Alba turned at her greeting. Her brown eyes were shadowed, and her skin was pale, but her chin carried the stubborn set of a settled mind. She clutched a long black braid in her hands, and Ghost knew Banruud had done his worst.
“You must come with me, Alba,” Ghost said.
“And where will we go?” Alba whispered, her lips curving sadly.
“We will go to Dolphys. You and me, and every woman in the temple. We will all go. We will be safe there. Dagmar has seen it.” Ghost repeated Dagmar’s assertion, though she didn’t believe it herself. She needed to convince Alba; she would worry about everything else later.
“And will Dolphys be safe if I am there?” Alba asked. “Or will I drag hell to her doorstep?”
“I fear hell awaits you at Gudrun’s side,” Ghost answered, dread tightening her stomach and emotion welling in her eyes. She had not expected Alba to argue. She should have known better.
“I cannot leave you,” Ghost pled.
“And you cannot come with me,” Alba agreed, nodding. “I know. I was foolish—selfish—to ask. You are a keeper.”
“I am a mother first,” Ghost said, and her tears began to fall, coursing her cheeks. She swiped at her face, impatient. She had a lifetime of pent-up rain and precious little time to weep.
Alba stepped toward her, not understanding. “You’re a mother?” she asked, her voice raised in soft surprise.
Ghost fought the urge to lie, to recant, to draw a rune to make the words disappear. But there was no rune to alter the truth and no time to make it more palatable.
“Your name means ‘sunrise’ . . . Did I ever t-tell you that?” Ghost stammered, not answering directly, needing to help Alba understand.
“Yes. You did. Once . . . long ago,” Alba murmured, tilting her head to the side. She touched Ghost’s cheek with compassion, wiping her tears away, and Ghost clasped her hand for courage.
“There was so much pain . . . so much fear . . . and then the sun rose, pink and gold and soft . . . and I held you in my arms. I have never known such joy . . . such perfect, inexpressible joy . . . and I have loved you the very best I could since that day.” Ghost stumbled over the words, stifling her sobs.
“You held . . . me?” Alba whispered, her hand falling away.
Ghost covered her mouth with a trembling hand, desperately trying to quiet her grief, but her confession continued to tumble forth.
“I carried you inside me. I felt you grow. I felt you move. And I watched you come into the world,” Ghost gasped, her throat raw with suppressed emotion.
“You are my mother?” Alba asked, the words barely audible.
“I am your mother,” Ghost repeated, each word a plea for mercy.
Alba’s legs folded as though they’d lost all feeling, leaving her a crumpled pink flower in the middle of the floor. She braced her hands on the floor, her hair a veil around her, and Ghost knelt at her side, afraid to touch her, afraid to say more. For a moment, there was only silence, suspended breath, and disbelief.
“And Banruud?” Alba asked, her voice strangled and small. “Is Banruud my father?”
“Banruud took you away from me when you were only days old.”
“He took me away?” Alba whispered, dumbfounded. “He took me away,” she repeated, more firmly.
“He said you were his . . . and everyone believed him.”
“He . . . is . . . the . . . reason . . . you . . . hide.” Alba lifted her stunned gaze.
“Is he not the reason we all hide?” Ghost murmured, quietly weeping.
Alba’s face crumpled, and she shook her head as though she couldn’t grasp what she was being told.
“Banruud is Bayr’s father, Alba. Not yours. He has no right to give you to the North King. He has no claim to you at all,” Ghost said. Time was growing short. Dagmar would be frantic.
“Bayr’s father?” Alba gasped, horrified. “He is Bayr’s father?”
Ghost could only nod in commiseration. “Banruud told him. He told Bayr you were his sister . . . and Bayr severed his braid.”
“Oh, Bayr. Oh, my sweet Bayr,” Alba moaned, pressing Bayr’s braid to her lips, talking to Bayr as though he could hear. “What has he done to you? Where have you gone?”
“We will find him together. But you must come with me now, Alba. You must come with me to Dolphys,” Ghost begged, rising to her feet and tugging on Alba’s arm.
Alba seemed too shocked to think for herself, and she rose woodenly, letting Ghost settle her cloak on her shoulders and draw a rune upon her palm. Ghost had no plan but to flee, but hiding the princess was a start.
“No,” Alba said suddenly, pulling her hand away. “No.” She shook her head, fierce. Adamant.
“We have to go, Alba. There is no time,” Ghost pled. “They will be coming for you.”
“I can’t. Don’t you see? If I go, people will die. I have a duty to stay.”
“You are not the Princess of Saylok,” Ghost argued, aghast. “You are my daughter, and I cannot leave you behind.”
For a heartbeat, Alba wilted, her chin falling to her chest, but when Ghost sought to take her hand once more, she resisted.
“Alba . . . please,” Ghost urged, but Alba slowly shook her head again.
“It was not my father who made me Alba of Saylok. It was you. It was the keepers. Bayr told me I was blessed on the altar of the temple, and a star was painted in blood on my brow.”
“Oh, daughter,” Ghost wept. “I can’t save you. Not this time. You have to save yourself.”
“Bayr never tried to save himself,” Alba said, adamant. “Not even once. I will not start a war others have to fight.”
No warriors from Dolphys took the field for the melee. The clans met in the wide castle yard lined with flags of every color. Adyar, Berne, Ebba, Joran, and Leok assembled their strongest men, grim-faced and with teeth gritted, the tension between warriors indicative of the broader plight of Saylok. They squared off in strategic huddles, their chieftains standing at the edge of the field, the king and his guests from the north filling the seats on a makeshift dais. Alba sat beside the North King, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her hands folded in her lap. Her back ached and her head pounded, but she had no hope for rest or relief. She breathed, in and out, and did her best to empty her head. If she did not think, she would not feel.
“I see only five clans. Where are the warriors from Dolphys?” King Gudrun asked, his tone suspicious. “Why are they not here?”
“The Dolphynian wolves have gone home with their tails between their legs,” King Banruud said. “There will only be five clans in the melee this year.”
Gudrun grunted and eyed his men. He seemed pleased by the news.
“Would you like to participate?” Banruud asked the North King, his brow lifted in challenge.
Gudrun spit and looked at Alba. “I will save my strength for better things.”
The horns sounded and Banruud lifted his hand, indicating the melee should proceed. The field became a swarm of stampeding men, hurling each other to the ground as the crowd roared and the Northmen watched silently.
The warriors from Dolphys weren’t the only ones not in attendance. The Daughters of Freya and the keepers of the temple did not make their customary lines behind the king and the chieftains. They were being kept away. The king’s guard ringed the temple; the people assumed it was to protect them from the Northmen. Alba knew better. Ghost had told her Ivo was dead. Banruud had killed him. Hopefully Ghost and the Daughters were at this very moment headed toward Dolphys. They didn’t need to leave the temple by its doors to leave the mount. But mayhaps they would wait for darkness.