It had been a while since he’d visited Desdemona’s tree. The whorls of grass and blackened earth had become part of the undergrowth, unlined and indistinguishable beside the stone that marked his mother’s resting place. There was a stone for Dagmar too, and Bayr knelt to press his forehead against it, the length of his growing braid falling over his cheek. There was much to do, but he made himself be still. He’d not been idle since becoming king.
He had fortified the borders and defended the clans. He’d gathered a hundred men and razed the invaders on Ebba’s shores, the new chieftain, Elijah, at his side; the same was done in Berne, though the Northmen had already fled, their numbers greatly reduced.
Dakin was chosen to lead the Clan of the Wolf, but Dred remained on the mount, committing himself to the service of his king. But he still called Bayr Chief. Bayr made him captain of the king’s guard and defender of the mount. He could think of no one more qualified to train a new generation of warriors.
Unlike the palace, crowded and chaotic, the forest around him was blessedly hushed. Bayr breathed in the loamy air and curled his hands in the earth, the cold press of Dagmar’s stone clearing his head. For many months the castle had been flooded with the injured and the indigent, but little by little, the wounded had gone home, and the King’s Village had absorbed the others as new families were formed and cottages erected.
They’d begun to rebuild the temple too, re-forming the walls and shoring up the foundation. The altar stone had been moved to the palace and placed beside the throne, a reminder of the balance of power and the role of the king. Ghost had supervised the removal of every stone, careful to guard what should be hidden, eager to restore what had been lost. She had made herself Highest Keeper, and no one disagreed.
It was Ghost who had placed the crown on his head and the daughters who had named him king. They had all remained on the mount, but Bayr knew that the time would come when every one of them—Juliah, Elayne, Bashti, Liis, and Dalys—would have to choose her own path. They were afraid, and they did not want to leave—Bayr knew exactly how they felt—but they were not all keepers. The thought brought Dagmar’s long-ago words rising in his memory.
“You must promise me that when the time comes, when you are grown, even if you do not want to be king, even if you are afraid, you will do what must be done.”
“I have kept my promise, Uncle,” Bayr murmured. “I have kept my promise, and I’m doing the best I can.”
A branch cracked, and Bayr raised his head, abandoning his meditation. A wolf, his coat as black as Bayr’s braid, stood several paces away, his blue gaze riveted on the kneeling king. Bayr had seen the wolf before, though it had never come this close. It didn’t seem to have a pack, and it always kept its distance.
Bayr rose slowly, his knees numb and his palms tingling. The blood that had pooled in his forehead as he prayed rushed away, leaving him dizzy and his vision impaired. The wolf made no move to depart or approach, and after a steadying moment, Bayr turned to go. The wolf followed. Bayr halted and looked back, and the wolf stopped too. Bayr waited, gazing at the animal, who stared back at him. When he resumed walking, the wolf kept pace. It followed him through the Temple Wood, all the way to the base of the hill. When Bayr began climbing the eastern slope, the wolf watched for several seconds before bounding away, and Dagmar’s voice rang in Bayr’s mind once more.
“I am yours, Bayr. Always. My heart is yours. My spirit is yours, and even when I’m dead, I will refuse Valhalla, and I will follow at your heels, watching over you.”
Bayr began to laugh, the sound echoing over the hillside. He threw back his head, and his laughter became a mournful howl, a salute to his clan and a call to the blue-eyed wolf. He was not the only one who had kept his promise.