“He has always been old,” Ivo cackled from the shadows of the temple steps, and Dagmar made himself let go, though he followed at Bayr’s heels, unable to abide any distance between them. Bayr strode forward and enveloped the Highest Keeper in an embrace that should have reduced him to dust, but Ivo curled his arms around the chieftain and uttered not even a peep of protest.
“We’ve been waiting, Bayr of Saylok,” he murmured, as Bayr released him.
Dagmar knew Ivo had a great deal more to say, but the Highest Keeper urged Bayr into the temple to see the others who were gathering to greet him. Ghost and the clan daughters hurried down the stone steps on the east side of the grand entry, having heard the commotion from the upper floors. From the west staircase, a stream of keepers began to pour, voices raised in welcome, hands clasped in excitement at Bayr’s return.
When Ghost reached out a hand to Bayr in greeting, her smile as careful and quiet as it had always been, Bayr bowed above it, kissing her pale white knuckles. Her smile became sunlight breaking above the eastern hills.
“You are s-still beautiful, Ghost,” Bayr said softly, and the final pieces of Dagmar’s composure crashed to the floor. Of course Bayr would think her so. That he would tell her without artifice or awkwardness was a reminder of the sensitive boy they’d known and the confident man he’d become. “Thank you for l-looking after him,” Bayr added, casting a brief glance at Dagmar so there would be no question to whom he referred.
“Your uncle looks after all of us,” she replied, and pink suffused her alabaster cheeks. Watching them thus, the two people he loved most in the world, was a joy so searing and sweet, Dagmar had to look away to find his breath.
“You are all . . . w-women,” Bayr stammered, raising his eyes from Ghost to the five females who had stopped a few paces behind her. Elayne, Juliah, Liis, Bashti, and Dalys, uncertain how they should greet their old friend, laughed and bowed in the way of the keepers, their years in the temple never more apparent than at that moment. Bayr gripped his braid as though he greeted the king, and his fealty and reverence were not lost on Dagmar.
In response, Juliah grasped the heavy coil that circled her head.
“Mine is not a warrior’s braid, but a warrior’s crown,” she said, a smirk twisting her soft lips.
“The Warrior Queen?” Bayr asked, and her smile widened.
“There has been no coronation, but I accept your title,” she said, lifting her chin like royalty, and her eyes caught on something just over Bayr’s shoulder.
“Bayr?” The voice came from behind him, and for a moment Bayr froze, as though he knew exactly who spoke. He seemed to brace himself before turning, but the shudder that wracked him was visible to all who observed.
“Alba?”
She was framed by the light of the gray afternoon. The heavy temple door had been pushed wide upon Bayr’s entry and never closed. Alba stood on the threshold, perfectly still. In that moment, Dagmar saw the woman and not the child. She was no longer the girl he’d watched grow, day after day, year after year. He saw her the way Bayr would see her, and his heart stuttered and stopped.
She was tall for a woman, taller than many of the keepers, and straight and strong in her carriage and character. She wore her hair loose around her shoulders, the pale gold waves like the long grass in late summer against her deep-blue gown. The light at her back shadowed her features, but Dagmar knew her eyes were as dark as the soil of Saylok, and they were fixed on Bayr’s face. A heartbeat later, she was hurtling through the entrance hall, her skirts clutched in her hands to free her flying feet, her hair streaming behind her. Then she was in his arms, caught up against him, her feet no longer touching the floor, as though she’d leaped past the last few steps.
All was silent around them, a small crowd of stunned observers, watching a reunion that was as wrenching as it was wonderful. Bayr and Alba did not speak, didn’t chatter and preen excitedly the way long-lost friends often do upon finding one another again. They simply stood, locked in a desperate embrace, clinging to each other in quiet commiseration. Dagmar could see Bayr’s face, the closed eyes and the clenched jaw of a man overcome. Alba had begun to weep, her shoulders quaking, her face buried in Bayr’s neck. Bayr simply turned, still clutching her to his chest, her feet still dangling, and strode into the sanctum. He closed the double doors behind him with a shove of his boot.
Among the keepers and the daughters, there was not a dry eye. Ghost, who rarely wept and never admitted it when she did, turned and quickly climbed the stairs, fleeing the loss of her self-control. Dagmar wiped at his own face, wondering whom he should comfort, whom he should go after, or whether he could flee himself. Bayr and Alba weren’t children anymore. Bayr could not sleep at the foot of her bed or carry her on his shoulders. It would not be wise to let them spend time alone. But he could not find it in himself to deny them. To intervene in a welcome home so long awaited would be cruel, and he turned to Ivo, seeking guidance.
“The king is gone, and it’s just as well,” Ivo intoned, always perceptive. “For tonight we will feast in the temple, and Bayr can await Banruud’s return among us.”
Bayr didn’t release Alba, but held her locked in his arms, letting her tears dry and his own settle. The sanctum was a shadowed tomb, the dome spilling light on the altar in straight lines. The colored glass that depicted the story of the clans created a rainbow pattern across the stone floors. The sconces had not been lit for evening, but candles flickered and pooled on every surface. It had looked exactly the same the day they said goodbye, and for a dizzying moment, Bayr tightened his arms around the woman, remembering the child.
But the child was gone.
Alba wasn’t the same.
He wasn’t the same.
He set her on her feet and carefully released her, taking a step back, then another, suddenly shy. This was not his Alba. This was a woman grown, and he didn’t know what to say. He’d brought her into the sanctum so the keepers wouldn’t see him weep. He’d wanted to guard the moment, to shield it from view, to keep it for himself. He hadn’t wanted to share it . . . or her . . . with another soul.
She wiped at her cheeks with the base of her palm, a gesture he instantly remembered, and his sudden discomfort eased slightly. But when she raised her eyes to his, he forgot himself again, his disorientation rearing its spinning head.
She was so beautiful.
The softness of her child’s face had sharpened into hollowed cheekbones and a slim neck. Dark eyes, pale hair, warm skin, rose-petal lips. All of it, Alba. Yet not Alba at all.
“When you left you were a hill. Now you are a mountain,” Alba teased, though she feared her nervous swallowing betrayed her.
Bayr was huge, muscled and towering, and she didn’t like the marked contrast between them, a contrast that she’d never noticed before, oddly. He’d been her Bayr, her best friend, her confidant, her protector, the person she loved most in the world. And now he was so obviously a man, a man like her father, hulking and fierce, with no twinkle in his eyes or softness ’round his lips.
He laughed, his white teeth flashing between lips that weren’t harsh or hard at all.
“There’s my funny little Alba,” he said. “I thought she might be gone.”