Alba seemed soothed by her presence and made no effort to fill the silence, though her head was bowed and her sadness palpable.
“Where I am from, your name means ‘sunrise.’ Did you know that?” Ghost asked her, desperate to brighten her thoughts.
The little girl shook her head.
“You were born just after dawn. The night had been so long and the pain so great . . . and then the sun peeked in through the window and welcomed you into the world.”
“Did my mother tell you that story?” Alba asked.
Ghost could only nod.
“Did Bayr go to be with my mother?”
“No. Oh, no, Alba. He is not as far as that. He has gone to be with his clan.”
“I want to go too. Where is my clan?”
“All of Saylok is your clan. The keepers are your clan. The temple girls. I am your clan.”
“Princess Alba of Saylok,” Alba murmured, and Ghost closed her eyes in silent supplication.
“Princess Alba of Saylok,” she agreed, willing it to always be so.
“Do you promise you won’t disappear?” Alba asked after a time, her voice slurred and sleepy.
“Yes. I promise.”
“Do not let him see you, Moon Lady.”
Ghost smiled at the name. “What did you call me?”
“Moon Lady,” the little girl muttered, and she yawned widely. She crawled into Ghost’s lap and laid her head upon her breast. “Don’t let Banruud see you,” she entreated. She called the king by his name as though she felt no affinity for him at all. She yawned again, and her body grew slack with approaching slumber. “He makes people disappear.”
Ghost had expected an empty sanctum, and Dagmar’s presence in the shadows made her start and clutch at her heart.
“Where did you go?” he whispered.
“The princess . . . I went to see the princess. She is so alone.”
“Yes. She is. We . . . all are.”
“But she is a child.” Her voice was harsh, and Ghost flinched in remorse when he raised his bruised eyes to hers.
He nodded, and even in the wavering glow of the candles that circled the altar, she saw him swallow, his throat churning out words he didn’t say. His face was wet and his shoulders hunched. She sat down beside him, a space between them, wanting to comfort him the way she’d comforted Alba and fearing his rejection.
“I climbed the bell tower so I could watch them go. The view toward Dolphys is clear for miles,” he whispered.
“You’re bleeding,” she rebuked him.
“When I couldn’t see him any longer, I drew a rune of sight to show him to me. When it weakened, I drew another. And then another.” His hands were pocked with puncture marks. “I cannot do that again. I will drive myself mad trying to watch over him. I am a keeper, not a god. Seeing him will do me no good. It will do him no good. And it is a misuse of the runes.”
“You will ruin your hands,” she whispered.
He clenched his fists, hiding the wounds. She relented, reaching for him and drawing his hands into her lap. He clung to her hand as though he were drowning. Around the wounds, his palms were so rough and scarred it was a wonder he could feel her touch at all. He trembled and his eyes found hers.
“I have no defenses this night, Ghost. None. I cannot see purpose. I cannot see the dawn. Not even in the runes. I only see the darkness and my own despair. You should leave me.” He rose from the bench, but he didn’t step away and he didn’t release her hand.
“Does my presence give you comfort?” she asked, rising beside him.
“Yes.”
“Then I will stay.”
He shuddered once and his hand convulsed around hers. She brought his left palm to her lips and pressed her mouth to the center. She thought of Alba, who had crawled into her lap and buried her face in her chest, and she wondered who had received the most from the exchange. No doubt, it was Ghost, and comforting Dagmar would be the same.
“Comfort is not love,” she murmured, reassuring him, and she kissed his other palm.
“It is a form of it,” he whispered. Then he pulled her into his arms and laid his cheek on her head. Ghost made herself breathe, resting her hands on his back, wanting to stroke the long lines but standing still within his embrace instead.
“Bayr grew so quickly,” he mourned. “With abilities and strength like he has, it makes sense that he would quickly gain confidence. Confidence and independence go hand in hand. But I look back on the days when he was a newborn babe, when I had to hold him all night to keep him from crying, and I long for that time. There will never be a night like that again.”
“No,” she whispered, remembering the days after Alba’s birth. “There never will be.”
She felt the tremor of a building grief in his chest and could no longer keep silent.
“Why, Dagmar? Why did you let him go?” she asked, not understanding. “Why did you not keep him here, with us?”
He was suddenly striding for the altar, dragging her behind him like he had to escape, like he had to be free of the incense and the candles, the guilt and the grief. Beyond the altar was a wall that shifted and became a door, and when they stepped inside, he closed it again. The scrape of stone on stone was the only warning before darkness closed around them. Dagmar didn’t slow, and he didn’t explain. He just pulled her forward as though the lack of light was of no consequence. The passage smelled of earth and time and tenuous breath, and she didn’t ask where they were going or how long it would take to arrive. She simply clung to his hand and reveled in the contact, trusting that they would reach the other end, yet hardly caring if they ever did.
They walked in silence for a dark eternity, hand in hand until the ground rose and the scent shifted, becoming grassy and open, the fragrance of air and space. Then Dagmar released her hand and unlatched another door, inviting the light of the moon to wash over them as they stepped out onto the hillside, the temple mount above them, the King’s Village below.
“There are some secrets that can only be shared out of doors, beyond walls. I can’t take the chance that they will linger to be heard again,” he murmured, his voice so low Ghost had to lean into him to capture his words.
“Twenty years ago, when I was the same age as Bayr is now, I left Dolphys for the temple. I was so confident. So sure. I knew where I belonged. Now I am fleeing the temple because I know nothing. I am powerless. Unsure. And my heart is, at this moment, traveling back to Dolphys.”
He paused, his eyes straying to the east, and Ghost knew he had not fled the temple to kiss her lips or lie with her in the grass. He had fled the walls because he wanted to follow after Bayr, and he needed Ghost to make him stay. The secrets he had to tell were not sweet professions of love or lust. He was a man weighed down by longing, but not longing for her.
“Bayr is the king’s son. He is Banruud’s son,” he whispered, and his tears began to fall.
The breath fled from her lungs and her vision swam. She must have swayed in her surprise, because Dagmar pulled her down to the grass, enfolding her in his arms as though he feared she would run away and he would be left to carry his burden alone.
“Oh, Dagmar,” she gasped.
He collapsed into her, his head in her lap, his arms encircling her waist, and she caressed the shadowy growth of hair that covered his head.