In the days since he’d arrived on the mount, he’d thought only of her.
Not his clan, not his duty, not his purpose. Just her.
He hadn’t worried about the Northmen or the longboats in the harbor of Garbo. He hadn’t dwelled on the raid on Sheba or the battle in Eastlandia. When Dred and a handful of his warriors had arrived for the tournament, armed and watchful, Bayr had seen to his responsibilities with the same quiet efficiency they were accustomed to, but his heart and his head were far away. For the first time in his life, he was consumed by his own desires, and everything else became a distant landscape. He’d spent the daylight with the keepers or his men, stealing sleep in patches, a bit at dawn, a bit at dusk, but he spent the nights with Alba.
Now, standing at her side, close enough to reach out and touch the smooth line of her jaw and the length of her throat, he could only mourn that the nights were over. He would do anything to have her. He would give away all his power to keep her. But deep in his chest, where honesty lived and hope languished, he knew it wouldn’t be enough.
Through the fog of his infatuation, he noticed that the villagers that had been cleared from the central courtyard had begun to turn and point, to clutch each other and cower. All at once, he was doused in the painful present and shaken from his love-drunk haze. His fear for Alba—for all Saylok—stretched and shuddered, coming fully awake inside his chest.
“He’s brought the Northmen to the temple mount,” Aidan growled.
Lothgar cursed, a stream of foul words that grew into a roar that was muffled by the distress of the crowd.
“It is King Gudrun,” Alba said, her voice low and dull, as though she too had been cruelly awakened from a beautiful dream.
King Gudrun wore his eyes rimmed in black like the keepers, but his hair hung in dirty coils down his back. The top was gathered into a knot pierced by animal bones to keep it from falling in his eyes. His men wore variations of the same thing. All had leather hose and tunics studded with metal, swords strapped across their bodies, and blades bound to their boots with long leather straps. The horses they rode were heavy bodied—thick backs and legs, giant hooves and heads. They had to be to carry such big men, and the Northmen were big. Bozl had not exaggerated when he said they were as big as Bayr.
“My people. My daughter. My chieftains. My keepers,” Banruud boomed, his arms raised to call the crowd to attention. “In the spirit of peace and negotiation, I have brought King Gudrun of the Northlands to see our temple and to take part in our tournament. We welcome him and his men among us the way I was welcomed among his people. We are in need of strong alliances. May this be the first of many such visits.”
The people murmured nervously; no one jeered, but there was no jubilance in their greeting, no cheers or waving of their colors.
Alba began to descend the final palace steps, her sense of duty demanding she bid the visitors welcome, but Bayr moved forward with her, unwilling to let her approach a foreign—and reputedly vicious—king by herself. Aidan was of the same mind, for he too remained at her side. Josef and Lothgar trailed them as they walked out into the courtyard to present the Princess of Saylok to the King of the Northlands. Elbor, not wanting to be left behind, hurried to join them, though he cowered behind Lothgar. Benjie of Berne was mounted just behind the king, a few of his men around him. Bayr should have known he would be wherever Banruud was.
As Alba neared, King Banruud dismounted with the ease of a much smaller, much younger man. His hair was shot with silver, but he was otherwise unchanged. His eyes, when they met Bayr’s, were as flat and unforgiving as they’d always been.
“Father, I thank Odin for your safe return,” Alba greeted Banruud, stepping away from the chieftains and pressing the invisible star on her forehead to the back of his outstretched hand. Turning to the North King she curtsied, low and lovely, and rose up gracefully. “King Gudrun, we welcome you.”
There was an appreciative murmur among Gudrun’s men, and the North King slid unceremoniously from his horse and grasped Alba’s fingers as though to press a kiss on her knuckles. At the last moment, he turned her hand so her palm was facing up. With exaggerated pleasure, he licked upward from the tips of her fingers to the pulse at her wrist, and his men roared in rowdy approval.
Bayr growled, a deep guttural rumbling that caused Gudrun to raise his eyes and withdraw his tongue.
“Is that not how it’s done in Saylok?” the North King asked Bayr, sardonic. “Or is she yours, Chieftain?”
“May I present my daughter, Princess Alba of Saylok,” the king interrupted, but his eyes censured Bayr, his expression hard, his mouth tight. “The Temple Boy has fallen back into his old ways. He returns to the mount after a decade and immediately considers himself the princess’s protector.”
“Temple Boy?” Gudrun repeated, his eyebrows raised in query.
“I am Bayr. Chieftain of Dolphys,” Bayr said, carefully. Slowly. He did not acknowledge Banruud but kept his gaze on Gudrun.
“Ah. I have heard of you, Dolphys. You are known for your strength. I should like to test it,” Gudrun hissed.
“These are my chieftains—Dolphys, Adyar, Joran, Leok, and Ebba. You’ve met Berne,” the king said, tossing his hand toward the men who trailed his daughter. Bayr was not the only one who bristled at the introduction. The clan chieftains were subordinate to the king, but the implication that they were “his” did not sit well.
Banruud offered his arm to Alba, who took it without hesitation, though her fingers barely touched his sleeve and her posture did not relax. Banruud nodded toward the keepers standing in silent observance on the temple steps. Ivo had moved out in front of them, a stooped crow bent around his staff.
“Gudrun, may I present the daughters of the clans,” Banruud boomed, striding toward the robed assembly. Gudrun followed eagerly. Gudrun’s men dismounted, eyes suspicious, hands on their weapons, and trailed after their king.
“I see only old men,” Gudrun mocked. The daughters had melded back behind the rows of keepers, who stood with their hands folded and their heads down, creating a wall of faceless purple around them.
“We want to see the daughters, Master Ivo,” Banruud ordered, coming to a halt before the Highest Keeper.
“They are not yours to command or display, Majesty,” Ivo replied, his tone mild, like he spoke to an insistent child.
Banruud moved so close to the Highest Keeper he appeared to be speaking to a lover, whispering assurances in his ear, but the Highest Keeper raised his eyes to Gudrun, who stood over the king’s shoulder, and spoke to him directly, ignoring King Banruud.
“What is your purpose here, Northman?” Ivo queried, his tone so cold the crowd shivered.
“I want to see your temple, Priest.”
“I am not a priest. I do not save souls or speak for the gods. I am a Keeper of Saylok.”
“And what treasures do you keep, old one?” Gudrun grinned, and his men laughed around him.
“Let us see the daughters,” Elbor shouted, showing his support for the wishes of the king. “They belong to the people. Not the keepers.”
A few people cried out in agreement. Others protested, frightened by King Banruud’s company, unnerved by the Northmen inside the walls of their precious mount.