He lived in the chieftain’s keep and slept in the vast chieftain’s chamber, the fur and antlers of beasts he hadn’t killed lining the walls. Dirth had left behind a wife, Dursula of Dolphys, who had resided in the chieftain’s keep since becoming Dirth’s bride at sixteen, more than thirty years before. In the clans, it was the new chieftain’s duty to care for the old chieftain’s family, and Bayr bade Dursula stay in the keep. She had outlived her husband and her sons, and her daughter was grown and gone. Bayr had no woman, no family in Dolphys but Dred, and he welcomed her presence. She ran the household—a household Bayr dwelled in but never called home—and tried to mother him, though he’d never been mothered before. Dred was fond of her and spent more time in the keep because of her, which also suited Bayr. Space and solitude invited loneliness, and loneliness invited thoughts of those he’d left behind.
Dred had been right about many things. Bayr loved Dolphys, he loved the people, and though he tried not to dwell on thoughts of his uncle, he saw Dagmar in his grandfather, in the stubborn set of his shoulders and the size of his hands. Sometimes he slipped and called Dred Dagmar, and Dred would laugh and shake his head, and that too would remind Bayr of the man who had raised him.
Alba’s birthday had come and gone. One year. Two years. Three. Each year, Bayr sent a rider from Dolphys to the temple mount to deliver letters for everyone and gifts for Alba when her day drew near. Eight perfect feathers from a peacock, nine crystals from Shinway, ten silver bangles, eleven silk kerchiefs from a marooned ship of trade. She always replied with sweet thanks and a missive that brought her to life on the page. She was a far better writer than he, brimming with things to say, and he missed her desperately. Dagmar always sent letters back too, letters filled with tales of the temple and the girls that lived within her walls. After Alba turned eleven, he sent a letter that made Bayr so homesick and heart weary, he could hardly finish it.
My Bayr,
We all live for your letters. As for Alba’s gifts, you have created an expectation that will be a problem in coming years, I fear. What will you do when you reach even greater numbers? I marvel at your ingenuity thus far. We are as well as can be expected. The daughters are growing and learning, and I find joy in them as I found joy in you.
Bashti longs for a life beyond the mount. She is a master at disguise and improvisation, and she has run away from the temple a dozen times. Her darker skin makes her more conspicuous, but like Ghost, whose skin is far more noticeable, she has learned to adapt and blend when need be. She claims when she is grown she will go back to Bomboska—she may be called Bashti of Berne, but she feels no allegiance to the clan. I fear Bomboska will not be what she imagines. No place ever is, and she is of Saylok now, whether she realizes it or not. I’ve come to believe that home is not a place. Home is inside of us. Home is the people we love. Home is what we strive for. Bashti is from Bomboska, but that is not who she is. In her heart Bashti knows this, for when she runs, she always returns.
Elayne of Ebba is a woman now, and her kindness and beauty are something to behold. Her only rebellion came when, two years ago, she refused to crop her hair. It is a glorious red, as you likely remember. She promised to braid it tightly around her head so it would not draw the eye. The other girls were quick to follow, and now all wear their hair in the same plaited wreaths. Even Ghost has quit shearing her locks, and it circles her head like a white crown. I fear the style does not accomplish what a shorn head would, but they have conformed in so much, Ivo has allowed it.
Since you left, Juliah of Joran has taken it upon herself to become their protector. She has demanded the daughters become proficient with a sword, and they spend time in instruction each day. Ivo has encouraged it with great enthusiasm. As you well know, all keepers, even the aged, must be able to protect the temple. We have never neglected the necessity of the warrior in ourselves and must not neglect it in these girl children. I see them with their heavy swords, and I think of you as a child, my Bayr, wielding your own, mimicking the movements of the keepers in their exercises, dueling with the king’s guard, small yet full of grace and strength. I suspect you have grown since I saw you last.
Liis of Leok sings to us sparingly. She will join her voice with ours, and we all find ourselves singing as softly as we are able so that we can hear her, but she rarely sings alone. There is great power in her song. I think she fears it. She has rune blood, young Liis. But to be a keeper with rune blood is to carry the weight of worlds. We have not burdened her with knowledge that we can’t expunge. If she is to be a keeper in truth, she will be committing her life to the temple, and that is a choice not made lightly. We will not force it upon her.
Alba has rune blood as well. You know this, as you warned me of the things she can do. She joins us in the temple for instruction—even instruction with a sword—but her father has suddenly become aware of her, and she has very little freedom. Mayhaps it is that she stands on the cusp of womanhood, and he knows her value. She is blessed with beauty and a placid wisdom that reminds me a little of Ghost. Mayhaps it is the time they spend together. I fear for her, Bayr, and I know you do as well. Know that, for now, she is well and whole, and in a time such as this, the restrictions on her freedom may be warranted.
There are still no daughters of Saylok. Daughters from other lands have come to the clans only to give birth to sons, and the drought continues. It has been eleven years since Alba was born, eighteen since your mother died, and I fear nothing will cure our ills.
We have more women at the temple now, from every clan. One by one, they began arriving at the gates of the temple mount with no place else to go, seeking asylum and sanctuary. Though most women are greedily guarded and accounted for in the clans, there are the few who have lost their protectors or been driven from their homes by raids or war. Some of them are grown—women of Saylok born before the scourge—some are children, brought here by trade or raid or by the marriage of their mothers.
We’ve become a school instead of a temple, a haven instead of a holy place. Ivo says we are Keepers of Saylok, and all who come to us are supplicants to be considered, though we haven’t accepted a new brother since the daughters were entrusted into our care. If this continues, there will be more females than keepers in the temple. A few were only with us for a short while. Two women married members of the king’s guard, and one girl’s father came looking for her. She’d thought him dead and was overjoyed to see him. We do not demand that anyone stay, but if they do, they are taught the ways of the temple and the history of Saylok. We have not attempted to impart the wisdom of the runes or in any way share their power. It is not knowledge for the faint of heart or the shelter seeker. Those who are fully entrusted with the knowledge of the runes—true keepers—won’t ever be able to leave the temple.
But I have digressed from my accounting of the daughters that you know. Dalys of Dolphys is still frail. The braid round her head is bigger than she is, and her eyes seem to be the only part of her that grows. She is older than Alba but much smaller. She makes lovely pictures and is quite content to dwell in her paintings where she is the master and creator. She cannot wield a sword, and we dare not spill her blood, even to power a rune. She becomes ill at the sight, and her illness doesn’t pass. Ivo suspects she has rune blood, but we do not know. Do your people ask about her? I’ve wondered if the clans take courage from the temple and the torch that continually burns in honor of these daughters—of all the clan daughters—young and old. Do they represent hope or simply a world that is separate from their own struggles?