By the end of the week, Saga was restless and irritated. She was desperate to resume her plans. She could pick a lock in under a minute. Had counted the steps to Alfson’s study. Had mapped out alcoves and shadowed corners she might hide in. She was ready.
And after a long week, it happened. A quarrel in the market over the last loaf of bread soon turned into a brawl. The King’s Claws were dispatched, but the crowd turned on them. By nightfall, the city was rioting.
And as the Klaernar rushed out from Askaborg to quell the violence, Saga knew it was time.
Creeping down the darkened corridor,Saga pulled a black hood over her tightly braided hair. Her body thrummed with anticipation, with excitement offinallydoing something to help Eisa.
One hand clutched her satchel with supplies—an ink pot, spare parchment, and quills—the other closed around the twin brooch pins in her pocket. A month ago, the simple act of leaving her room had disarmed Saga. Would she ever have guessed she’d be prowling the halls in the dark hours of the night, plotting to break into Maester Alfson’s study?
A brittle cough set her hair on end. Saga slid back against the wall, pressing deeper into the shadows, as a pair of Klaernar strolled past. After several long moments, their retreating footfalls could no longer be heard, and Saga dashed down the hallway before she could second-guess herself.
It wasn’t long before the narrow hallway yawned open into the expansive blackness of the grand stairwell. Saga descended quickly, not stopping even as a loose stair groaned. Lightning-quick, Saga folded into a shadowy corridor, waiting for Klaernar to investigate the sound. She counted to ten, then back down again.
No one came.
Soon, she was darting down the corridor to Maester Alfson’s study. And then, she was staring at the door. With a deep breath, Saga stepped forward, reminding herself of all who depended on her. Ana, Eisa, the missing Galdra.
And so, with trembling hands, Saga inserted the brooch pins into the keyhole and set to work. With only a week’s practice under her belt, she was far from an expert. But now she knew the feel of the brooch pins sinking into the hole—knew the force she’d need to twist. She hadn’t expected her trembling hands and racing heart to complicate the process.
“Bog serpents,” she cursed at her fifth failed attempt to find the hole in the bolt.
“…fifty dead, all told…”
Saga froze, goosebumps rushing up her arms. Footfalls sounded down the corridor, drawing nearer with each heartbeat. Panic seized her. It was too late to retreat—they’d catch sight of her for certain. Her only escape was through this door.
Redoubling her efforts, Saga pushed harder as the voices grew louder.
“…such a fuss over bread…”
She felt the pin slide in, and her heart leaped.
“…heard it was right ugly. Clawing like animals, crushing one another underfoot…”
Saga twisted the pin forcefully and felt the bolt grate against wood as it slid from the lock. Relief swept through her, but there was no time to celebrate. Silent as a cat, she slunk through the door and closed it quietly behind her.
“…thought it would calm once the Zagadkian grain arrived…”
The muffled voices moved past the door, right where Saga had stood moments before. And then it was silent. After sliding the bolt back into the locked position, Saga tried to shake the tension from her muscles. She’d made it through the door. Now she had all night to dig through the cabinet.
The curtains were cracked, a column of moonlight spilling across the floor and illuminating the maester’s worktable. Saga crept over to it, sinking to her knees before the cabinet. As her fingers made contact with the lock, a strange, dark sensation whispered across her skin. With a shiver, Saga got to work, picking the lock in under a minute.
There were two shelves—on the top, an assortment of scrolls. On the bottom, a stack of parchment bound by twine. Longing uncurled deep in her stomach, a need to devour this information.
Shaking it off, she reached for a scroll. After loosening the waxy outer parchment, Saga gently flattened the first scroll on the floor. She drank up the words scratched in ink.Extracting the Míkrób, it read.Ensure Dragon’s Belch slumbers.Collect life forms in clean wool from inside the hollow and seal in a glass jar. Store near a fire pot and feed frequently with broth. Míkrób must be kept as warm as possible...
Saga’s gaze fell upon a curious illustration. Holding the candle closer, Saga examined the drawing. Though crude, it appeared to depict water gushing into the air from the midst of a flat plain of stones. The Dragon’s Belch. Saga had never seen it, but this drawing matched the descriptions of a place where sulfuric water burst at distinct intervals.
With a frown, she reached for the next scroll. This one had a strange drawing of dishes and curving tubes and instructions to isolate the Míkrób from other tiny creatures through repeated separation into phials containing different broth recipes.
It was the third scroll which made her blood frost over.Introducing Míkrób to a host, it read.Ingested under a black moon, host must be kept near the fire and well covered. A full moon cycle is sufficient for Míkrób to feast on the galdur and produce enough spawn to introduce to the next host. This is verified by a strong sulfuric smell.
Saga’s heart began to pound. This…this was what they were doing with the missing Galdra. Using these…creatures to eat their galdur. But as she turned the scroll over, horror and revulsion filled her.Reaping,it read.Carve legs, arms, buttocks.A diagram of a human indicated these regions. Nausea roiled in her gut, but she kept reading.Flesh must be consumed raw. Secondary host must fast for a full day before and after consumption.A note was added in Alfons’s cramped lettering.Block wound healing to speed spawn growth,beside which it read, alpine catspaw.
She wanted to stop, but there was more, and she needed to know…needed to tell Ana.Secondary host may reject Míkrób within the first three moons. If they survive, secondary host will be able to reproduce primary host’s galdur.
Saga’s hand shook as she reached for the last scroll. Unrolled it. It was Alfson’s cramped writing. At the top, was written:For Rökksgarde,beneath which was a to-do list of sorts. Saga’s eyes scanned the list, picking out items at random.100 ells of flax linen…1 pound losna leaves, harvested by the largest full moon…Rhodium, sterkium, iron, steel for dungeon—100 pounds each…
Saga put the scroll down. Pressed a hand to her stomach. She thought she might vomit. Because the picture beginning to shine through was utterly despicable. Harvesting galdur from unwilling Galdra. Consuming their flesh so this secondary host might gain magic. It was vile to even think of. But the abandoned kitchens, those beds, the missing Galdra, the buried corpses behind that fort in Svaldrin…it all fit into a sickening tale.
