“Dolphys has yet to choose. The boy must go before the clan to make a claim.”
“You will be chieftain, Dred of Dolphys,” the king retorted. “We all sat at council when it was decided.”
“One old man for another?” Dred asked. “That is not in the best interest of my clan.” His clansmen shifted again, and Dred willed them to hold their tongues.
“You have the blessing of the keepers, the support of the chieftains, the nod of a king. Why do you insist on claiming the boy?” Aidan of Adyar asked, his voice thoughtful, his gaze shrewd.
“I am not the best choice. If given the opportunity, I have no doubt my clan will choose him.” He pointed at Bayr, and all eyes followed his finger.
“Father,” Dagmar said. It was only one word and not loudly spoken, but it was said with a reverence Dagmar had never bestowed upon his sire before. Dred’s doubt dissolved, and his heart swelled.
“He is not yet grown,” Erskin argued. “How can he lead a clan?”
“Have you killed a man, Bayr of Saylok?” Aidan asked, turning his eyes up the steps to where the keepers hovered around the Temple Boy.
Bayr nodded once. “Yes.”
“Have you bedded a woman?” Lothgar boomed.
“Th-there w-was no b-bed,” Bayr stammered.
Lothgar grinned and the men at Dred’s back relaxed infinitesimally.
“Sounds like a man to me,” Aidan said. “Looks like one too.”
“He has protected the temple and the princess since the king was crowned. He has not failed or faltered. But he has a clan, and his clan has claimed him, and you cannot deny us our chieftain,” Dred pressed, sensing victory.
He watched Dagmar wrap his hand around Bayr’s arm, willing him to yield, to trust. And Bayr stayed silent though his eyes were wide and terrified, and his gaze pled for explanation.
“The clan has not made their selection. Your people have not spoken. You cannot speak for them, Dred of Dolphys.”
“I can’t. But the boy must come to Dolphys and be heard,” Dred insisted.
Bayr’s face grew as pale as the temple steps.
“This is a farce,” the king argued, his tone glacial.
“It is not,” the Highest Keeper intoned from the shadow of his hood. “Dred of Dolphys is a man of vision.”
Erskin scoffed and Lothgar folded his powerful arms in disbelief. Dred was many things, but a visionary was not one of them, and they all well knew it.
“He forsakes his own claim to the chiefdom for another, better man,” the Highest Keeper hissed. “Would you do the same? I can think of many warriors in Ebba and Leok who would lead their clans with great distinction.”
“The clan will choose him.” Dagmar’s voice rose, strong and sure. “I am a keeper of Dolphys. In the temple, it is I who represent the clan. Bayr of Dolphys has my blessing.”
“He cannot forsake Saylok for a single clan,” Banruud protested.
“He is not a slave, not a supplicant, not the son of the king,” the Highest Keeper said. “He has fulfilled a duty and will now fulfill another. When you were chosen as king, Sire, you did not break an oath to Berne. Someone took your place. Someone will take his place.” The Highest Keeper’s voice was so mild—and cutting—none could disagree.
“And if he is not chosen?” Lothgar interrupted.
“If I am n-not chosen . . . I w-will return,” Bayr promised, and Dred wished for Thor’s hammer to fall upon the boy’s head. Damn his loyal heart. If he was not chosen, Dred would kill him.
But the boy’s vow eased the tension in the chieftains, and Aidan of Adyar grasped his braid with one hand and his sword with the other. “He’s been claimed. Let him go. If the Norns will it, he will return.”
Lothgar of Leok mimicked the gesture, but Erskin of Ebba and Benjie of Berne did not. The king’s face was a mask of indecision, his big legs planted, his arms folded, his shoulders set. Still, no one stepped forward to hinder the boy’s progress as the keepers parted and Dagmar escorted Bayr to Dred’s side.
Dred did not look into the eyes of his son or the boy who walked beside him. He feared what he would see there, feared his own reaction to the raw emotion rippling around them, to the parting that was about to take place.
“To Dolphys,” Dred shouted, daring any man to disagree.
“To Dolphys,” the warriors behind him bellowed, and as one they turned for their horses.
“To Dolphys,” Dagmar ordered, his voice low and full of love.
And the boy obeyed.
“Please don’t be afraid. I am . . . I am not supposed to be here . . . in the castle. But I knew you would be sad,” Ghost whispered. She’d come through the tunnel that led from the sanctum to the king’s throne room and then made her way to Alba’s chamber, terrified that she’d be spotted, certain she would be found, yet unwilling to stay away. The grief on the temple mount was a thrumming heartbeat, but Alba would feel Bayr’s loss most keenly. She had been raised beneath his wing, and the years ahead would be cold.
Alba sat up from the rumpled blankets of her bed. No one had braided her hair for the night or bade her change into bedclothes, and she still wore her day gown and leather slippers on her feet.
“Why would I be afraid?” Alba asked, wiping at tearstained cheeks.
“Sometimes the way I look frightens people. I have been told I am even more terrifying in the dark.”
Alba studied her thoughtfully. “You look like the moon,” she murmured.
“I do?”
The little girl nodded. “The moon isn’t scary. The moon is the only light in the sky.”
“What about the stars?”
“I can’t see the stars tonight.” Her voice turned dull as though she’d suddenly remembered all that had transpired. She lay back down on the pillows.
“Can I comb your hair and help you get ready for bed?”
The girl sighed and sat up again, pushing her unkempt hair from her eyes. “Very well. Grandmother tried to help me. But I was a beast.”
“A beast?”
“Yes. I screamed and growled and scratched, and I made her go away.”
Ghost was grateful the old queen had tried. “Why did you do that?”
“Everyone else goes away,” Alba said. “Even when I am not a beast.”
“I will not go,” Ghost said soothingly as she picked up the brush on the gilded stand beneath the looking glass.
“The servants say my father is a beast too,” Alba confessed.
Ghost stiffened but began brushing Alba’s hair, disentangling one silvery lock from another.
“It’s true,” Alba continued in a whisper. “He is. He hurt Bayr. And Bayr had to go.”
“He hurt Bayr?” Ghost asked. No one had told her this.
“Bayr would not fight. I saw him, and I was afraid. I ran away.”
“Has he hurt you?” Ghost determined in that moment that if the girl said yes, she would take her from the palace, and somehow, someway, they would leave Saylok and never come back.
“Just my heart.” It would have sounded pathetic coming from a grown woman, romantic and silly, but from this child it was a sharp blade in Ghost’s chest, and it put her at a loss for words.