by Harmon, Amy
A closed circle meant finality. In a strength rune, a gap in the circle meant weakness. However small, however slight, but still . . . weakness. If the rune of strength was for her young son, Desdemona had inadvertently left an opening for a fatal flaw. With a flick of Desdemona’s blade across his hand, a hand that still bled, Dagmar closed the gap.
“He will have no mother. No father. No clan. He will have only me, Allfather. And I don’t know how I will provide. But as to any weakness he—Bayr—is cursed with, I will make up the difference,” Dagmar prayed, and with an odd calm, he laid his sister against the earth she would return to and lifted the child from her chest. The babe had fallen asleep, releasing his mother’s breast. He was warm and sticky, covered in blood and grime, but dark hair covered his head, and his limbs and trunk were well formed and pink, with small rolls of fat making him look like an oft-fed piglet. He was a healthy man-child, Dagmar thought. Perfect, even.
“You must come with me now, Bayr,” he said to the child, calling him by the name his mother had chosen. She’d cursed Banruud, yet she’d still given his son the sound of his tribe. All male children of a tribe were given the first sound of their father’s name. A female child was given the beginning sound of her mother’s name. Dagmar wished briefly that his sister had given the child the sound of her own clan. The child’s father had claim to him, but clearly Banruud had rejected both mother and son, and Dagmar vowed, anger swelling in his chest, that he would not let the man have him now.
Following his sister’s lead, Dagmar tucked the child beneath his robes against the warm skin of his chest and began the long climb back to the temple, promising his sister he would return to her when her child was safe.
2
Dagmar almost turned back several times. He should keep the infant and leave the keepers. They would never allow him to raise the child in the enclave. There were a few women living on the temple grounds and more living in the servants’ quarters in the palace, but no women lived within the walls of the temple itself. The keepers cared for themselves and the temple without female assistance, each brother assigned in rotation to the duties that daily life demanded. One could not pray, read, and write all day. The chores kept them grounded in the physical, which was easy to lose sight of in a meditative state.
There were soldiers on Temple Hill too, and a small contingent from the king’s army were assigned to guard the temple from raiders and those who sought to trespass where they didn’t belong. Temple Hill was like a small village run mostly by men, and Dagmar was quite certain he wouldn’t find a nursemaid in the castle or living on the grounds.
Dagmar ran through all these details, mundane as they were, trying to imagine a child among the community on Temple Hill. The Highest Keeper, Ivo, would send him away. Dagmar hesitated again and turned in a circle, his eyes seeking the sky and the trees, looking for an answer to the situation he now found himself in. The infant against his chest began to squirm, but he didn’t cry, and Dagmar patted his back instinctively, soothing him, soothing himself.
Dagmar couldn’t leave. He had nowhere to go. He had no home in Dolphys. Not anymore. He shuddered to think what his father would do. He would start a war, that’s what he would do. He would take the infant and ride into Berne, to the home of Chief Banruud. He would demand recompense for his dead daughter. The child would either be taken in by Banruud or raised by Dred of Dolphys, or whichever woman he hired to look after him while he pillaged and plundered the lands east of Saylok, across the waters.
Banruud had already rejected Desdemona and the child.
Dred was unfit.
And Desdemona had entrusted the child to Dagmar’s care.
“Odin, Father of Saylok, have mercy on this child. He is of the lineage of your son, a direct descendant of the bear Berne and the wolf Dolphys.” It was the prayer Dagmar had been uttering since leaving Desdemona, and he repeated it again as he resumed his climb and neared the gates of the temple.
“Keeper Dagmar, Master Ivo is looking for you.” Jakub, a temple guard, was perched in the tower beside the gate, and he called down to Dagmar, his eyes filled with curiosity.
“What’ve you got there, Keeper Dagmar?” Jakub pressed.
Dagmar simply shook his head and didn’t answer. The last thing he needed was word spreading through the temple guard and among the keepers that Dagmar had come home from prayer with an infant in his robes. Word would reach Master Ivo before he did.
Once, long ago, the Keepers of Saylok had offered human sacrifice along with their animal sacrifices. Every six years, six beasts and six men had been offered to the gods. The practice had ended with King Enos of Ebba. He’d been a traveler to the lands of the Christians and had adopted some of their ways. Jesus Christ had been added to the pantheon of the gods, and human sacrifice among the clans of Saylok had come to an end. Enos had not been baptized. He’d simply been intrigued, and he’d brought back a great gold cross and a book he called the Bible. Both were displayed in the temple beneath a mural of Enos’s travels, a winged, golden-haired creature flying above his head, guiding his path.
Many things had changed in Enos’s reign, but some things had remained the same. One thing that had not changed was the power of the Highest Keeper. His name was Ivo, a name he’d chosen himself, a name not associated with any tribe, for his duty, above all else, would be to remain impartial to the six clans, to guard the forbidden runes, and to provide for the spiritual welfare of all Saylok. He relinquished his old name, the name given him by his father, a man of the clan of Joran, and took on a new name, just as he took on a new life and a new role. Someday, if Dagmar became Highest Keeper, he too would choose a new name. But first he had to survive the day. Thoughts of becoming Highest Keeper seemed folly, considering what he was about to do.
Warmth spread across Dagmar’s chest, and for a moment, he thought he was having a visitation, a holy moment of spiritual insight, and his heart leaped in gratitude. Maybe Odin would answer his prayers. Then the warmth became wet, and he realized the child clutched against his heart was urinating down his chest. Dagmar grimaced and kept moving. The soiling only served to underscore how real his problem was. There was an infant in his robes, and his sister’s body lay in the woods. He grimaced again, and grief rose suddenly. His shock was ebbing, giving way to sorrow, and he stumbled and went down to a knee. The babe in his arms, now wet and plainly uncomfortable, emitted a wail.
“Dagmar?” A voice rose from the shadowy recesses near the inner sanctum where Dagmar knew he would find Master Ivo, the Highest Keeper.
“Yes, Master, it is Dagmar.”
“Come here,” Ivo commanded. There was an odd note in his voice, and Dagmar clenched his teeth and tightened his grip on the babe beneath his robes.
The sanctum was dark and cool, the rock that arched above and below the blood-red glass of the windows keeping the warmth of the day from permeating the space. Candles pierced the gloom, and Ivo sat in his chair above the altar like a king on his throne. There were seven chairs in total, Master Ivo’s in the center. The three chairs on either side of him were empty, the six higher keepers representing the six clans having left their master to ruminate alone. It was not uncommon. They meditated together once a day and sat in their official positions only during ceremonies and worship services. But Master Ivo occupied the sanctum often, making it his personal space to conduct business and carry out the duties with which he was entrusted.
Dagmar’s eyes struggled against the gloom, adjusting from the light of day to the darkness of the room, and for a moment he saw nothing but the flickering flames that topped the wax sticks on every surface.
“I’ve seen something that troubles me, Dagmar,” Ivo said softly, and Dagmar’s blood surged in his veins. He didn’t slow but approached the Highest Keeper, halting just before the altar.
“What have you seen, Master?” he asked.
“The death of a woman.”
“I too have seen her death, but not in a vision, Master. I
saw it in truth,” Dagmar said, and his voice cracked. Tears flooded his eyes and streamed down his cheeks, but he didn’t acknowledge them.
Master Ivo did not look surprised, and his eyes did not leave Dagmar’s face.
Dagmar told the Highest Keeper of his dreams, three nights in a row, and how he’d begun his sojourn with the intention of understanding what they meant. He told him how he’d made a sacrifice for wisdom, and how he’d seen his sister rise in a vision before him.
“I found her easily, Master. But it was too late to help her.”
“She was dead when you arrived?” Ivo asked.
“No. But she was bleeding profusely.”
“Why?”
“She had given birth to a child there in the woods. On that very spot. Something went wrong. There was far too much blood.”
He didn’t tell Master Ivo about the runes. Runes were forbidden to all but the Keepers of Saylok, and even then, only certain runes were allowed.
“What of the child?” Master Ivo queried.
Dagmar opened his robe, and with a belly full of fear and dread, withdrew the naked infant, holding him up toward the Highest Keeper with shaking hands. The babe had fallen asleep again, and the movement and loss of contact with Dagmar’s skin caused his little arms to flail wildly.
Master Ivo hissed as though Dagmar had offered him a writhing snake.
“The child is healthy. Whole,” said Dagmar. “And I am his uncle. I could not leave him to die in the woods.”
The Highest Keeper stared in horror.
“Odin’s uncle, Bestla’s brother, taught Odin the songs of life. He taught him the eighteen charms. He didn’t abdicate his responsibility because he was a god,” Dagmar urged. “I cannot abdicate mine because I am a keeper.”
“Who will feed the babe? You don’t have teats, brother.” Ivo’s dripping disdain caught Dagmar off guard.
“One of the women in the King’s Village will know what to do. If he must, he will drink milk from the goats, as we do,” Dagmar murmured, trying to keep the fear from his voice. He wasn’t afraid for himself. He wasn’t afraid of Ivo’s ire or displeasure. He was afraid Ivo would forbid him to keep the child at the temple. Then he would have to leave. They both would.
“Who is the child’s father?”
Dagmar didn’t hesitate. He’d been ready for this question, and he lied with great conviction.
“I don’t know, Master.”
Master Ivo grimaced in disdain, as if a woman who birthed a child without a man waiting to sever the umbilical cord with his teeth, a traditional act of ownership among the clans, did not deserve his compassion.
“She said the child’s name was Bayr.” Dagmar rushed to tell a truth to bury his lie. “She said he would be strong, that salvation would come to Saylok through him. And she asked me to take him. That is what I’ve done, Master. I beg you to let me raise him here, among us.”
Master Ivo had grown pale and silent, his disdain slipping into contemplation.
“What did she mean . . . salvation?” the Highest Keeper whispered.
“I don’t know, Master. It may only have been the dying wish of a mother for her son. But . . . it seemed more than that.”
Silence grew and widened between them, filling the air with tension and, for Dagmar, torment. It wasn’t until Ivo spoke again, several minutes later, that Dagmar’s heart began to slow and his fear to diminish.
“I dreamed of her too, Dagmar,” Ivo admitted. “Last night, the night before that, and many nights before that. I didn’t know what it meant. But the woman . . . she reminded me of you. She looked like you. That is why I asked you to come to me. And here you are.”
Dagmar’s breath caught, and he bowed his head, desperate to keep his feelings to himself.
“Bring the child to me,” Ivo commanded.
Dagmar obeyed, his legs trembling so violently he thought he would fall. He moved past the altar and up the steps to the dais where his master sat waiting. He had no idea what the man would do. His lips and eyes, blackened like those of all the Highest Keepers since Saylok was formed from the sea, moved with Dagmar’s approach, his lips forming words Dagmar couldn’t hear.
Master Ivo’s long nails were sharp and curled, but he took the child between his palms with a gentleness that both surprised and relieved his uncle.
“His mother said he would be strong?” the Highest Keeper whispered.
“Yes, Master.”
“I can see already that it is true. Look how he holds his head! That is unusual in a newborn child. He is watching me, Dagmar. His eyes are clear and fixed.”
They were. The tiny babe was staring at Master Ivo with solemn wonder, his pink body clutched between the claws of the most powerful man in Saylok. More powerful than the king, for Master Ivo had the power to choose who would wear the crown. More powerful even than the gods and the three Norns that spun the fates of mankind, for in that moment, he held the child’s life in his hands.
“What was your sister’s name, Dagmar?”
“Desdemona.”
“Desdemona,” Master Ivo whispered, drawing the word out in a long hiss. “She who slays demons.”
“Yes,” Dagmar replied. “She was a great warrior in our clan.”
“Women don’t make great warriors,” Ivo spat.
Dagmar didn’t respond. He didn’t agree. A mother was the fiercest warrior of all.
“If I told you to leave him in the Temple Wood, a gift for Odin and all the gods of Saylok, would you obey me?”
“No, Master,” Dagmar replied, firm.
Ivo cursed Dagmar for his insolence, but his eyes didn’t leave the child.
“We have not had a child at the temple since Bjorn, and he was ten years old,” Ivo protested. Bjorn was now one of the higher keepers, a man well into his fiftieth year. “We have no way to know if this child will be a worthy supplicant.”
“We have soldiers on the mount. Cooks and gardeners and laundresses too. We aren’t all keepers or supplicants,” Dagmar said carefully.
“This is true,” Ivo allowed. A smile had begun playing on his lips as he gazed at the infant he held. Even soiled and stained, the babe was the picture of health and hope.
“What shall I tell the others?” the Highest Keeper muttered, and Dagmar’s heart quickened at Ivo’s obvious weakening toward the child.
“Tell them of your dreams, Master. No one will question your dreams.”
“And your dreams, Dagmar?”
“I will say only what you tell me to say,” Dagmar said humbly.
“So you will obey me in this?” Ivo’s disdain was back. “But if I command that you give him to the gods, you refuse? You will take him and go? Mayhaps throw yourself off the cliffs of Shinway, eh?”
“Mayhaps. But his fate will be my fate, yes, Master,” Dagmar confirmed.
The child bellowed suddenly, loudly, and Dagmar and Ivo both started. Ivo came close to dropping him, and his nail scored the child’s skin, causing a thin weal of blood to rise along his tiny ribs.
“Bayr of Saylok,” Ivo mused, his eyes on the blood. He laid the child on the altar before him and, running the soft pad of his finger over the oozing scratch, painted the child’s forehead in the star of Saylok.
“Bayr of Saylok,” Ivo intoned. “Bayr, nephew of Dagmar, child of Desdemona, son of the temple. Your life will be spared and guarded for a purpose I do not yet know, but I seal your mother’s prophecy on your head, and will do my part to see that it is fulfilled.”
Dagmar’s strength left his legs, and he reached for the altar where the infant lay. Gratitude, guilt, and grief combined to send him to his knees. He had not told Ivo everything, and Ivo had just sealed Desdemona’s words in blood on the infant’s head.
“Take him. Make arrangements. Your duties will remain the same, Keeper Dagmar, with or without the child. Let us pray that he is amenable to life in the enclave. If he is not, he . . . and you . . . must go.”
Bayr cried only at night w
hen the temple was dark and silent, when the sound of his infant wails echoed through the corridors and made the keepers quartered in the same wing as Dagmar complain bitterly that the temple was no place for a motherless child. During the day, Bayr slept and blinked and cooed and kicked his small legs, but the nights were hard in the sterile room with the stone walls and the narrow bed.
Dagmar fashioned a cradle from a tinderbox, but the babe would not sleep or settle in the dark hours before dawn unless Dagmar was holding him, and Dagmar was too afraid to close his eyes for fear he would drop him while he slumbered. A week after Bayr’s birth, Dagmar was so exhausted, he fell asleep spread out on his floor with the babe on his chest. They both slept so deeply, Dagmar relented, and from that day forward, the boy slept in his arms on a pile of straw and Dagmar’s bed remained unused.
Having lost his own mother at an early age, Dagmar knew none of the soft ways of a woman. He had no breasts to offer sustenance and comfort, no songs or benign stories to entertain a child. His voice was rough and low, his hands large and clumsy, but his heart was broken and bleeding, and the baby boy, in all his helpless innocence, soothed something in him.
A woman from the King’s Village, whose child had recently been weaned, agreed to come to the wall around the temple grounds thrice a day to nurse the boy, but it wasn’t enough, and little Bayr was never full. Dagmar fashioned him a teat from sheep intestines and fed him goat’s milk before bed and between feedings with the village woman, and the milk was reinforced with prayers. Dagmar pled for strength and stamina, that his arms would not fail him in the night, that the child would not wake his brothers, and that his own inadequacies would not result in tragedy.
Initially, the other keepers frowned in dismay and made life more difficult for Dagmar, but after the first sleepless weeks, they grew to accept the infant’s presence among them, and more than one of the higher keepers had been caught smiling and waggling their fingers in the baby’s face when they thought no one was watching. The Keepers of Saylok were all members of an exclusive brotherhood, but none of them would be fathers, and the small boy gave them a taste of something they would never have.
