“Come,” Alba interjected. She turned back toward the eastern gate and began to climb. The group of girls and women followed, their steps slow and heavy, their thoughts unbearably loud.
“Where will we live?” a child asked from amid the tired group, voicing the fears of many. “The temple is gone.”
“You will stay in the palace,” Alba said, her shoulders set, eyes steady. “There is room enough for all of you. And we will take each day as it comes.”
“And Bayr?” Juliah asked softly, fearfully. “What of Bayr?”
“He is here,” Alba said, and Juliah’s obvious relief rippled among the women, hope quickening the last leg of their climb. When they arrived within the walls, the destruction had them clinging to one another and weeping in disbelief.
As they walked through the courtyard, the chieftains gaped and the warriors clutched their braids. Aidan rushed forward, oblivious to everyone but Elayne, and pulled her into his arms, his composure destroyed.
“I thought you were gone,” Aidan gasped. “I thought you were in the temple.”
Bayr’s face was lined with gratitude and grief, and he greeted the daughters one by one, clasping their hands and expressing his thanks. His gaze settled on Alba, and devastation rippled over his face before he bit it back. Ghost recoiled, realization dawning. He didn’t know. Bayr didn’t know.
“Bayr,” Ghost said, her hand extended, desperate to explain, but he’d already turned away. And then he stilled, his broad back obscuring her view.
Dred cursed beside him, his voice trembling with loathing, and the men around him echoed his sentiments. Alba was carved in stone, and the women drew together. Ghost shifted, stepping around Bayr to see what had so upset the crowd.
King Banruud descended the palace steps, his clothes slightly rumpled but his shoulders back. He had taken refuge, clearly, but not inside the temple. He still wore his cloak and his crown, and he clutched the hilt of his sword. A handful of his clanless guard, all able-bodied and weapon-wielding, made a sloppy perimeter around him, their eyes skittering to the unclaimed dead and the ruin of the temple. The Chieftain of Ebba followed a few steps behind them, weaving as he went. He looked as though he’d barricaded himself in the cellar with a cask of the royal wine.
No one spoke as the king approached, but every chieftain turned to face him, their tattered clansmen—most still wearing the gore and grime of battle—falling in behind them. Alba stepped forward as well, her eyes grim and her chin lifted, claiming her place among the chieftains. After all, Banruud had made her a queen.
Ghost drew Benjie’s dagger from the bodice of her borrowed gown.
“We’ve defeated the Northmen. Praise Odin. Praise Thor. Praise Father Saylok,” the king boomed, unsheathing his sword and nodding at the chieftains as though he’d fought beside them. Banruud’s retinue shook their swords at the autumn sky, shouting in celebration.
“Praise the Dolphys. Praise the keepers. Praise the clans,” Dred shouted, his own sword lifted and his voice raised above the king’s guard. Then he spit at Banruud’s boots and wiped his chin.
“You were told to leave, Dred of Dolphys, under threat of death, as was your chieftain,” Banruud said. His tone was mild, as though Dred caused him no real concern, but his eyes were on Bayr. He leveled his blade, and Bayr studied him with emotionless eyes. Alba reached out and clasped his hand, indicating where her loyalties lay.
“You severed your braid, Temple Boy. You’re a traitor to your king, and yet you stand on my mount, eyeing my daughter and my crown.”
“She is not your daughter,” Ghost said, stepping forward. Banruud’s face paled, and Ghost felt Bayr stiffen behind her. “And that is not your crown.”
“The keepers made me king,” Banruud hissed, his hand tightening on his sword. Ghost thought for a moment he would try to strike her down. She willed him to do it.
“You lied to the keepers. You lied to the clans. You lied to your son, and you lied to my daughter. We will take your crown, and we will choose a new king,” she said, demanding he hear her. Demanding he see her.
“The keepers are gone,” he sneered. “And you are a slave.”
“The keepers are not gone,” Juliah called, pushing her way through the crowd. Elayne, Bashti, Dalys, and Liis were right behind her, their purple robes attesting to Juliah’s claim. “You made us supplicants. Master Ivo made us keepers. And you are no longer King of Saylok.”
Banruud’s face flushed, and his gaze jumped to the chieftains, as if gauging their support. Aidan of Adyar gripped his braid and sawed his knife across it. He tossed the thick blond plait at Banruud’s feet. Logan of Leok and Josef of Joran did the same, their mouths twisted in disdain. One by one, every warrior cut his braid, throwing them down and severing their allegiance to the king. Elbor began to stumble back, and Banruud’s men dropped their swords in surrender, unwilling to stand against the clans.
Banruud lunged toward Ghost and grabbed her, using her as a shield as he thrust his sword at Bayr’s chest, knowing—as he’d always known—that it was Bayr who would replace him, Bayr who would take his power, and Bayr who would wear his crown. But it was Ghost who took his life.
And mayhaps he’d known that too.
She sank her blade into his belly as he held her to his chest, and she heard his sword clatter on the uneven stones. She ground her teeth and turned the blade, burying it deep, and Banruud toppled, staring up at her in odd resignation. She was the wraith who had haunted his dreams. She was the phantom he never forgot. And he was the man who had stolen her child. Yet he did not truly know her.
“Who are you?” he gasped, blood bubbling from his lips.
“I am Desdemona. I am Alannah. I am Ivo, and I am Bayr. I am the daughters of the clans, and the keepers of the temple. I am Alba’s mother, and Dagmar’s friend.” Her voice broke on Dagmar’s name, but she pressed on. “I am everyone you have wronged. And I am Ghost, the new Highest Keeper.”
EPILOGUE
Bayr left the temple mount when his crown became too heavy. He never stayed away from the palace for long, and he always returned, restored by the solitude and the sense that Dagmar still walked in the Temple Wood. Sometimes Alba came with him. Sometimes they escaped to the falls and shed their clothes beneath the spray, their mouths silent as their bodies spoke. He loved his wife with an intensity that dulled the ache of Dagmar’s death and soothed the strain of Saylok’s expectations.
Alba was not with him today. Their child grew inside her, swelling her stomach and slowing her steps. She wanted a daughter—there had been many born to the clans in the first year of his reign—but Bayr wanted nothing more than a life by her side. He prayed only for the safe delivery of their child, daughter or son, and the health of its mother.
The scourge had ended, and the people of Saylok called him King and Savior, but Bayr knew he was naught but the Temple Boy, simple-minded and slow to speak. He no longer stuttered and stumbled through his words—Dagmar’s rune had healed the land and untangled his tongue—but Bayr found he still had little to say. He listened and he labored, and when the day was done, he slept beside a woman who was far more adept at ruling a kingdom than he would ever be. He could not have endured it without her. There was no Bayr without Alba.