“Daughters of Freya, goddess of fertility, goddess of childbirth, wife of Odin the Allfather, we welcome you,” Ivo cried, gliding across the courtyard toward the massive Hearth of Kings that was as old as the temple itself. It only burned when a new king was chosen, and it had grown cold since Banruud was crowned. The higher keepers moved behind him, one representing each clan, as though they’d devised an entire ceremony beforehand.
“These daughters of the clans, these daughters of Freya, will be guarded, their lives revered, their virtue defended. They will be a symbol to Saylok just like her runes,” the Highest Keeper boomed. In a show of sheer pageantry, he touched the sharp tip of his fingernail to his palm. The blood that welled became ink for the rune he painted upon the stone hearth. The rune became flame, whooshing up in a triumphant column.
“Saylok needs daughters. From this day forward, these daughters—your daughters—will keep the flame lit. As long as it burns, you will know that the daughters of Freya are tending it, that the Keepers of Saylok are tending them, and Saylok will live on.”
The child in Banruud’s arms was lit by the glow, and the jeweled crown upon his head cast a glittering rainbow across the faces of the keepers. Ivo was a magician, but Banruud was king, and his anger became an inferno.
“We will guard them well, just as we honor the princess,” Master Ivo added, his tone placating but his gaze a challenge. The kneeling chiefs began to nod, looking from Banruud and his daughter to the Highest Keeper.
“Bayr of Saylok, a child raised here on the temple mount and blessed with exceeding strength, will be their protector as well, just as he has protected the princess,” the Highest Keeper promised, extending his arms toward the boy as though he presented the chieftains with an incredible gift.
Word of the Temple Boy’s slaying of the castle intruders had become a much-embellished legend throughout the land. To hear it told, the boy had defeated an army single-handedly with only his bare hands.
The Temple Boy was the size of a man, though he stuttered like a child and his cheeks were still smooth. He rarely spoke at all and did not attempt to voice his agreement now. He simply dropped to one knee and bowed his head as though being knighted to the cause. But it was answer enough, and the chieftains rose to their feet, nodding and clutching their braids as though they grasped the hilts of swords slung across their backs. Bayr met the gaze of each one and stood, clasping his own braid in a posture of promise.
“The Temple Boy will guard them,” Aidan roared, releasing his braid and raising his fist to the sky. The chieftains of Ebba, Dolphys, Leok, and Joran copied his motion. Benjie was the only chieftain who hesitated, his eyes shifting from Banruud’s face, to the men around him, to the boy who inspired such confidence in the clans. But Benjie’s fist soon followed, striking the night sky with his own endorsement.
“From this day forward, we will call them the Daughters of Freya, and they will be a light to the clans,” Lothgar boomed, repeating the words of the Highest Keeper like he’d composed them himself.
Alba was squirming to be released, and Banruud set her down, disgusted with his complete loss of control over the situation. The child ran to the Temple Boy, choosing him, completing the appearance of an anointing. Bayr took her hand and bowed to the chieftains again. Then he bowed to the Highest Keeper and finally to the king himself. And still he didn’t utter a word. Banruud considered demanding an oath just to embarrass the boy and demonstrate his weakness in front of the chieftains. His stumbling speech would undermine their confidence in him. They were so quick to raise their fists and cling to a savior.
But Banruud could be magnanimous now. The Highest Keeper could have his flame, and the boy could guard it. The keepers were peasants in purple robes, the boy was a hulking idiot, and the chieftains were fools.
“So be it, Temple Boy. I entrust the Daughters of Freya to your care and to the care of the Keepers of Saylok,” Banruud said, relenting. “Do not fail me. Do not fail them.”
In the meantime, if something happened to one of their daughters, the chieftains and the people of Saylok would have someone to blame.
“What do we do, Master?” Dagmar worried, his eyes on the huddled daughters eating in the flickering candlelight of the temple kitchen. Dagmar had hoped the chieftains would not obey their king.
He should have known better.
The chieftains were afraid. Saylok was afraid. A girl child from each clan—adopted by each clan—was their way of fighting back against a faceless foe, of preserving life, of bartering with the gods. Bringing a daughter to the temple was like storing gold in the ground, sewing jewels into a cloak, or hoarding food against a weak harvest.
“They are supplicants, Dagmar. We will treat them as such,” Ivo replied.
“They are not. They are little girls who have been ripped from their homes.”
“Their sacrifice has been noted by Odin himself. We will give them a home here,” Ivo soothed.
“It was you who taught me that the only sacrifice with any power is the one that is willingly made. These children are not willing.”
Ivo sighed. “We ask nothing of them, Dagmar. Nothing. We will simply keep them safe.”
“And their clothing? Their hair?” They were not warriors. They were not yet women. They were no longer even children.
“We are keepers. If they are to live among keepers, they must behave like keepers. They must look like keepers. We will cut their hair and dress them in supplicants’ robes. It will offer them a measure of protection that their femininity does not.”
“They are children,” Dagmar mourned.
“You have raised a child, Dagmar. You have provided us all with invaluable experience.”
Dagmar shook his head, fighting anguish. “My experience,” he scoffed. “I cannot protect Bayr. I cannot protect these girls. You saw the king this night. Bayr is at his mercy. These girls are at his mercy. He will use them to increase his power. It is a sham, Master.”
“Only to the king, Keeper. Not to me. Not to Saylok.”
“Then . . . we will instruct them?” Dagmar whispered, his eyes still lingering on the lost little girls. “Even in the runes?”
Ivo was silent, contemplating, and then he sighed. “Not yet. Mayhaps not ever. We will see where the rune blood flows, if it flows at all. Not every supplicant becomes a keeper.” His voice held a note of dark irony as he quoted the king. “But every supplicant is protected by the sanctuary of the temple, and no chieftain or king can withdraw a supplicant once they have been pledged.”
“Only the Highest Keeper can release or refuse a supplicant,” Dagmar whispered, realization dawning.
“Yes.” Ivo nodded. “I didn’t think it necessary to remind King Banruud or the six clan chieftains of that mandate.”
“Oh, Master. You are wily.”
“Prescient. I am prescient,” Ivo sniffed, not liking Dagmar’s description. “It is better to let Banruud think the idea was his own. When I resist, he is so much more eager.”
Dagmar could only shake his head in wonder.
“Our goal is to make sure every daughter grows to become a woman. However long it takes,” Ivo murmured.
“They are just little girls,” Dagmar whispered. “Can we do this, Master?” Dagmar longed to sink to his knees and slash his palms to carve a rune of comfort into the stones of the kitchen floor, but he stayed still, trusting Ivo to do what must be done, though his heart bled instead of his hands.