“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, but Bayr did not flinch before his sword.
“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,” Banruud ground out.
“She is not your daughter,” Ghost said, drawing the king’s gaze. “And that is no longer your crown,” she added.
Banruud’s face paled. His eyes skittered from Ghost to Ghisla, as if she might rescue him with her song.
He looked away again when he found no softness in her gaze.
“The keepers made me king,” Banruud bellowed, his hand tightening on his sword. Ghisla thought for a moment he would try to strike Ghost down. Ghost lifted her chin, as if willing 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,” Ghost spat.
“The keepers are gone,” he sneered back. “And you are a slave.”
“The keepers are not gone,” Juliah called out, moving behind Ghost. Elayne, Bashti, and Dalys were right behind her, their purple robes attesting to Juliah’s claim. “Master Ivo made us keepers. And as keepers, we declare that you are no longer king of Saylok.”
Banruud’s eyes jumped to the chieftains, as if gauging their support. Aidan of Adyar gripped his braid and sawed his knife across it, and 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 had no one. He had nothing, and the thing he had feared most had come to pass. Bayr would take his crown, and the wraith that had haunted him was no longer lurking in his tortured conscience but standing in front of him, fearless and unopposed. With a desperate roar he lunged at her, seeking to use her as a shield as he thrust his sword at Bayr’s chest.
But Banruud had failed to notice the dagger in Ghost’s hand. His actions had trapped her hand between them and drawn her knife into his belly.
Ghisla heard the wet clasp and suck of the blade being turned.
The clatter of his sword on the cobbles was accompanied by his dumbfounded groan. He should have pled for forgiveness, but he only wanted answers.
“Who . . . are . . . you?” he gurgled, the words soaked in blood.
“I am the daughters of the clans, and the keepers of the temple. I am Alba’s mother, and Dagmar’s friend.” Ghost’s voice broke on Dagmar’s name, but she pressed on. “I am everyone you have wronged. And I am Ghost, the new Highest Keeper.”
The king brayed, the sound terrible in its dread and dismay, the bawl of a downed bear, and he fell to his knees, swaying and searching the faces of his condemners.
“Hod?” he moaned. “Where are you?”
“I am here,” Hod said softly from the edge of the circle. He made no move to approach his father, and he did not weep, but his face was lined with compassion.
“Liis . . . Liis of Leok,” Banruud groaned. “You must sing to me. You must sing to me. I am dying.”
He reached a hand toward her, beseeching, but the effort made him topple onto his side. She clutched her hands to her chest, unwilling to touch him and unable to comfort him.
There was no time for a song.
Banruud groaned again, a deep, pained rattle, attempting to ward off what was to come, and then his eyes closed and his body softened, sighing against the stones.
For several long seconds, no one moved or breathed or spoke.
“The king is dead,” Hod said. “His . . . heart . . . beats . . . no more.”
The eyes of every man, woman, and warrior turned to look at him, and Ghisla moved toward him, desperate to guard him from their wary gazes. But Hod did not shrink or slink away. He used his staff to pick his way to the body of the