The Second Blind Son by Amy Harmon
25
KINGS
Ghisla stood at the window in her room that overlooked the north gate and watched Hod leave. The hazy greens and blues of a distant Adyar were no more than a wistful suggestion, and she watched until the convoy disappeared into the dust. She resisted the urge to prick her finger and trace the star so she could follow his every step. If she gave in to the impulse, she would never be able to stop. Hod was right; she would drive herself mad.
She sang a simple prayer, beseeching the blind god to guard his namesake, and then she turned away.
It was in the same spot, standing at the window a week later, the amber light of the fall afternoon making the world soft, when another rider, this one alone, emerged from the dust and began his climb to the mount.
As she watched, drawn to the ever-nearing approach, the bells began to sound, clanging merrily, joyously, and as the rider drew near on a horse as black as his braid, she recognized him. He had aged and grown—he was a muscled bear of a man—but the Temple Boy was still there in the set of his eyes, the width of his smile, and the peak of his brow.
“I am Bayr, Chieftain of Dolphys, here to see King Banruud,” he boomed to the gate watchman, and though he paused every third or fourth word, he did not stumble.
“Open the bloody gate!” Dagmar bellowed to the winchmen who lifted the grates, and she knew he’d been the one ringing the bells.
“The king is not here, Chieftain,” the gate watchman replied good-naturedly. “But Keeper Dagmar has vouched for you and has bid me open the gate.” With a holler slightly more subdued than Dagmar’s had been, he granted Bayr entry.
Then Bayr was coming through the gate, his eyes trained on Dagmar, who had placed himself directly in his path. He slid off his horse and ran, sweeping his uncle up in his arms, laughing and saying his name.
“I see Dolphys in you—the clan is in your blood—but you are still Bayr, though you are more boar than cub,” Dagmar choked, laughing through his tears. He kissed his nephew’s cheeks as though he were still a child and not a great, hulking man, and Bayr embraced him in return.
“I am no bear. I am a wolf, Uncle. Though I do run a bit b-bigger than most of them.” Bayr’s grin was blinding, and his stutter was much improved.
“Bayr has returned,” Ghisla whispered, flabbergasted. Overjoyed.
Horrified.
“Bayr has returned!” Juliah cried.
Ghisla’s sisters ran from the room, and she ran to catch up with them as they clattered down the stone steps to the wide entry below. They were not the only ones who had heard the bells and witnessed Dagmar’s joyous shouting. From the west staircase, a stream of keepers began to pour, voices raised in welcome, hands clasped in excitement at Bayr’s return.
Master Ivo was waiting in the foyer, watching the reunion through the wide doors. Bayr strode forward and enveloped the Highest Keeper in an embrace that should have reduced him to dust, but Ivo curled his winged arms around the big chieftain and uttered not even a peep of protest.
“We’ve been waiting, Bayr of Saylok,” he murmured as Bayr released him and turned to greet the others hurrying toward him. Ghost reached him first and held out a hand in greeting, her smile as careful and quiet as it had always been. Bayr bowed above it, kissing her pale white knuckles. Her joy was as clear as her gossamer skin.
“You are s-still beautiful, Ghost,” Bayr said softly. “Thank you for l-looking after him.” He cast a brief glance at Dagmar so there would be no question to whom he referred.
“Your uncle looks after all of us,” she replied, and pink suffused her pale cheeks.
“You are all . . . w-women,” Bayr stammered, raising his eyes from Ghost to Ghisla and the other daughters, who had stopped a few paces behind her. He gripped his braid as though he greeted the king, his reverence and fealty bringing to mind the day so long ago when they’d been brought to the temple as scared little girls.
“You are all beautiful women, g-grown,” he marveled.
In response, Juliah grasped the heavy coil that circled her head.
“Mine is not a warrior’s braid, but a warrior’s crown,” she said, a smirk twisting her soft lips.
“The Warrior Queen?” Bayr asked, and Juliah’s smile widened.
“There has been no coronation, but I accept your title,” she said, lifting her chin like royalty, but her eyes caught on Alba, who stood framed in the light of the gray afternoon beyond him. The heavy temple doors had been pushed wide upon Bayr’s entry and never closed, and no one had even seen her enter in their eagerness to greet their returning friend.
“Bayr?” Alba called.
Bayr froze, as though he knew exactly who spoke. He seemed to brace himself before turning, but the shudder that wracked him was visible to all who observed.
“Alba?”
She was tall for a woman, taller than many of the keepers, and straight and strong in her carriage and character. She wore her hair loose around her shoulders, the pale waves like moonbeams against her deep-blue gown. The light at her back shadowed her features, but her eyes, dark as the soil of Saylok, were fixed on Bayr’s face.
A heartbeat later, she was hurtling through the entrance hall, her skirts clutched in her hands to free her flying feet, her hair streaming behind her. Then she was in Bayr’s arms, caught up against him, her feet no longer touching the floor, as though she’d leaped past the last few steps.
All was silent around them, as the stunned observers watched a reunion that was as wrenching as it was wonderful. Bayr and Alba did not speak at all, but stood, locked in a desperate embrace, clinging to each other in quiet commiseration. Ghisla could not see Bayr’s face, but Alba had begun to weep, her shoulders quaking, her face buried in Bayr’s neck. Bayr simply turned, still clutching her to his chest, her feet still dangling, and strode across the wide foyer and into the sanctum. He closed the double doors behind him with a shove of his boot.
They sat in the sanctum all afternoon, their voices and Alba’s laughter trickling out and echoing over the stone walls. The keepers moved in hushed happiness, keeping their ears attuned to the glad sound, and the Highest Keeper instructed those on kitchen duty to prepare a feast for the return of the favorite son.
No one seemed to know what to do—decorum dictated that a man and woman not be alone together behind a closed door, yet no one wanted to deny or diminish the joyous reunion, and so Master Ivo left it ajar. Ghost hovered near the sanctum door, shamelessly eavesdropping, and Dagmar kept finding reasons to join her, though the front entrance hall contained nothing but stone, space, and staircases.
At sundown, Ghisla joined the daughters and the keepers in songs of worship and took Ghost’s hand as they sang the final praise.
Ghost’s thoughts spun in dizzy wonder, sugared and pink, her joy for her daughter the constant in her unfiltered musings.
Mother of the earth be mine, father of the skies, divine.
All that was and all that is, all I am and all I wish.
Ghost wished for one thing above all others: Alba’s happiness. Ghisla suspected it was the mantle of motherhood, to gladly sacrifice for the sake of your child.
Or mayhaps it was just the mark of true love; Ghisla would endure the rack to save Hod from it. He would do the same for her, and the simultaneous terror and joy of having and holding such devotion was more than she could comprehend most days.
But yes, she would endure the rack for Hod. It couldn’t be worse than the torture she felt now.
Bayr had returned.Of all the times to finally come home. And she could not warn him. Not yet. Not at all? How would Bayr handle such a warning? She suspected he would handle it the way he’d handled every duty placed on his shoulders throughout his life. He would battle the Northmen, defend the mount, and protect his king. He might die doing it, but that would not be his concern. It would be Hod’s concern. Saylok’s concern. To warn him would be to seal his fate and destroy all chance of a peaceful revolution—if there was such a thing. So somehow, Hod had to get him off the mount.
Ghisla succumbed to her worry and went to the rune. She pricked her finger, traced the star, and said Hod’s name, grimacing in anticipation. One didn’t always know what waited on the other side of an unlocked rune.
She was suddenly doused—rather unpleasantly—in the sights and smells of unwashed men, seawater, and dark shores. A group of Northmen were gathered around a huge fire, drinking and belching and speaking of people and things she cared nothing about. Hod stood on the edge of the circle, his hands on his staff, his shield on his back, and his feet planted in the sand like he expected a bottle to be thrown at his head at any moment.
They were in Berne, and he was whole. She wiped the blood from her scar and severed her sight. It did her no good to look on him if she could not warn him or even talk to him. She vowed not to look again.
The gathering bell was rung for supper, and she joined the others in the dining hall, taking her usual place at her regular table and, like everyone else, spent the meal watching Bayr, who sat at the head. He was completely at home among the shiny pates and narrow shoulders, and the keepers peppered him all through the meal, making him answer question after question, though Bayr struggled through each one.
“Brothers. I am w-well. Dolphys is well. I want to hear from all of you. P-please don’t torture me thus.”
“But . . . why now, Bayr? Why have you come now?” the Highest Keeper asked softly, saving his question for last. The room fell silent as if each man and woman had wondered the same thing.
“We cannot continue as w-we have done. Saylok is . . .” He seemed to be searching for the right word, and he held up his big palms in frustration.
“Collapsing,” Ghisla blurted out. Heads swiveled toward her in surprise, and Bayr raised his eyes to hers across the long table. She bowed her head, mortified that she had spoken aloud. She had not meant to. The word had risen to her lips and jumped of its own accord.
Bayr nodded, his mouth pursed in concern. “Yes, Liis of Leok. Saylok . . . is . . . collapsing.”
The mood in the room flattened like an underbaked cake.
A frown dripped from the Highest Keeper’s face, and his eyes searched Ghisla’s before he thumped his scepter on the stones.
“We have survived twenty-five kings. Surely we can survive this one,” the Highest Keeper refuted. “Sing for us, Liis of Leok. Tonight is not a time for dour predictions. Let us celebrate.”
Hod and King Banruud did not return with the Northmen. Not the next day or the next. The grounds began filling with the tents and wagons of tradesmen preparing to sell their wares at the games, and overnight, the mount was flooded with clans and chaos as the Tournament of the King commenced without the king. The temple opened her doors to travelers making their yearly pilgrimage to worship in her walls, and the keepers heard the complaints and the confessions of the disconsolate.
Three chieftains arrived on the first day of competition—Aidan of Adyar, Lothgar of Leok, and Josef of Joran. Elbor of Ebba arrived at dusk on the second day, and he surrounded himself with soldiers, doing his utmost to avoid the other chieftains. Benjie of Berne was notably absent.
Alba greeted the crowds with upraised arms and a welcoming smile, fulfilling her role as welcoming monarch without a hitch. When she declared the tournament open to “all of Saylok’s people, to her clans and her colors,” no fear or discomfort tinged her voice, and the people threw flowers at her feet and sang her praises. At the commencement of each contest she wished the entrants “the wisdom of Odin, the strength of Thor, and the favor of Father Saylok,” and they battled as though they had all three.
It was not until the fourth day of the tournament and well into the afternoon when a lone horn sounded from the watchtower and a cry went up.
“The king has returned! Ready the mount for His Majesty, King Banruud of Saylok.”
From the King’s Village to the top of Temple Hill, one trumpeter signaled another, each wailing a note that rose on the end like a question, the sound growing louder and louder as it climbed the long road to the mount. Along the ramparts, another chorus of horns sounded, verifying the message had been received.
The grounds were thick with clansmen and villagers, but every contest was halted as people ran to the gates and spilled down the hill. No clan wanted to be accused of not honoring the return of His Majesty, and the courtyard was flooded with clansmen mere minutes after the horns were sounded. Master Ivo clanged the gathering bell, summoning the keepers to their formation amid the columns; the daughters were required to make their presence felt as well, and Ghisla awaited the king’s arrival standing among her silent sisters in a sea of purple on the highest row. It gave them a perfect view of the entire square.
Across the courtyard on the palace steps, Aidan, Lothgar, Josef, Elbor, and Bayr awaited the king as well, their most trusted warriors behind them.
The king’s guard began to clear the enormous courtyard between the temple and the palace, forcing the curious and the clustered to move out onto the grass and the grounds to give the king and his retinue wide berth. To return during the tournament created a chaos the king’s men clearly weren’t accustomed to, and more than one villager was shoved to the ground in an attempt to clear the square. From outside the walls of the mount, a rumble began to swell and spill through the gates, a wave of shock and speculation that tumbled from one mouth to the next.
Ghisla’s stomach groaned and her palms dripped. She knew what was coming.
The horns bugled again, indicating the king was nearing the gate, and Alba appeared at the top of the palace steps in full regalia. She had opened the tournament wearing only a long white dress and a simple gold circlet on her brow. King Banruud expected a more formal greeting. Her crown was a smaller replica of her father’s, six spires with jewels that matched the colors of the clans embedded at the bases and the tips. Emeralds for Adyar, rubies for Berne, sapphires for Dolphys, orange tourmalines for Ebba, brown topaz for Joran, and golden citrines for Leok.
The chieftains moved to the sides, creating an aisle for Alba to descend between them, but she stopped in their midst, Bayr on her left and Aidan of Adyar on her right. Ghisla’s attention was drawn away from the princess when the villagers who had been cleared from the central courtyard began to point toward the entrance, to clutch each other and cower.
“He’s brought the Northmen to the temple mount,” Juliah hissed, outraged.
“It is King Gudrun,” Elayne whispered.
It was indeed, and a contingent of fifty Northmen.
Ghisla resisted the urge to crane her neck—she’d been trained to remain still and draw no attention to the daughters—but her eyes bounced from man to man, looking for Hod. He’d found a perch on a supply wagon; he’d probably ridden in it all the way. His staff was across his knees, his hood pushed back, and when her eyes settled on him, he lifted his chin as though he heard her too.
“My people. My daughter. My chieftains. My keepers,” Banruud boomed, his arms raised to call the crowd to attention. “In the spirit of peace and negotiation, I have brought King Gudrun of the Northlands to see our temple and to take part in the tournament. I bid you to welcome him and his people. We are in need of strong alliances. May this be the first of many such visits.”
The people murmured nervously. No one jeered, but there was no jubilance in their greeting, no cheers or waving of their colors. Many began shuffling toward the wide gate only to be cowed by the bone-studded, leather-clad Northmen who spilled out onto the drawbridge.
Alba began to descend the final palace steps, her sense of duty demanding she bid the visitors welcome, but Bayr moved forward with her. Aidan must have been of the same mind, for he too remained at her side. Josef and Lothgar trailed them as they walked out into the courtyard to present the princess of Saylok to the king of the Northlands. Elbor, evidently not wanting to be left behind, hurried to join them, though he cowered behind Lothgar.
As Alba neared, King Banruud dismounted and extended his hand toward her.
“Father, I thank Odin for your safe return,” Alba said, projecting her voice to the crowd. She stepped away from the chieftains and pressed the back of Banruud’s outstretched hand to her forehead in traditional greeting. Turning to the North King she curtsied, low and lovely, and rose up gracefully. “King Gudrun, we welcome you.”
There was an appreciative murmur among Gudrun’s men, and the North King slid unceremoniously from his horse and grasped Alba’s fingers as though to press a kiss on her knuckles. At the last moment, he turned her hand so her palm was facing up. With exaggerated pleasure, he licked upward from the tips of her fingers to the pulse at her wrist, and his men roared in rowdy approval.
Bayr growled, a deep, guttural rumbling that caused Gudrun to raise his eyes and withdraw his tongue.
“Is that not how it’s done in Saylok?” the North King asked Bayr, sardonic. “Or is she yours, Chieftain?”
“May I present my daughter, Princess Alba of Saylok,” the king interrupted, but his eyes censured Bayr, his expression hard, his mouth tight. “The Temple Boy has fallen back into his old ways. He returns to the mount after a decade and immediately considers himself the princess’s protector.”
“Temple Boy?” Gudrun repeated, his eyebrows raised in query.
“I am Bayr. Chieftain of Dolphys,” Bayr said carefully. Slowly. He did not acknowledge the king but kept his gaze on Gudrun.
“Ah. I have heard of you, Dolphys. You are known for your strength. I should like to test it.” Gudrun sucked at his teeth.
“These are my chieftains—Adyar, Joran, Leok, and Ebba. You’ve met Berne,” the king introduced, tossing his hand toward the men who trailed his daughter. Bayr was not the only one who bristled at the introduction. The clan chieftains were subordinate to the king, but the implication that they were “his” did not sit well.
Banruud offered his arm to Alba, who took it without hesitation, though her fingers barely touched his sleeve and her posture did not relent. Banruud nodded toward the keepers standing in silent observance on the temple steps. Ivo had moved out in front of them, a stooped crow bent around his scepter.
“Gudrun, may I present the daughters of the clans,” Banruud said, striding toward the robed assembly. Gudrun followed eagerly. Some of the Northmen dismounted, eyes suspicious, hands on their weapons, and trailed after their king.
“I see only old men,” Gudrun mocked. The daughters’ hair was the only thing that set them apart—Master Ivo had dispensed long ago with any clan-colored distinctions—and they’d raised their hoods to cover their heads.
“We want to see the daughters, Master Ivo,” Banruud ordered, coming to a halt before the Highest Keeper.
“They are not yours to command or display, Majesty,” Ivo replied, his tone mild, as though he spoke to an insistent child.
Banruud moved so close to Ivo, he appeared to be speaking to a lover, whispering assurances in his ear, but Master Ivo raised his eyes to Gudrun, who stood over the king’s shoulder, and spoke to him directly, ignoring King Banruud.
“What is your purpose here, Northman?” the Highest Keeper queried. His tone was so cold the crowd shivered.
“I want to see your temple, priest.”
“I am not a priest. I do not save souls or speak for the gods. I am a Keeper of Saylok.”
“And what treasures do you keep, old one?” Gudrun grinned, and his men laughed around him.
“Let us see the daughters,” Elbor hollered, showing his support for the wishes of the king. “They belong to the people. Not the keepers.”
A few clanspeople cried out in agreement. Others protested, frightened by King Banruud’s company, unnerved by the Northmen inside the walls of their precious mount.
Benjie, still seated on his horse, among a handful of Gudrun’s men and Banruud’s guard, raised his voice in agreement.
“You worship the gods, but you obey the king, Highest Keeper,” he said.
Lothgar of Leok grunted his agreement and Josef of Joran stepped forward, demanding a viewing as well.
“Daughters of the clans, come forward,” Banruud bellowed, his hand on his sword. The keepers shifted, a pathway opening among them, and Ghisla and her sisters, their eyes fixed above Banruud’s head, their purple robes hiding them from neck to toe, descended the steps.
The crowd strained to get a better view, and Gudrun smirked as they stopped in a straight line before him, not shrinking but not acknowledging him in any way.
The North King touched the fiery coils of Elayne’s hair. Ghisla heard her whimper slightly, but she did not pull away.
“Elayne of Ebba,” Banruud said.
“Elayne of Ebba,” Gudrun grunted, his eyes shrewd. He moved on.
“Liis of Leok,” Banruud announced, almost dismissing her. He seemed eager for Gudrun to move along, but the North King moved his face within an inch of hers, willing her to meet his gaze. He blew a stream of warm air against her lips.
“Hello, Songr,” he whispered.
She did not respond or even deign to look at him.
“Such an icy wench,” he hissed. He laughed and moved on to Juliah as the king introduced her.
Juliah was not ice, she was fire, and when Gudrun paused in front of her, she glowered at him disdainfully, her top lip lifted in the smallest of sneers.
“Juliah of Joran does not like me,” he murmured. “Though I might enjoy changing her mind.”
“Dalys of Dolphys,” King Banruud intoned.
Dalys had begun to shrink, her slim shoulders bunching around her ears, but Gudrun ran the tip of his finger along the silky underside of her jaw and demanded she lift her face.
When she did, his lips curled.
“Your chieftain is so big.” He shot a look toward Bayr. “But you are a runt. I want a woman,” he said, dismissing her without another word. The crowd rumbled, and the Highest Keeper gnashed his teeth, but Gudrun wasn’t finished. He moved to Bashti, who met his gaze with all the disdain he’d just shown Dalys. She was not a big woman either, but she demanded attention. Gudrun gave it to her.
He pressed his thumb to the swell of her full lips as though he intended to check her teeth. When she snarled and snapped at him, he laughed and lifted his eyes to Banruud, releasing her before he lost a finger.
“You have six clans, Banruud . . . but only five daughters,” he mused.
“The princess is of Adyar,” Aidan spoke up. “She represents our clan among the daughters of the temple.” Aidan had remained by Bayr’s side, though his eyes had clung to Elayne throughout the North King’s inspection. His voice was controlled, but his hand clung to the hilt of his sword, and Ghisla knew she and Hod were not the only ones who nursed secret affections.
Gudrun turned and considered Alba once more. Like the daughters, she was unflinching beneath his scrutiny. “I think you lie, Chieftain. Who is that?” Gudrun pointed, his eyes sharp. “Do you seek to hide her from me?”
Ghost stood among the keepers, Dagmar beside her, but the hood of her robe had fallen back a few inches, and her thick, white braid was a stark contrast to the vivid hue of her robe.
If Ghisla had not been facing him, she might have missed Banruud’s response. He recoiled beside Alba, drawing her back with a vicious jerk, his eyes wide with horror.
“I want to see her, priest,” Gudrun insisted, curling his fingers at Ghost, beckoning her forward. Ghost had already ducked her head, shrinking back into her robe, an ivory slice of cheek the only visible part of her face. Dagmar was rigid beside her.
“She is not a daughter of the temple, King Gudrun,” Master Ivo replied, but his eyes were glued to Banruud.
“No?” Gudrun sneered. He began mounting the stairs, shoving keepers aside. The crowd cried out, frightened by his aggression. Gudrun stopped in front of Ghost and pulled her hood from the wreath of her silvery-white hair. Her chin snapped up, her eyes gleamed, and Gudrun cursed and stumbled back, almost falling when his foot glanced off a step. The crowd in the courtyard gasped, the collective inhale like a crack of angry thunder.
“She is not a daughter, Majesty,” Master Ivo repeated, though it was not clear to which king he referred. “She is a keeper.” He paused, his gaze still clinging to King Banruud. “We call her . . . Ghost.”
“I want to see the temple,” the North King demanded, his voice ringing imperiously, but he had retreated several more steps. Ghost did not re-cover her hair or drop her gaze, but Dagmar had taken her hand in his, and without a word, the robed keepers moved back around her protectively.
“And you shall see it, King Gudrun,” Banruud promised, finding his voice, though it rattled oddly. “It is open to all during the tournament. But we’ve traveled far, and you are hungry. We will dine first and enjoy the games. The temple can wait.”
Banruud turned away, dismissing the Highest Keeper the way he had been dismissed. He gripped Alba’s arm and drew Gudrun and his men forward with a wave of his hand. The North King followed reluctantly, turning back more than once to study the temple, her daughters, and her rows of huddled keepers.