Ghost and her confession, and the daughters witnessed it in silence.
“My daughter was a princess. And I was a ghost. I could not take her from the people who loved her so perfectly. There would have been nowhere I could go, no place to take her where I wouldn’t have been hunted down. In this world, in this temple . . . she had a protector.”
“Bayr,” Dagmar supplied.
“Yes. And all of you.”
“That is why you are here. That is why Banruud dreamed of pale wraiths who came to take his child. Today the king . . . has seen his ghost,” Master Ivo said, sinking back into his chair, his staff clattering to the floor.
“He thought I was dead. He sent men to kill me then. He will send them to kill me again.”
“What have you done?” Ivo moaned.
“I have watched my daughter grow,” Ghost shot back, defensive. “I have seen her raised as a princess of Saylok. She is loved. She is protected. She is safe.” The final words rang false, and Ghost closed her eyes as if to hide her doubt.
“She isn’t safe, Ghost. You aren’t safe! Banruud saw you, and Alba is about to become queen of the Northlands,” Dagmar lamented.
“Better queen of the Northlands than the daughter of a ghost,” she retorted, wounded, and Dagmar touched her hand as though he’d forgotten all of them observed. But the Highest Keeper was already speaking, his voice a weary wail.
“We made Banruud king. We made him king. And the curse upon the clans continues. We have failed the people. Bayr was our salvation. And I knew it. I did not listen to the gods. Now it is too late.”
“You m-made Banruud king,” Ghost stammered. “You gave him his power. Can you not . . . take it away?”
“How?” Master Ivo asked, raising his clawed hands to the heavens. “We are a temple of aging keepers and hunted women. We have no power to remove Banruud. Should we seek to remove him by the sword? We have lost the faith of the people and the support of the chieftains. You heard the crowd today. The keepers have failed them. The Northmen are at our door, the king conspires to sell our daughters, and the temple—even Saylok—hangs in the balance.”
“The runes are only as powerful—and as righteous—as the blood of the men and women who wield them. And we have tried every rune, beseeched every god, and bled into the soil of every clan,” Master Ivo said. “The keepers have failed. I have failed. And Saylok will fall.”
The mount was crowded and Hod’s senses reeled. He was no good in a crush—not to himself or anyone else. One heartbeat reverberated into another, and he climbed from the wagon of provisions and, using his staff and his general ability to repulse, moved among the masses.
He tracked the dulcet tones of Ghisla’s heart and the butterfly wings of her indrawn breath. She was still among the keepers; they’d withdrawn from the steps after Gudrun’s inspection, and twenty-six soldiers now guarded the temple doors. The North King’s arrival had struck terror into every breast: the chieftains, the princess, the keepers, the citizenry. And Bayr. Bayr was not supposed to be on the mount.
He left the courtyard and drew a pail of water from the well and took the stairs to his room, addressing the servants who bustled in and out of the yard with a terse “good day.” The king’s return had sent them all into a frenzy. He washed the dust from the journey off his skin and patted himself dry. Ghisla’s scent still lingered on his bed and in the towel beside the basin. He tracked her heart again, unable to help himself.
“Hody, Hody, Hody.” She was singing his name. It wafted in on the breeze, and as he listened, she grew closer.
She was trying to find him. Or mayhaps . . . she already knew where he was.
He heard her climb the steps, her treads soft but hurried, like she dashed to avoid detection.
He turned and strode to his door, pulling it open as she reached the corridor. She tumbled into his arms a moment later.
“I knew you would hear me, and I prayed you would be here,” she cried.
“You could have been seen,” he chided, shoving the door closed behind her, but he was too glad to see her, too eager to greet her, and he kissed