before the first course was finished. Hod listened to her go, his stomach in greasy coils. He was not alone in his tension, for when the meal was done and Gudrun stretched out, snoring by the fire like the castle was already his, Lothgar of Leok and the Chieftain of Adyar pushed their chairs back from the table and demanded an audience with the king. When Bayr added his voice to Aidan and Lothgar’s and Chief Josef concurred, the king sighed and rose.
“So be it.”
“Benjie and Elbor should be p-present as well,” Bayr demanded.
“By all means,” Banruud mocked. “It will be your first council, Temple Boy. We welcome you.”
Banruud snapped his fingers, instructing Hod and half his guard to accompany him. He bade the other half remain behind with the sleeping North King and his unruly cadre.
The chieftains, rattled by the king’s sentry, signaled for their own men to follow, and every man eyed the others with open distrust, clan colors and weapons on full display. Aidan pounced as soon as the council chamber doors were closed and the chieftains were seated.
“You bring the Northmen to the mount, you parade the daughters of the temple in front of their bloody king, and you have not consulted about it with any of us.”
Banruud was slow to answer the Chieftain of Adyar.
“I am the king. I do not take instruction from Adyar, or Leok, or Dolphys, or Joran. I will hear your complaints. But I will do as I wish, just as other kings have done before me. Just as other kings will do when I am gone.”
“Do you take instruction from Berne?” Bayr interjected.
Benjie scoffed, but the other chieftains were silent, waiting for Bayr to continue.
“Between Ebba and Berne, we have s-suffered twenty-seven attacks over these last few years. Benjie d-denies it, Elbor throws up his hands. But our villages have been attacked. Our farms. Our fishermen. We repel attacks on our shores only to be attacked on our f-flanks by these clans.” Bayr had to pause several times and speak more slowly than the king had patience for, and Hod found himself gritting his teeth, willing the room to hold, to listen, to respect the stuttering chieftain.
“Benjie cannot be blamed for rogue bands of marauders,” Banruud said, disdain dripping from the words.
“He can,” Bayr argued.
The king snapped his teeth at the chieftain’s insolence, but Bayr continued, undeterred.
“Benjie encourages it. He is . . . em-emboldened . . . by his . . . relationship to you, S-sire, and has no r-respect for other c-clans or other chieftains.”
“Do you stutter because you are frightened, Temple Boy?” Banruud mocked.
Dakin and Dred grunted at the insult to their chieftain, and the king’s guard drew their swords, a rippling of steel that stiffened Hod’s back.
“He is the Dolphys. Not the Temple Boy, Banruud,” Dred growled.
“And I am the king, Dred. And you will address me as such, or you will lose your tongue.”
“I care n-not what you call me, Majesty. But you will not be k-king of Saylok if the c-clans destroy each other.”
“You threaten me?” Banruud growled.
“If the clans fall, the k-kingdom falls.”
“And who will be king when I am not, hmm? You? The next king will be from Dolphys, and you believe the keepers will choose you. Is that why you’ve finally taken your place at the council table, Temple Boy? You wish to kill me and let the keepers make you king?”
The room became tomb-like with the accusation, and Bayr did not seek to break the silence. Hod thought that wise; to protest was to give credence to the king’s claim.
“You are naught but a hulking ox, Bayr of Dolphys. An ox has great strength, but we do not make an ox our king,” Benjie mocked.
Again, Bayr did not react, but Hod could hear Dred’s outrage. It rumbled deep in his throat like a hungry wolf.
“I have no w-wish to be king,” Bayr stated firmly.
“A king must command his people, and you can barely speak. The tribes of our enemies would breach the temple mount before you could call out the order for attack,” Elbor snickered.
“Better a hulking ox than a blathering idiot,” Josef of Joran murmured.
“Better a good man than a glib man,” Aidan of Adyar purred.
“Better a tangled tongue than a forked one,” Dred growled.
Hod knew every man in the room had his hand on his sword, and for a moment no one breathed, as though wondering who would be the first to lunge. The king’s chair scraped against