too was dead. She too had sacrificed for her son, Hod was sure. Mayhaps he and the Temple Boy had that in common.
“We will go to Adyar,” he sighed, relenting. At least it would distract him for a time.
“That is best,” Arwin said, immediately mollified. “Trust me, Hod. Trust me, and when the time comes, you will be ready.”
11
TUNNELS
The Tournament of the King had turned the hillside into a wash of color. A rainbow. Ghisla showed it to Hod in her mind’s eye, the tents and the teeming horde, the citizens of every clan lining up to see the daughters and seek a blessing from the keepers.
“Those who make the pilgrimage are mostly men now. Lines and lines of men,” Ghisla told Hod. “They want to touch our hands, and some throw flowers at our feet. One man threw himself at Elayne and knocked her to the ground. He was dragged off by the temple guard and put in the stocks in the square.”
“Is Elayne all right?”
“Yes. But yesterday, three men approached on their knees, as though to worship us. They were clanless—no warriors’ braids and no sashes—but all at once they stood, daggers in their hands, and one grabbed Dalys and ran. An archer on the wall shot him as he fled. The other two were hung on the north gate as an example to all those who would seek to take a daughter of the temple.”
“I am horrified . . . and I am glad,” Hod confessed.
“Poor Dalys screamed in her sleep last night. I sang to her, but I dared not touch her. I did not want to see her dreams.”
“You should not be on display. It is not safe.”
“Master Ivo barred the temple doors and refused to bestow favors and blessings, but people have waited so long. The keepers are supported by the public, and he opened them again this morning. The king and the chieftains insist the people see us. And Dagmar agrees. He said the people’s adoration is both a bane and a blessing. It endangers us even as it keeps us . . . safe. We are symbols of Saylok, and Master Ivo claims we will not be touched or traded or given away in marriage to the clans or the chieftains, though there is always talk.”
“You are all young yet, and supplicants do not marry,” Hod said, but she heard the same concern in his voice that shivered in her belly when such things were discussed. She saw the way Elayne was looked upon. The pressure on the keepers and the king would only get worse as they came of age.
“Dirth of Dolphys has died. The clan will pick a new chieftain.” She did not want to talk of marriage anymore.
“Arwin told me. He heard the news in Leok last week. Word is that Dred of Dolphys will take his place.”
“Dred is Keeper Dagmar’s father. The relationship is strained, though I don’t know why.”
“They have not spilled all their secrets to you?”
“I have kept my hands and my songs to myself. I do not wish to know anyone’s secrets.”
“But I do. So you must tell me when you know.”
Hod was teasing her, trying to keep their conversation from straying into the heaviness that always lurked in the shadows. The weight of people’s secrets wore on her. Her knowledge was not power; it was pain. What she knew she could not tell, and what she knew she could not forget. So she carried others’ secrets around, like rocks she couldn’t put down. Telling Hody was her only relief. So she told him everything and said not a peep to anyone else.
But she worried about the day when she would hear something she could not ignore.
The melee was the final event of the tournament, and it was a contest open only to clansmen. Each chieftain chose ten warriors to compete, and all six clans were represented. Sixty warriors took the field in their clan colors, and only one clan could claim victory. The object was to be the last clan standing, even if it was only one warrior. There were no weapons and no rules but one: take every man down. Once a man’s body hit the ground, he was required to leave the melee until only one man—or one clan—remained.
“We’ve only nine, Majesty,” Dred of Dolphys called out, striding forward. “We’re a man short.”
The crowd groaned. They’d been hopeful the melee was about to begin. Ghisla groaned with them. She was weary, her