“Sh-she is s-salvation. N-n-not me,” Bayr protested, shaking his head.
They had all believed it. Alba had ended the drought. Yet in the seven years since her birth, there had been no other female born. They’d all rejoiced, crowning her father king. And yet . . . a single rainstorm does not a dry spell end. The years had continued to pass without another girl child.
“Alba is special. But one woman cannot save a nation. We will need a thousand more.”
“And o-one man . . . c-can?”
“The gods have made you mighty.”
“And w-weak.”
“Come with me. I want to show you something,” Dagmar insisted. Bayr rose, differential as he always was, obedient as he’d always been . . . as obedient as any boy who had the power to do whatever he wished could be.
They walked side by side, and Dagmar marveled at Bayr’s size even as he grieved again for the boy who was already a man, whether he was ready or not. The men of Dolphys were strong and broad-shouldered, but their muscles were more sinewy and lean, like those of the wolf they descended from. Bayr had the superior size of the bear, with a back that could carry the world. He was built more like the king.
The room Dagmar brought Bayr to was filled with scrolls and lined with books, books of ages past and books that were freshly inked, a daily record of Saylok and her people. It smelled of dust and diligence, and Dagmar patted the stool where he often perched, indicating Bayr should sit. On the lectern in front of him, he placed the story of a man he’d come to love.
“His name was Moses.”
Bayr waited.
“I haven’t told you his story.”
“I’m n-not sure I c-can read it.” Bayr stared down at the endless lines.
“It is in Latin. If you concentrate, you can make it out. I wanted to teach you so much more.” Dagmar stopped and cleared his throat. There was no time left for Latin.
“The R-r-romans r-ruled the w-world,” Bayr offered.
“Yes. But their empire has fallen. When King Enos brought back a Bible and a cross from the land of the Angles, he also brought back a priest.”
“I r-remember. H-he w-was the first k-keeper.”
“Yes. And the religion of the Christians met the gods of the north. His knowledge has been passed down from one generation to the next. I have taught you what I know in hopes that someday you might want to supplicate Master Ivo to become a keeper.”
Bayr’s mouth slackened in shock. “You w-want me to be a keeper?”
Dagmar responded to his surprise with a rueful smile. “I find I am more like Dred of Dolphys than I thought. But that is not your path.”
“Why?”
“You are a warrior. Like your grandfather. And someday . . . perhaps you will lead Saylok. I feel it, as does Master Ivo.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that this man, Moses, was called to free his people, just as you are.”
“We are n-not enslaved.”
“If nothing is done, we soon will be,” Dagmar argued. “The wars in Ebba have spread to Dolphys. War took the life of the chieftain.”
“I h-have no c-clan,” Bayr protested.
“Dred has claimed you. You are of Dolphys now. But you were christened Bayr of Saylok. I was there the day Master Ivo painted a star upon your head. You must defend all the clans.”
“I w-want only to d-defend the t-temple. And Alba,” Bayr protested.
“There will be no temple if the lands around us are taken. Moses was like you, Bayr. God gave him his power, yet Moses resisted because he could not speak.”
Bayr’s eyes sharpened on his uncle’s face.
“Look. What does it say?” Dagmar insisted.
“‘But I am s-slow of speech, and of a s-slow t-tongue,’” Bayr translated, hitching his way through the sentence. His eyes shot from the difficult Latin to his uncle’s face, his expression one of stunned disbelief.
“Yes,” Dagmar whispered. “Don’t you see? He is just like you.”
“What did his . . . g-god say?” Bayr asked, abandoning the book to entreat his uncle.
“His god said, ‘I have made thy mouth.’”
Bayr frowned, not understanding.
“He made his mouth weak for a purpose. Just as he made you the way you are for a purpose. He made your mouth weak to keep your heart strong.”
Bayr shook his head, resistant to such a contradiction.
“Do not question it,” Dagmar continued. “Do not fear it. You are perfect—you are marvelous and terrible—in your weakness.”
“T-terrible?”
“Men will tremble before you. Yet when you speak, you tremble before god. That is how it should be.”
Bayr did not argue, but he sat, his head bowed, his eyes on the page, trying to discern something more, something to give him courage. To help him walk away.
“The god of the Bible told Moses that he would be Moses’s mouth. That he would tell him what to say,” Dagmar whispered, pointing to the words. “You will know what to say. When the time comes, your words won’t fail you.”
Bayr covered his face with his hands.
“You are not just strong of body. You are strong of heart. You always have been. You have never wavered, never feared or faltered in the face of any obstacle. I watched you at five years old catapult yourself into a grown bear. You didn’t even hesitate. Your strength is not just in your sinews and in your size. Your strength is in your faith and your courage. I’ve never seen you doubt.”
“I c-can’t sp-speak,” he insisted.
“It is your weakness. But weakness can make a man wise. You will listen more. You will think before you speak. You will never believe yourself all-powerful and all-knowing. You will never say what you do not mean.”
“I d-do not w-want to l-leave, Uncle.”
“And I don’t want you to go. But what we want is not always what is best for us. You must go, Bayr. And you must go now.”
“You can’t leave,” Alba forbade him as they stood in the sanctum.
Bayr said nothing, only looking at his small charge with abject misery.
“Who will watch over me? Who will love me?”
“The keepers will w-watch over you. Dagmar w-will watch over y-you.”
“It isn’t the same. Dagmar doesn’t play. He can’t climb trees or carry me on his back. He doesn’t laugh and listen to my stories. He is not . . . you.”
Bayr took the girl in his arms and, with a ferocity he usually kept restrained, hugged her to him.
“Will you come back?” she asked, the tears streaking down her cheeks and wetting the front of his tunic.
He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak at all. His tortured tongue would choke on an answer.
“Do you promise?”
Again, a nod. His hand stroked the fall of hair that tumbled around her shoulders.
“Soon?” she wailed.
“N-n-not soon.” Her tears came harder and his jaw ached from trying to keep his own emotions in check. Ivo had seen his return.
“You will be grown,” the Highest Keeper had promised. “The princess will be grown. And she will need you. Then you will return. But only then.”
“P-please, Alba. Don’t c-cry,” he begged.