“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.”