She’d need to step outdoors.
Nausea roiled in her stomach, her heart trying to beat free from her chest. Saga braced against the wall, repeating Eisa’s name in her mind as her gloved hand found the iron latch. Lifted it. Pushed the door open.
She looked across the grassy courtyard to the tower. Her heart was in her throat now, hammering faster than she thought possible. Twenty steps. Shecould do it. Shehadto do it. But what if…what if she became cornered? What if she were seen?
Go!she urged herself. Surely it wouldn’t take long to select the right falcon—to affix a scroll to its leg? But a raven screamed from above. There had been ravens that day. She’d smelled the iron forge, the smoke of the fire. Had heard the sizzle of flesh and blood-curdling screams.
The hand around her ribs squeezed tighter, tighter.
You should have been strung on a pillar with them.
Her heart bucked wildly, the tower before Saga warping. Hand bracing on the oak door, she flinched as a breeze rushed at her. Shewoulddo this. But as she stared through the doorway, she saw it—a lone bird taking flight from the top, the scroll attached to its foot.
A cry ripped free from deep in her chest, and Saga stumbled away from the door. She could have made it,wouldhave made it, had she not succumbed to her nerves. And now she was too late.
“Eisa,” she whispered, eyes burning, as panic crashed over her. No tears. She would not cry.
Motion in her periphery caught Saga’s attention—a woman peering down at her through the tower’s window. Staggering backward, Saga tried to drive the raven’s cries from her skull.Punished!they screamed.Punished!
Saga’s vision went white, and she collapsed to the floor. She tried to breathe, but it felt as though her chest was caving in on her. How could she have thought she could simply cross the courtyard, when she hadn’t stepped outdoors in five long years?
You deserve to be punished.
Gasping desperately, Saga saw death on the horizon. Would she drown on dry land, or would her heart give out first? The wild pounding was not sustainable…
Tap.
She blinked at the gentle pat on her shoulder.
Tap. Tap.
She focused.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Breathe,” came a deep voice, the commanding tone reassuring. The taps continued, firm and even, and she tried to ground herself with the sensation.
Closing her eyes, Saga followed the instructions and tried desperately to breathe. Her chest seemed to move up and down, but panic held a firm grip and the room spun round her.
“Easy. Do not fight it.Go with it.”
The fingers tapped her shoulder with a slow, calming rhythm. Closing her eyes, Saga focused on the touch until all else faded away. There was only gentle pressure and the expansion of her ribcage—the courtyard, the ravens, her failure all ceased to exist. Air gradually returned to her body, the terror in her chest loosening.
As the wild pounding of her heart dulled, the hand lifted from her shoulder. Everything in her body seemed to have a pulse, and her chest seized with spasms of pain. Her eyes fluttered open, the walls still spinning. Where was she? How had she gotten here? And who was the stranger staring down at her? Saga’s eyes slammed shut.
“You fell,” said the man in heavily accented Íseldurian. “There is blood.” He paused. “You are all right, miss?”
“You’re not here,” Saga replied, squeezing her eyes tighter.
“Perhaps I am not understanding your language,” said the stranger with a nervous laugh. Of course the man was nervous—he thought her madder than a bag of marmots. “Tell to me where you are hurt? Where is blood coming from?”
Saga prodded her mental barriers, shocked to find them already lowered. Her Sense was exposed, and yet she could hear no trace of this stranger’s thoughts. Reluctantly, Saga pried one eye open. Looked up at the stranger. Her vision danced with lights, and she could not make out the man’s face, but she could immediately tell he had a warrior’s build.
Her heart resumed its thunderous beat, her mind screaming at her to flee.Danger! Escape!“I-I…” she glanced around in search of an exit, eyes falling on the doors to the courtyard. “Door,” Saga blurted. “Please, can you close it? I’m…cold.”
The man moved away, and Saga pushed to her feet. Bracing an arm against the wall, she patted her hair—good gods, it was utter mayhem, pulled from her braid and strewn all about. She used it like a shield, pulling it around her face and peering at the man through her tresses.
He’d turned back to her, and she got her first glimpse of him. His skin was lightly tanned, his hair dark and wavy. But her eyes fell at once to his jaw—bare and angular, with a shallow cleft in the middle of his chin. To see a grown man’s naked chin felt oddly obscene. It was not smooth, like Bjorn’s boyishly unbearded chin. No, this was rough, textured with the coarse grain of regrowth. It was, decidedly, aman’schin.
