The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon

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 skin was sticky and hot beneath her purple robe, and she did not care for sport in general. The melee was one of the few events the daughters were allowed to attend—everyone attended the melee—but she had no interest in it. Juliah had been talking about the melee for weeks; she was rooting for Joran, obviously.

The king raised his arms to quiet the commotion.

“Then choose another, Dred. Surely you have another warrior from the Clan of the Wolf willing to enter the melee.”

“I claim him. I claim the Temple Boy.” Dred raised his arm and pointed at Bayr, who knelt behind Alba not far from the king, guarding her, ever present, ever faithful.

Ghisla was not the only one who gasped and gaped.

The king shook his head in immediate refusal.

“He is not of Dolphys. He has no clan. He cannot fight with you. Choose another,” the king replied.

“I claim him,” Dred insisted, planting his feet. “We have not yet chosen a chieftain. But I speak for my clan, as the oldest warrior on the field, and I want him.”

The crowd grew quiet, confusion rippling in silent waves. Dred of Dolphys was a seasoned contender, and he knew the rules of the melee. It was a contest among the clans. The clanless were not allowed.

“What are you babbling about, old man?” Banruud growled. He was sitting up straight in his seat, bristling with annoyance. “He is not qualified.”

“He is of Dolphys,” Dred replied.

“He is not,” someone yelled.

“He is the son of my daughter, Desdemona, shield maiden in the Clan of the Wolf.”

The king grew eerily still and the crowd followed suit, the hush of a thousand held breaths. No one knew why the king had turned to stone, but none of them dared break the spell.

“He is fourteen years old, Dred of Dolphys. Why have you not claimed him before? This is highly suspect,” Aidan of Adyar murmured.

“I did not know he lived,” Dred shot back. “His mother—my daughter—is dead. She has been dead since his birth fourteen years ago, Aidan.”

“He is naught but the Temple Boy,” the king ground out.

“That may be true, Highness, but he is also of Dolphys. And I claim him. We claim him. It is my right as acting chieftain unless . . . he has already been claimed by a clan or . . . a king?” Dred’s voice was mild and the onlookers nodded.

“Is this true, boy?” the king sneered. “Are you of Dolphys? If you accept this claim, you must live among your clan.”

The crowd shifted in protest and Juliah muttered under her breath. No one was required to live among his clan, but no one would argue with the king.

“Highness, it is a ploy,” Aidan of Adyar interrupted. “Dred knows he cannot win the melee with his pack of aging wolves. He thinks the Temple Boy is Odin’s hound. He’ll abandon him when the battle is over. Leave the boy be.” The warriors stomped and thundered their agreement. They wanted to begin the contest.

“What’ll it be, boy? Do you want to live in Dolphys?” the king pressed as if it mattered little to him. But Ghisla knew different. Banruud cared. His loathing was almost love.

“I a-am a s-servant of the t-t-temple,” Bayr stammered, and the king sneered at his stuttering. Ghisla wanted to slap Banruud, to spit in his face, to scratch at his eyes in defense of her friend. But such fantasies were folly, and she gritted her teeth and willed the confrontation to end for Bayr’s sake.

“Do you withdraw your claim, Dred of Dolphys?” the king asked.

“I cannot withdraw my blood from his veins, or his from mine, Highness. But I’ll not take the boy from his home . . . or his duties. We will play with nine. And we will win.”

The warriors behind Dred—clansmen and opponents alike—reacted, cries of denial and protest rising to chase away the awkward encounter, and Dred of Dolphys turned away, abandoning his claim.

The melee ensued but Ghisla did not watch. She watched Bayr. His eyes were fixed upon his feet, and when Alba began to droop on her little stool, Bayr stepped forward and, with his typical care, lifted her into his arms. Queen Esa rose as well, trailing him to the castle, calling to the handmaid who waited. Ghisla doubted the queen cared which tribe prevailed. Ghisla did not care either. She sensed that Bayr had lost, and that was all she knew.

The melee signified the end of the tournament, but the celebration afterward stretched well into the following day, when drunk and stumbling clansmen and citizens found their way off the mount for another year, often leaving the keepers with a mess to clean up.

Ghisla and the other daughters had gone to bed with music and laughter echoing up from the square and woke to a temple in mourning.

Dred of Dolphys had made another claim, and Bayr, his face bruised and battered, spent the day being prepared to leave for Dolphys.

“What has happened to Bayr?” Juliah asked.

Ghisla thought it likely that the king had taken out his rage on the boy, and Bayr had been unable to keep it from his uncle, and Dagmar and Dred of Dolphys had joined forces to remove Bayr from his clutches.

Bayr did not want to leave.

“Who w-will w-watch over the d-daughters?” he protested again, looking over his shoulders at Ghisla and her sisters as he was urged forward, out of the temple, to his waiting grandfather. His eyes met Ghisla’s, panicked, and she knew what he was asking. Who would watch over her? Who would protect her when the king summoned?

“We will. I will,” Dagmar said again. “I will watch over them all.” His voice was firm but Bayr shook his head, doubtful, despairing. Bayr didn’t believe his uncle could protect her. Ghisla didn’t think so either. But the matter was clearly out of Bayr’s hands.

Master Ivo and the purple-robed keepers descended the stone steps of the temple, surrounding Bayr and Dagmar. Ghisla and the other girls trailed behind them, trying to hold back their tears.

Dred and the warriors of Dolphys were mounted and waiting, their postures as grim and apprehensive as those of the keepers.

“Word has spread. We must go now, Bayr. We must go now,” Dred urged, waving him forward.

But it was too late.

The chieftains, led by Erskin and the king, were striding into the temple square, three dozen warriors following behind them.

“You cannot claim him, Dred,” Erskin shouted as they drew near. He sounded fearful and almost desperate, as if he too could not imagine the mount without its protector.

“I can and I have,” Dred returned. “He is my daughter’s son. He is my kin. I have no other. I would not deny you, Erskin. Why do you seek to deny me?”

“He is the Temple Boy. He swore to guard the daughters of the clans,” Lothgar of Leok brayed. “We stood on these steps, gathered around this flame, and Bayr of Saylok promised to protect them the way he has protected the princess. He cannot break that vow. He must remain on the temple mount.”

For a moment, Dred was silent, as if stunned at the development. Ghisla realized suddenly that Dred had not been present the day the daughters were brought to the temple. Dred had not seen the Highest Keeper light the Hearth of Kings and promise that it would continue burning in their honor. He had not seen Bayr swear to serve the daughters of the clans.

Bayr stepped out from among the robed keepers, his warrior’s braid so long it touched the new blue sash tied around his waist.

“Why does he wear that sash?” Ghisla whispered. She still understood so little about the customs and traditions of the clans.

“Because he has been claimed. Now he wears the colors of a clan,” Juliah said, almost wistful. “I wish I could wear the colors of Joran.”

“You cannot deny a clan their chieftain,” Dred said.

The Dolphynian warriors beside him grew still. Bayr drew to a halt halfway down the steps, and Dagmar froze beside him. The king and the chieftains balked as well, and the metallic whisper of swords being drawn shivered through the square.

“Return inside, Daughters!” Keeper Amos insisted, as if afraid that a skirmish was about to ensue. But none of them moved.

“What chieftain?” King Banruud hissed.

“Dolphys has yet to choose a chieftain,” Dred said. “The boy must present himself to the clan to make a claim.”

“You will be chieftain, Dred of Dolphys,” the king retorted. “We all sat at council when it was decided.”

“One old man for another?” Dred asked. “That is not in the best interest of my clan.” His clansmen shifted again, uncertain, but still they did not protest.

“You have the blessing of the keepers, the support of the chieftains, the nod of a king. Why do you insist on claiming the boy?” Aidan of Adyar asked, his voice thoughtful, his gaze narrowed.

“I am not the best choice. If given the opportunity, I have no doubt my clan will choose him.” Dred pointed at Bayr, and all eyes followed his finger.

“He is not yet grown,” Erskin argued. “How can he lead a clan?”

“Have you killed a man, Bayr of Saylok?” Aidan asked.

Bayr nodded once. “Yes.”

“Have you bedded a woman?” Lothgar boomed.

Bashti snickered and Elayne gasped.

“Th-there w-was no b-bed,” Bayr stammered.

Lothgar grinned, and the men at Dred’s back relaxed infinitesimally.

“Sounds like a man to me,” Aidan said. “Looks like one too.”

“He has protected the temple and the princess since the king was crowned. He has not failed or faltered. But he has a clan, and his clan has claimed him, and you cannot deny us our chieftain,” Dred pressed.

Ghisla watched Dagmar wrap his hand around Bayr’s arm, as though willing him to yield, to trust.

“The clan has not made their selection. Your people have not spoken. You cannot speak for them, Dred of Dolphys,” the king argued.

“I can’t. But the boy must come to Dolphys and be heard,” Dred insisted.

“This is a farce,” the king argued, his tone glacial.

“It is not,” the Highest Keeper intoned from the shadow of his hood. “Dred of Dolphys is a man of vision.”

Erskin scoffed and Lothgar folded his powerful arms in disbelief.

“Dred of Dolphys forsakes his own claim to the chiefdom for another, better man,” the Highest Keeper argued. “Would you do the same? I can think of many warriors in Ebba and Leok who would lead their clans with great distinction.”

“The clan will choose him,” Dagmar’s voice rose, strong and sure. “I am a keeper of Dolphys. In the temple, it is I who represent the clan. Bayr of Dolphys has my blessing.”

“He cannot forsake Saylok for a single clan,” King Banruud protested.

“He is not a slave, not a supplicant, not the son of the king,” the Highest Keeper said. “He has fulfilled a duty and will now fulfill another. When you were chosen as king, Sire, you did not break an oath to Berne. Someone took your place. Someone will take his place.” The Highest Keeper’s voice was so mild—and cutting—none could disagree.

“And if he is not chosen?” Lothgar interrupted.

“If I am n-not chosen . . . I w-will return,” Bayr promised, and Dred of Dolphys looked at him like he wanted to clap his hands over Bayr’s mouth.

But Bayr’s vow eased the tension in the chieftains, and Aidan of Adyar grasped his braid with one hand and his sword with the other. “He’s been claimed. Let him go. If the Norns will it, he will return.”

Lothgar of Leok echoed the motion, but Erskin of Ebba and Benjie of Berne did not. The king’s face was a mask of indecision, his big legs planted, his arms folded, his shoulders set. Still, no one stepped forward to impede the boy’s progress as Dagmar escorted Bayr the final steps to Dred’s side.

“To Dolphys,” Dred shouted.

“To Dolphys,” the warriors behind him hollered, and as one they turned for their horses.

“To Dolphys,” Dagmar ordered Bayr, his voice firm.

Bayr swung up onto his mount, his eyes clinging to his uncle’s. Then he looked at the keepers and the daughters, a fleeting glance filled with pain and apology.

“No,” Juliah moaned beside her, and Elayne clutched her hand.

“What will we do without him?” Elayne wept.

“I don’t know,” Ghisla whispered. “Odin help us.” Odin help her.

The moon was full and the hour late when Ghisla picked her way down to her favorite overlook on the east face of Temple Hill and sat in the grass, tucking herself back into the shadows so she could call out to Hod. Below her was the long, grassy slope spotted with rocks and trees that eventually flattened in the Temple Wood below, but she could see in every direction. If she saw anyone or felt any danger, she could scurry back to the tunnel in the hillside and be back inside the temple in minutes.

Eleven tunnels crisscrossed the mount. Tunnels from the temple to the castle, from the sanctum to the throne room, from garden to garden, and from the cellar to the hillside. Bayr had shown her all of them.

But now Bayr was gone. The occupants of the temple were reeling. Dagmar had shut himself in the sanctum, and Ghost had disappeared after supper, though Ghisla thought she was probably with Alba, who had been inconsolable since saying goodbye to the boy who had guarded her since birth.

Poor Alba.

What would they all do without him? Elayne’s question had echoed continually. Ghisla would have to face the king alone. She would have to sing for him without Bayr nearby. The thought made her innards twist in terror. She’d sung for the king a handful of times, and had managed, after the first time, to keep her distance and not touch him at all.

And yet . . . Ghisla rejoiced that Bayr had been saved. That he’d been protected at last. He would be in Dolphys, away from the king. He would be safe—as safe as a warrior of Saylok could be—and he would be free. Free. Dolphys would make him their chieftain—she had no doubt—and all of Saylok would be better off for it. The chieftains were the only ones who could truly challenge Banruud, and someone would have to challenge him eventually.

Ghisla pricked her finger and had just begun her song to summon Hod when two figures appeared below her, emerging from the side of the hill as if they too had made use of the network of tunnels from the temple.

Ghisla ceased her song, slinking down into the grass, her palm bleeding, her heart galloping. With the tournament ended, Temple Hill had emptied of her visitors, but Ghisla knew better than to believe she was safe. She peered out over the ledge in front of her, trying to gauge the danger of discovery.

It was Dagmar and Ghost, hand in hand.

Hand in hand.

When they stopped, directly below her, and collapsed onto the grass, she moaned in apprehension and discomfort. She did not want to witness a tryst or eavesdrop on a highly personal conversation, but she was well and truly stuck.

It was them, no doubt. Ghost’s pale skin glowed like the moon, and Dagmar was speaking, his voice strangled as though he fought tears.

“Twenty years ago, when I was the same age as Bayr is now, I left Dolphys for the temple,” Dagmar choked out. “I was so confident. So sure. I knew where I belonged. Now I know nothing. I am powerless. Unsure. And my heart is, at this moment, traveling back to Dolphys.”

He paused, and Ghisla realized she was not witnessing an illicit tryst but a confessional.

“Bayr is the king’s son, Ghost. He is Banruud’s son,” he said, and his tears began to fall.

Ghost swayed, as if in shock, and Dagmar pulled her down to the grass, enfolding her in his arms as though he was desperate not to lose her too.

He would not lose Ghost. Ghisla knew that much. Ghost loved him, she worshipped the ground he walked on, and Ghost had her own secrets. She would not leave him.

“Oh, Dagmar,” Ghost gasped, holding him, stroking his shorn head.

“Bayr does not know,” Dagmar wept, the sound so raw and wounded that Ghisla wept with him, pressing her hands to her lips so she would not reveal herself.

“And the king?” Ghost asked. “Does he know?”

“My father claimed him as Desdemona’s son. The king is not a fool. I think he has suspected all along,” Dagmar moaned.

“You must tell me everything from the beginning,” Ghost begged, and after a brief hesitation, he relented.

Ghisla thought about covering her ears. She should shield herself from his burden. But she didn’t. She listened as his words spilled out, giving her more secrets to carry, more sorrow to shoulder.

“When my sister died . . . she drew two blood runes,” Dagmar explained. “Runes she should not have known. One of them required her life in exchange. But she was already dying. And she was angry, bitter. She cursed all the men of Saylok. She said there would be no girl children, no women for such men to love. She cursed Banruud by name.”

“How?” Ghost gasped. Ghisla bit back a moan, and the rune on her hand burned. Hod was waiting. She could feel him as though he stood on the other side of a wall, but she could not call out to him.

“She said Bayr would be his only child,” Dagmar continued. “In the second rune, she said Bayr would be powerful, so powerful that he would save Saylok, yet his father would reject him.”

“His only child?” Ghost repeated numbly, and Ghisla knew what she didn’t say: Alba was not the king’s child, and Ghost knew it.

“The runes are not all-powerful. Clearly,” Dagmar answered. “Banruud has another child. A daughter. He has Alba. Yet . . . the curse continues. The power of my sister’s blood rune persists. I don’t know how to break it, or if it can be broken.”

“Have you told Ivo . . . of the runes?” Ghost asked, her shock evident.

“No,” Dagmar breathed. “I can’t.”

“You must. He will know what to do.”

“I can’t,” Dagmar insisted again, and Ghost said nothing, her hand still stroking his head.

Dagmar straightened, releasing her so he could look down into her face, and his agony was on full display to Ghisla. To move would expose her to view, so she lay, helplessly listening, painfully witnessing all.

“If Ivo knows, he will be forced to act,” Dagmar said, his voice harsh with the truth. “As Highest Keeper he will do—he must do—whatever is necessary to destroy the power of Desdemona’s rune.” Dagmar paused briefly and then choked out, “I cannot take that risk.”

“But . . . is that not . . . what you want?” Ghost asked.

“What if Bayr is the only one who can break the curse?” Dagmar cried.

“I don’t understand,” Ghost said. “What are you telling me?”

Dagmar began to weep again, his sobs the scrape of metal on metal. It was the worst sound Ghisla had ever heard, and she buried her face in her arms, but she had to know. What curse?

“What do you mean, Dagmar?” Ghost asked.

“Bayr’s birth marked the beginning of the drought.” Dagmar spoke as though he impaled himself on each word. “What if his death marks the end?”

Ghisla did not rise and go back to the temple through the long, dark tunnel when Dagmar and Ghost left. She was too depleted. Too frightened. And too numb.

She needed Hod. She had to tell someone. The blood on her hand was dry and her throat even drier. She jabbed at her finger and watched the droplet form and trickle down her finger and pool at its base. She smeared the blood through the lines of the rune, trying to sing. It was no more than a whisper, but Hod was there, waiting, as she finished the simple verse. And she told him everything. She told him about Dred taking Bayr to Dolphys. She told him about Ghost’s silence, Dagmar’s secrets, and Ivo’s ignorance. And she told him Dagmar’s dilemma.

“Dagmar has not told Ivo about the runes. He is afraid if Ivo knows, he will be forced to act. He is afraid the end of the scourge will only come with Bayr’s death.”

“He’s afraid the Highest Keeper will try to kill Bayr if he knows about the runes?”Hod asked.

“Would you? Would Arwin? If you thought it would end the drought?”

He was silent for a moment, considering. He did not answer directly.

“You must tell Master Ivo.”

“I can’t.”

“You must. Tell him what you heard. Tell him about Desdemona’s curse, about her rune. Exactly what Dagmar said. He will know what to do.”

“But what about Bayr? What if Dagmar is right?” she moaned.

“Bayr is in Dolphys. Bayr is safe . . . for now. But Saylok is not. The temple is not, and you are not.”

“But . . . would you do it, Hod? If it would break the curse, would you kill Bayr?” She needed to know.

Hod sighed, the sound vibrating in her thoughts like wind in the eaves.

“I don’t know.”

“If it would break the curse . . . would you kill me?” she asked.

“What are you talking about, Ghisla?”

Mayhaps it was her fatigue. Mayhaps it was her fear, but after this day, honesty was all she had left, and so she gave it to him. “I love you, Hod. You are my dearest friend. My only friend. And I would do anything to keep you. Do you know that? I would trade all of Saylok for you.”

He was silent for a moment, as though she’d shocked him, but when he finally spoke, he sounded almost reverent.

“I would trade all of Saylok for you too, my little Songr.”

“That is how Dagmar feels about Bayr.”

“Yes . . . I imagine it is.”

“I want to go home, Hod.”

“You sound so tired.”

“I want to go home,” she said again, urgent, and he understood, the way he always seemed to.

“You want to go to Tonlis.”

“Yes. But there is no Tonlis.”

“Of course there is.”

“It was burned to the ground. Every cottage, every field. Every man, woman, and child. Everyone but me.”

Hod gasped. “Everyone?”

“I saw no one else. I saw only death. Families dead in their homes. In their fields. The bodies were piled, and everything was set on fire. The dead, the animals, the homes, the fields.”

“Oh, Ghisla.”

“They were trying to stop the disease. I don’t know why they let me live. Mayhaps because they thought I would die. But I didn’t die. I didn’t die. I just wanted to. Now I am here. And it is happening again. Must I sit by and watch everyone die in Saylok too?”

“It is not the same.”

“No. This scourge is slower.” She was close to tears, but even tears felt like too much work.

“You must rest now. Nothing must be done tonight.”

She was so weary, she didn’t trust her legs to take her back through the tunnel and up the stairs to her bed, but she rose and made her way to the hatch hidden behind the rock.

“Promise me—”

“I will not give up,” she sighed, finishing his sentence. It was how they always parted.

“And Ghisla?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”