“Bayr does not know,” he wept, and she wept with him.
“And the king?”
He shook his head, helpless, unsure. “My father claimed Bayr as Desdemona’s son. The king is not a fool.”
“You must tell me everything from the beginning,” she begged, and after a brief hesitation, he relented, his words tripping like smooth stones, making hardly a ripple before they sank beneath the surface of the soft night.
“When my sister died . . . she drew two blood runes. Runes she should not have known. One of them required her life in exchange. But she was already dying. And she was angry, bitter. She cursed all the men of Saylok. She said there would be no girl children, no women for such men to love. She cursed Banruud by name.”
“How?” she pressed.
“She said Bayr would be his only son, his only child. In the second rune, she said Bayr would be powerful, so powerful that he would save Saylok, yet his father would reject him.”
“His only child,” Ghost whispered. She wanted to tell him her story, but the words were too heavy and she’d buried them too deep to unearth them so suddenly.
“The runes are not all-powerful. Clearly. Banruud has another child. A daughter. He has Alba. Yet . . . the curse continues. The power of my sister’s blood rune persists. I don’t know how to break it or if it can be broken.”
“Have you told Ivo . . . of the runes?”
“No,” he breathed. “I can’t.”
“You must. He will know what to do.” She bore down against the bile of her own hypocrisy.
“I can’t,” Dagmar insisted again, and she waited, her hand stroking his head, hoping he would share his reasons, that he would trust her. Mayhaps if he trusted her, she could trust him. If he could keep Desdemona’s secrets, he could keep hers as well.
Then Dagmar sat up so he could look down into her face, and Ghost saw herself mirrored in the glassy fear of his gaze.
“If Ivo knows, he will be forced to act. As Highest Keeper he will do—he must do—whatever is necessary to destroy the power of Desdemona’s rune,” Dagmar insisted. “And I cannot take that risk.”
“But . . . is that not . . . what you want?” Ghost asked.
“What if Bayr is the only one who can break the curse?” Dagmar asked, sorrow deepening his tone.
Ghost stared at him, not understanding, and his guilt and grief were terrible to behold.
“What do you mean?”
“Bayr’s birth marked the beginning of the drought. What if his death marks the end?”
20
Bayr had lived his whole life on the temple mount. He’d never gone farther than the King’s Village, never explored the lands beyond the Temple Wood or climbed higher than the temple spires.
He’d taught Alba to swim in the springs tucked back among the caves on the sheer north side of Temple Hill, showed her all the secret tunnels, the hidden passageways, the best caves, and the highest trees. But his world had been a mountain that rose in the heart of a land he’d never explored, and he was eager to see what lay beyond, on every side.
He’d never seen the pebbled beaches of Ebba or climbed the peaks of Shinway in Dolphys. He’d never seen the trees in Berne, trees so massive a bear could make a home in their branches. He’d never seen winter in Adyar, though he’d been told the icicles could impale a man if he walked beneath them. He’d never seen the lush farmlands of Joran or the whales off the shores of Leok. Liis claimed everything was big in Leok. The men, the boats, the beasts, the storms. Bayr wanted to see it all. Yet as he rode away from the temple mount on a horse that wasn’t his, his grandfather beside him, a handful of grim-faced and grizzled warriors around him, he wanted nothing more than to return.
It was better that he struggled with speech, that words felt like bands around his tongue. If he’d been able to voice his feelings, they would have poured from his mouth the way the grief threatened to slip from his eyes. He wanted to cry for Dagmar because he knew Dagmar cried for him. He wanted to sob his frustration at the hateful king; Bayr had no doubt Banruud was the impetus for his expulsion. He wanted to wail for Alba, who was now completely at the king’s mercy, now at the mercy of the tired, the busy, and the weak. No one would care for her as Bayr had. No one would love her as he did.
But Bayr could not weep among the warriors of Dolphys, so he prayed instead, beseeching Odin, Thor, and Freya to guard Alba from the ambitions of her father and the indifference of the keepers. Bayr had been seven years old when he had become her protector. Alba was seven now. Bayr’s childhood had been as fleeting as hers would be. He prayed she would be wise. Shrewd. That she would see the world as it was and not as she wished it would be, if only to better shield herself from the forces around her. His last plea to Dagmar had been for Alba’s protection, and Dagmar had given his word. His prayers and private thoughts were interrupted by the redheaded Dakin, who rode on his right side.
“You’re black and blue. Someone put his hands on you, Temple Boy,” Dakin said. Dakin’s horse whinnied and shook his mane as though to say, “What a shame. What a shame.”
Bayr said nothing, but Dred, who rode ahead of him, turned in his saddle and eyed him, waiting for a response. When he said nothing, Dred explained.
“It doesn’t give the men much confidence in your strength or abilities. They are worried that the tales about you are just that. Tales,” Dred said. Dakin grunted in agreement.
“I h-have n-never t-told t-tales,” Bayr stammered.
“Others have,” young Daniel piped up from behind them, and the men he had not yet been introduced to nodded and mumbled among themselves.
“At the tournament, I saw him lose to the bowman from Ebba,” a warrior grunted. “He’s good . . . but he’s not the best archer. He can throw an axe with incredible force, but his aim is not without match. There are other warriors just as skilled.”
“I saw him win the footrace,” Daniel admitted. “But I doubt he could run for a great distance.”
Bayr sighed. He could run for miles, but he said nothing. He didn’t care whether Daniel believed it or not.
“He bested Lothgar of Leok in the circle. Lothgar has never lost before,” Dred said, his eyes forward, his tone filled with warning.
“’Tis one thing to wrestle a man in the circle, to triumph in a contest of strength or even skill. It is another to face a village of swords or a man intent on killing you,” Dakin answered.
“You said you’d never seen his like,” Dred growled. “What is this game, Dakin?”
“I haven’t. He is a boy who has the strength and size of a man—many men. He belongs in Dolphys. I welcome him. He will be a credit to the clan. But he should not be chieftain,” Dakin said, blunt.
Bayr agreed but kept quiet.
“Would you have stood for me?” Dred asked, eyeing each one of his men. “Would I have had your support as chieftain?”
“Aye,” Dakin answered, and the other men quickly added their ayes, gazes steady, nods firm.
“Then I ask you to speak for Bayr,” Dred said. “To stand with him . . . for me.”
“He is a stranger. The people will challenge him with tasks that will only succeed in getting him killed. We could all speak for him . . . and it wouldn’t be enough.” Dakin’s voice was mild, kind even, and Dred’s chin dropped to his chest and his shoulders slumped in brief dejection. Bayr wished he’d held firm and stayed on the temple mount.