Her hands slid between his shoulder blades, kneading gently, and Rey let out a groan she felt through her entire body. “What I know, Galtung, is that nowhere in this kingdom is truly safe for me. I can keep running, or I can take matters into my own hands. Imustlearn my galdur. Here, we have Harpa. Here, we have friendship. Allies we can depend on. I wish to stay.”
“Brave girl. The bravest I know?—”
Warmth flowed through her at his praise. Finding a group of tense muscles flanking his neck, she worked her fingers in soothing circles. Rey’s eyes fluttered shut with another low groan.
“You wanted to hold my hand,” he said sleepily.
“I what?”
“The day you earned your scar. Two-year-old Eisa wanted to hold my hand while walking on Sunnvald’s fountain.”
“You must have been appalled.”
“Disgusted,” Rey agreed. “But then you fell…” He exhaled. “And I felt such a fool, so prideful that I let harm befall you. When you cried, I carried you into the castle and found the healer. And while they stitched you up”—he paused, gathering himself—“I did not let go of your hand.”
Silla’s lips parted.
“And you,” said Rey fondly, “have always lacked common sense.”
She snorted, her hands slipping away. Reluctantly, she climbed off him, moving to the end of the bed and working the buckles loose from his boots. After tugging each one off, she placed them neatly on the floor. She then climbed into the bed beside him, pulling the furs and blankets over them both.
Rey wriggled clumsily onto his back. “I thought blood and vengeance would make it better, but it’s only grown worse.”
Silla turned onto her side, examining his face. Soft black lashes fanned out along his cheeks, but his brow was lined with tension. “What better, Rey?” she asked softly. “What blood?”
“The darkness. Their deaths. All of it.” He lifted his hands to examine them. “There’s so much blood on my hands.”
Her insides surged with a protective instinct. Carefully, Silla took one of his hands and laid it on his chest. “These are good hands,” she whispered, lacing her fingers through his. “The best hands.”
If he heard her, Rey made no motion. His breaths grew slow and even, his brow relaxing at last. Silla stared at him until the torch burned out and darkness engulfed them completely.
The last thought Silla had before falling into slumber was that even after eighteen winters, she still very much wanted to hold this man’s hand.
Rey dreamed of Kristjan.They raced through a field on horseback, Kristjan’s head thrown back with wild laughter. Pine and crushed moss and crisp mountain air filled his senses, and Rey felt a curious sensation. Freedom. Happiness. Utter contentment. Everything was perfect for one infinitesimal second. And then it slipped through his fingers.
His eyes fluttered open to an altogether different scent. Sweet, perhaps floral.Her.
In sleep, she’d turned toward him, as though seeking comfort in his touch. Her arms were tucked against her chest, her cheek resting against his collarbone. He buried his nose in her hair. Drew in a deep breath. Settled his hand on her hip, holding her to him.
Another moment of perfection before morning stole it away.
Chapter Forty-Two
SUNNAVÍK
The night Kassandr Rurik burned his boat, all of Saga’s plans went awry. According to Bjorn, the scent Skotha’s hounds had picked up proved the arsonist and the person who’d sacked the garrison hall’s undercroft were one and the same. In the incident's aftermath, Klaernar flooded into the castle at the king’s behest, crawling through the corridors, day and night.
It was impossible for Saga to leave her chambers without coming face-to-face with a guard. Needless to say, all plans to break into Alfson’s study were immediately halted. Saga would admit she felt a twinge of worry for Rurik. She wanted to warn him, but with all the extra eyes in Askaborg, she couldn’t risk it.
And much to her chagrin, Saga couldn’t shake the man’s words from her mind.
I am staying until I am satisfied with unfinished matters, he’d said, generating only more questions. What did the Urkans have that Rurik and his people needed? A weapon? A book? She couldn’t fathom what it might be.
The Zagadkians, forced to linger, had a grim air about them. From what she’d pried from Bjorn, the boat’s frame had been salvaged, and they needed merely to plank and reseal. If Rurik had meant to buy himself time, then he’d succeeded. And based on what she’d heard from Signe’s ladies, the Zagadkian’s delayed departure saddened none of them. Yrsa, in particular, was delighted to have them attend her birthday feast.
Saga went through her days as she was expected to—attending meals with the royal family; enduring wedding talk with Signe and her ladies; embroideryand Lettings and measurements for the gown she’d wear to Yrsa’s birthday feast. She didn’t dare stroll to the falconry tower to check for a white linen and was certain Ana knew well enough—now was no time for bold acts against Signe. They needed to be patient. Lie low. Wait until the search for the arsonist died down.
Saga kept herself busy with lock-picking practice and searching the Klaernar’s records for any connection between Skotha and the Black Cloak. But after rolling up the last scroll, she concluded if there was evidence, it was not in these records. Glumly, Saga had returned them to the room of records.
