The First Girl Child

by Harmon, Amy

  “I d-don’t under-s-stand either,” Bayr whispered. He rolled to his side and, gritting his teeth, found his feet. “And it is m-my duty to p-protect.”

  “Oh, Bayr. Oh, my boy.”

  “I am n-not a b-boy, Uncle.”

  He could see that his uncle did not agree. Dagmar’s eyes were bright and his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in pained protest. Bayr walked to the washbasin and picked up the pitcher, pouring water over his hands. They shook, and he quickly set the pitcher down. His throat was dust, but he would wait until his uncle was no longer watching to slake his thirst.

  “I am n-not a boy,” he repeated. But he felt like a boy. Like a helpless, hopeless boy, and he fought back tears.

  “If that is true . . . then it is time for you to go,” Dagmar whispered.

  18

  The temple mount was as dank and silent as a tomb. It was always thus after the tournament ended. The completion of the melee gave way to a night of drunken debauchery, every clan celebrating as though they were the victors. When the sun rose, the party ended, and all life lurched down the temple mount, abandoning drink and denial, leaving the keepers with the cleanup.

  Dolphys had won the melee, one man short and with an aging warrior at the helm. Dagmar had watched from the crowd with his brothers, proud of his father even as he fought back old frustrations.

  Dred of Dolphys had claimed Bayr in front of king and clan. Dagmar had always known the day would come. Dred had discovered the truth. Dagmar had no doubt the king knew the truth as well.

  His stomach churned and his hands clenched. He’d been a fool. He should have sent the boy to Dolphys long ago.

  The chieftains of all the clans, their top warriors, and the elder clansman of Dolphys had remained on the temple mount to counsel with the king. A new chieftain of Dolphys would be chosen in the days to come. The king had influence, but the choice was not his. The people of Dolphys would decide when the elder clansmen returned, but they would hear the recommendation of the king as well as the preference of the keepers.

  The council would be over by now, and Dagmar sought his father in the circle of tents that remained. The grass was yellowed and bent where clansmen had pulled up stakes after the tournament. Finding the tent of Dred of Dolphys among those that remained was not difficult. When Dagmar lifted the flap and asked for entrance, Dred was deep in conversation with three men Dagmar immediately recognized. The faces had all aged in twenty years, but his father’s company had not. They all rose in surprise. Dagmar greeted the men by name, and they touched their braids, recognizing him as a clansman before making the star of Saylok on their foreheads.

  “Keeper Dagmar,” they said, eyes shifting from Dred to his son.

  “I would like to speak to my father,” Dagmar requested. When Dred nodded, the warriors were quick to exit.

  Dagmar kept his hands at his side and his eyes level, but his nerves were jangling. He had never been at peace in his father’s presence, though his current state had more to do with Bayr than his own discomfort. Surprisingly, his father was the first to speak.

  “I believe I will be chosen as chieftain,” Dred said. “The king doesn’t like me, but he has not objected.”

  “I know. Master Ivo asked my opinion on the matter,” Dagmar replied, his voice mild. Dred had the approval of the keepers.

  “And what was it, Dagmar of Dolphys, son of Dred, Keeper of Saylok? Did you tell the Highest Keeper how you loathe me? Did you tell him I wanted you to fight beside me and you chose to pray with him instead?” The words were rueful but they had no bite, as though Dred had come to terms with his son’s choices long ago.

  “The Highest Keeper knows how I feel,” Dagmar said, admitting nothing. In truth, he’d told Ivo there was no better choice. Dred loved Dolphys and would lay down his life for her. Dolphys was to Dred what the temple was to Dagmar.

  “I am not a young man anymore,” Dred admitted.

  “No. But it is a position you have long aspired to.” Dagmar heard the tinge of bitterness in his words and cursed himself for the lapse in control.

  Again, his father took no offense, and Dagmar felt a flicker of hope.

  “That’s true. But now that it is here . . . I find I do not wish it,” Dred confessed.

  “You can’t refuse,” Dagmar retorted, adamant. “As chieftain you will be able to better protect Bayr.”

  “How?” Dred huffed. “I will have no authority here.”

  “I want you to take Bayr to Dolphys.”

  Dred gaped, taken aback. “I thought you were the reason he refused my claim.”

  “He is a guardian of the clan daughters, of the princess, of the whole temple mount. He feels a great responsibility. You’ve seen what he is capable of . . . but he is still a boy.”

  “There is no such thing in Saylok. Daughters become mothers and sons become warriors as soon as they are able. Survival demands it and leaves no room for anything else.”

  “You’ve not changed much, Father.” It was a lie. Dred had changed a great deal.

  “Nor have you, Dagmar. We’re both still of the same opinions, and your every move is meant to spite me,” Dred shot back, his ire rising for the first time. He paced to the door of his tent and immediately returned, his hand on his blade and his eyes bright with an emotion Dagmar hadn’t ever seen on his father’s face.

  “He is a fine boy,” Dred said, his voice almost reverent.

  “The finest,” Dagmar whispered, and for a long moment he could not speak over the grief in his throat. “And he has been since the day he was born.”

  Dred ran his palm across his mouth, adjusting his composure, and Dagmar noted the wear on his skin and the strength of his sinews. His father was aging, but he was still a man to contend with.

  “The king has not claimed him,” Dred grunted. It was not a question.

  “No. But he must know. Especially now that you have stated your claim. I think he suspected before, but he did not know for certain. He did not want to know, and he certainly did not . . . ask.”

  “What kind of man does not claim such a son?” Dred hissed, shaking his head.

  “A jealous man. A man obsessed with his own power. But Bayr has more strength . . . more power . . . than Banruud will ever have. He has the power of the gods, and Banruud . . . fears him. He always has.” Dagmar had never voiced the simple truth aloud, but it was the truth, and his trepidation grew.

  “The clan of Dolphys is next in line for the throne. Now that Bayr has been claimed, he can become king,” Dred whispered, realization forming.

  Dagmar nodded. “Banruud suspects treachery around every corner because he is treacherous. He assigns guilt and betrayal because he is guilty of betrayal. If Bayr was a threat before, he is an even bigger threat now.”

  “Then Bayr is not safe here.”

  “The temple might not be safe if he leaves,” Dagmar admitted. He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered.

  “Would you sacrifice him for your precious temple?” Dred asked, bitterness dripping from every word.

  Dagmar closed his eyes and pictured the day he’d climbed the temple mount, the newborn Bayr tucked in his robes, his sister lying dead in the forest, her rune carved into the earth.

  “I would not,” Dagmar whispered. “I would not sacrifice him for all the runes in the world and all the gods of Saylok, may they strike me down.”

  “Odin had many sons. He understands,” Dred said, all trace of condemnation gone.

  “He understands. But he does not condone. You must take Bayr away so that I will never be tempted to make such a choice. I have been entrusted with these robes, and I don’t wish to defile them.”

  “And if he refuses to go?” Dred pressed.

  “I will give him no choice.”

  “I gave you no choice . . . yet here we are.”

  Dagmar grimaced but his father laughed. The laughter eased the ache in Dagmar’s heart, but the terror returned with his next words.

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nbsp; “Bayr has to go,” he insisted. “Or Banruud will kill him. Ivo has seen it.”

  The laughter faded from Dred’s face and his eyes grew flat.

  “Banruud destroyed my daughter. He will not destroy her son.”

  “You will be Saylok’s salvation,” Dagmar said, almost pleading. He and Bayr were in the sanctum. Dred was somewhere waiting. Ivo too. The entire temple grieved, and Alba was inconsolable. Bayr was like a man condemned to the rack, and he could hardly meet Dagmar’s gaze, his shoulders bowed, his hands clasped, his agony slicking his brow with sweat.

  “W-what does that m-mean?” Bayr roared, his eyes gleaming with frustrated emotion. “S-salvation how?”

  “I don’t know, Bayr,” Dagmar sighed. “I only know that the things your mother said have come to pass. I have to believe that all her words will come to pass, eventually.”

  “M-my mo-mother c-cursed this land.”

  “Or simply prophesied of what would be.”

  Bayr shot Dagmar a look so incredulous and scathing, his uncle flinched.

  “She used r-runes,” Bayr reminded him.

  Dagmar nodded, chagrined. He had never stopped making excuses for Desdemona.

  “I a-am not a w-woman.” Bayr’s point was clear. He could not birth children. He didn’t have a womb. He couldn’t repopulate Saylok with infant girls. Bayr was a man with the innocence of a boy, and his interactions with women had been extremely limited. His best friend was a wispy, golden-haired child, and when the two were together, it was she who spoke, she who directed their play, and she who dominated the relationship, for all her size and silliness.

  “You are a man now, Bayr. You are powerful. Perhaps as powerful as the gods. You can’t stay inside the temple walls forever, my son. You have to go to Dolphys. You have to find salvation. Whatever that may be.”

  Bayr looked stricken. “I c-can’t l-lead.”

  “You will.”

  “I c-can’t sp-speak.”

  “You can. When you must. But your strength, your example, that is what men will see. And they will believe in you as I do. As Alba does.”

  “But the g-girls. W-who w-will k-keep th-them, k-keep A-A-Alba . . .” Bayr stopped, unable to finish. Words were hard enough for Bayr. Great emotion made speaking almost impossible. He wanted to know who would keep Alba safe. He had always viewed it as his responsibility.

  “Alba is the king’s responsibility. She is safe here. They are all safe here. There is not a Keeper of Saylok who will not use all his power to protect them.”

  “Sh-she is s-salvation. N-n-not me,” Bayr protested, shaking his head.

  They had all believed it. Alba had ended the drought. Yet in the seven years since her birth, there had been no other female born. They’d all rejoiced, crowning her father king. And yet . . . a single rainstorm does not a dry spell end. The years had continued to pass without another girl child.

  “Alba is special. But one woman cannot save a nation. We will need a thousand more.”

  “And o-one man . . . c-can?”

  “The gods have made you mighty.”

  “And w-weak.”

  “Come with me. I want to show you something,” Dagmar insisted. Bayr rose, differential as he always was, obedient as he’d always been . . . as obedient as any boy who had the power to do whatever he wished could be.

  They walked side by side, and Dagmar marveled at Bayr’s size even as he grieved again for the boy who was already a man, whether he was ready or not. The men of Dolphys were strong and broad-shouldered, but their muscles were more sinewy and lean, like those of the wolf they descended from. Bayr had the superior size of the bear, with a back that could carry the world. He was built more like the king.

  The room Dagmar brought Bayr to was filled with scrolls and lined with books, books of ages past and books that were freshly inked, a daily record of Saylok and her people. It smelled of dust and diligence, and Dagmar patted the stool where he often perched, indicating Bayr should sit. On the lectern in front of him, he placed the story of a man he’d come to love.

  “His name was Moses.”

  Bayr waited.

  “I haven’t told you his story.”

  “I’m n-not sure I c-can read it.” Bayr stared down at the endless lines.

  “It is in Latin. If you concentrate, you can make it out. I wanted to teach you so much more.” Dagmar stopped and cleared his throat. There was no time left for Latin.

  “The R-r-romans r-ruled the w-world,” Bayr offered.

  “Yes. But their empire has fallen. When King Enos brought back a Bible and a cross from the land of the Angles, he also brought back a priest.”

  “I r-remember. H-he w-was the first k-keeper.”

  “Yes. And the religion of the Christians met the gods of the north. His knowledge has been passed down from one generation to the next. I have taught you what I know in hopes that someday you might want to supplicate Master Ivo to become a keeper.”

  Bayr’s mouth slackened in shock. “You w-want me to be a keeper?”

  Dagmar responded to his surprise with a rueful smile. “I find I am more like Dred of Dolphys than I thought. But that is not your path.”

  “Why?”

  “You are a warrior. Like your grandfather. And someday . . . perhaps you will lead Saylok. I feel it, as does Master Ivo.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know that this man, Moses, was called to free his people, just as you are.”

  “We are n-not enslaved.”

  “If nothing is done, we soon will be,” Dagmar argued. “The wars in Ebba have spread to Dolphys. War took the life of the chieftain.”

  “I h-have no c-clan,” Bayr protested.

  “Dred has claimed you. You are of Dolphys now. But you were christened Bayr of Saylok. I was there the day Master Ivo painted a star upon your head. You must defend all the clans.”

  “I w-want only to d-defend the t-temple. And Alba,” Bayr protested.

  “There will be no temple if the lands around us are taken. Moses was like you, Bayr. God gave him his power, yet Moses resisted because he could not speak.”

  Bayr’s eyes sharpened on his uncle’s face.

  “Look. What does it say?” Dagmar insisted.

  “‘But I am s-slow of speech, and of a s-slow t-tongue,’” Bayr translated, hitching his way through the sentence. His eyes shot from the difficult Latin to his uncle’s face, his expression one of stunned disbelief.

  “Yes,” Dagmar whispered. “Don’t you see? He is just like you.”

  “What did his . . . g-god say?” Bayr asked, abandoning the book to entreat his uncle.

  “His god said, ‘I have made thy mouth.’”

  Bayr frowned, not understanding.

  “He made his mouth weak for a purpose. Just as he made you the way you are for a purpose. He made your mouth weak to keep your heart strong.”

  Bayr shook his head, resistant to such a contradiction.

  “Do not question it,” Dagmar continued. “Do not fear it. You are perfect—you are marvelous and terrible—in your weakness.”

  “T-terrible?”

  “Men will tremble before you. Yet when you speak, you tremble before god. That is how it should be.”

  Bayr did not argue, but he sat, his head bowed, his eyes on the page, trying to discern something more, something to give him courage. To help him walk away.

  “The god of the Bible told Moses that he would be Moses’s mouth. That he would tell him what to say,” Dagmar whispered, pointing to the words. “You will know what to say. When the time comes, your words won’t fail you.”

  Bayr covered his face with his hands.

  “You are not just strong of body. You are strong of heart. You always have been. You have never wavered, never feared or faltered in the face of any obstacle. I watched you at five years old catapult yourself into a grown bear. You didn’t even hesitate. Your strength is not just in your sinews and in your size. Your strength is in your f
aith and your courage. I’ve never seen you doubt.”

  “I c-can’t sp-speak,” he insisted.

  “It is your weakness. But weakness can make a man wise. You will listen more. You will think before you speak. You will never believe yourself all-powerful and all-knowing. You will never say what you do not mean.”

  “I d-do not w-want to l-leave, Uncle.”

  “And I don’t want you to go. But what we want is not always what is best for us. You must go, Bayr. And you must go now.”

  “You can’t leave,” Alba forbade him as they stood in the sanctum.

  Bayr said nothing, only looking at his small charge with abject misery.

  “Who will watch over me? Who will love me?”

  “The keepers will w-watch over you. Dagmar w-will watch over y-you.”

  “It isn’t the same. Dagmar doesn’t play. He can’t climb trees or carry me on his back. He doesn’t laugh and listen to my stories. He is not . . . you.”

  Bayr took the girl in his arms and, with a ferocity he usually kept restrained, hugged her to him.

  “Will you come back?” she asked, the tears streaking down her cheeks and wetting the front of his tunic.

  He nodded once, not trusting himself to speak at all. His tortured tongue would choke on an answer.

  “Do you promise?”

  Again, a nod. His hand stroked the fall of hair that tumbled around her shoulders.

  “Soon?” she wailed.

  “N-n-not soon.” Her tears came harder and his jaw ached from trying to keep his own emotions in check. Ivo had seen his return.

  “You will be grown,” the Highest Keeper had promised. “The princess will be grown. And she will need you. Then you will return. But only then.”

  “P-please, Alba. Don’t c-cry,” he begged.

  “You must come back for my birthday. At least that!” she mourned.

  He shook his head. She would have eight summers soon, but he would not be back for years, if he returned at all. He had to return. Alba needed him.

  “I w-will come back,” he vowed.

  “Let me see your eyes,” she demanded, pulling away and tilting her head as far back as she could so she could see his face, far above her own.