“Who is this, Benjie?” Banruud asked. The girl did not seem intimidated by him at all. She stared up at him, expressionless.
“This is Bashti of Berne.” The Chieftain of Berne put his hand on the girl’s back and urged her forward. She planted her feet and pressed back.
“Bashti of . . . Berne?” Banruud questioned.
“Bashti of Berne . . . and daughter of Kembah, most likely,” the chieftain replied.
“If she is a daughter of Kembah, she is not a daughter of Berne, Benjie. Plus, Kembah is a king,” Banruud countered. “I doubt this girl is Kembah’s. But if it suits you to pretend, cousin, I will not argue.”
“Mayhaps when she is grown, we can make an alliance,” Benjie offered.
“Mayhaps. If she has a womb she will grow into, it is enough.” Banruud raised his voice. “Have you all brought me foreign wombs to beget other wombs?”
No one answered.
“You’ve brought me the cast off and the captured,” he mocked. “All except Erskin, who has a better excuse than all of you. His warriors fight the Hounds even now, and yet he brought a daughter of Ebba as he was directed.”
The chieftains regarded him silently, their resentment obvious.
“You said to find daughters. We found daughters, Majesty,” Dirth of Dolphys grumbled.
“So you did,” King Banruud said. He shrugged, granting them exasperated pardon.
The chieftain from Dolphys introduced the daughter he’d brought to the temple, Dalys. The little girl beside him was sloe-eyed and sooty-locked. She clung to the chieftain’s hand and stared up at the king with tragic resignation. Outrage burned in Ghisla’s throat and stiffened her spine. She did not like the king.
Banruud moved on to the Chieftain of Joran, his hands behind his back like he was inspecting horseflesh.
Chieftain Josef had brought a girl named Juliah, her long, dark hair braided tightly like that of the warriors around her, and the king asked if she’d been “raised by men.”
“Yes, Majesty,” the Chieftain of Joran said, eyes hard. “She was. Her grandfather is Jerom, the fisherman. He and his sons were casting their nets when the Hounds came ashore ten years ago. Jerom’s wife and daughter were not spared. His wife was killed, and his daughter became . . . pregnant from the attack. She died in childbirth. Jerom and his two sons have raised the girl.”
The king approached Lothgar last. Lothgar laid his arm around Ghisla’s shoulders, but she shrugged him off. She did not belong to him. The king smirked at her rejection of the Chieftain of Leok, and she regretted her impulsive display. It was better not to let them—any of them—see her react at all. Her feelings were the only thing that were hers, and she vowed that she would not share them with strangers. And everyone present was a stranger.
She’d removed her braid before they’d made the climb to the mount, and her hair waved long and loose around her shoulders. She had wanted to look her best in the green dress Lady Lothgar had acquired for her. It was the nicest dress she’d ever worn, and preparing herself had calmed the nervous dread in the pit of her stomach. Now she wished that she’d worn Hody’s tunic and his old hose. She wished she’d let her hair return to the tangled rat’s nest it had been before the women in Leok had unraveled it. That girl would have still been Ghisla, even without her name. With her smooth hair and her borrowed dress, she was Liis of Leok, and nothing of Ghisla remained.
“King Banruud, may I present Liis of Leok,” Lothgar said. The king studied her, his gaze flat, but when he spoke, there was begrudging admiration in his voice.
“How old is she, Lothgar? She looks like the clan—golden haired, blue eyed, ill tempered. Aren’t all the women of Leok thus?”
“She has ten summers, Majesty,” Lothgar claimed, though he knew nothing of the sort.
The king raised his brows, disbelieving.
“Where did you find her, Lothgar?”
“Odin gave her to me, Majesty.” The men around him laughed, but the king grimaced, irritated by Lothgar’s meaningless explanation.
“Where are you from, girl?” the king asked Ghisla.
“I am Liis of Leok,” she said. She held his gaze—his eyes were black and unblinking. Looking at him felt like tumbling into a hole.
“Good. And now you are Liis of Saylok. Liis of Temple Hill. You will be a beauty one day. I look forward to watching you bloom.”
“She is Liis of Leok even still, Majesty,” Lothgar argued, but it was a meaningless distinction,