. None of the keepers had. Resentment rose in Banruud’s chest and built behind his lips. The Highest Keeper believed himself above all authority. He stood looking down his nose at the king as if he had Odin’s ear. Someday, Banruud would strike him down. He would make them all kneel the way Agnes had knelt, her blood dripping from her slashed throat. Banruud had been certain the Temple Boy would run crying to the keepers after Banruud silenced her, but the idiot had held his twisted tongue. Banruud had given the midwife a burial she’d hardly deserved, laying her to rest at the feet of her beloved queen. No one had questioned him when he related her mad attempt to run him through.