Saga frowned. In Íseldur, beards were revered—a sign of male potency.
“You’re not Íseldurian,” she murmured.
“Ochevidno1,” the man said with clear impatience. “Tell to me where you are hurt.”
Saga, you loaf-eater, stop ogling his chin.She blinked, gaze darting to his eyes. Worse. They were green as emeralds, framed with dark lashes and thick brows, pulled into a look of concern.
She forced her gaze to the roof above him. Roof. Beams. Cobwebs. All good, normal things.
“You are hurt?” demanded the stranger, his voice growing more impatient.
“No,” replied Saga, trying to shove some sense back into her skull. The man before her was decidedlylarge. Her eyes darted from the enormous hand braced against the wall back to his bare chin. Not Íseldurian, which meant…
“Are you from the Zagadkian party?”
“Zdravstvuyte2,” he said, his penetrating green gaze prickling her skin.
“Oh gods,” Saga muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.Make a good impression,Signe had said.We must foster a good relationship with the Zagadkians.She dropped her hands. Tried for a smile.
“Why you are smelling of blood?” asked the man, his huge hand sliding over her shoulder, shaking her gently. Saga blinked at the man.Smelling?“You are bleeding. Where you are hurt?”
Saga looked down. Blood had trickled down her arm, dripping onto the stone floor. Rolling up her sleeve, she found the bandage dangling loose. “I gave blood,” she said, trying to retie it one-handed. “For the Bear God.”
The man’s expression grew stony. “Let me,” he said, producing a fresh pocket linen. One hand slid around the back of her arm, cradling it gingerly while the other pulled the strip of linen into place. He tied it deftly. “And that?” he asked, gesturing to the door.
“Blood loss,” Saga mumbled, hiding her flush behind her hair. Gods, but this was humiliating. “I-I thank you for your help.”
“Was not so much…” He put a hand to his forehead, mimicking fainting. “Was seeming more”—the man searched for the word, coming up short—“different.Bezumiye3.” His brows drew together, making his green eyes somehow more piercing.
Saga rubbed her gloved hands together, unwilling to share any more than she must.
“Come, miss…” He looked at her inquiringly.
Saga opened her mouth in reply. But then, the realization struck her. He didn’t know who she was. Telling this man her name would place Saga at the falconry tower. And if that were made known to the queen, it could make her suspicious of Saga.
“Árlaug,” Saga answered, thinking of her lady’s maid. “I thank you, my lord, for your help.”
The man smiled, and Saga’s head spun at the glorious sight. Soft curving lips. Shallow lines flanking them. Gods, the blood loss was truly getting to her.
“I am Rurik,” he said quickly, holding out a giant hand. “Kassandr Rurik.”
The name flowed from him, somehow soft and sharp all at once. Hesitantly, Saga slid her gloved hand into his, blinking as she felt the friction straight down to her toes. “Let me to”—he seemed to struggle with the words—“help you to your rooms.”
“I thank you for your assistance, Lord Rurik, but I’m afraid I must…”
The man uttered something in Zagadkian, slipping a steadying arm around her waist. “No, Árlaug,” he replied, his words as immovable as stone. “I will not allow it. You are alone and needing someone to catch you.”
Saga’s insides squirmed in discomfort. She needed to find the exits, but her only option besides the outdoors was to return the way she’d come. Weak from blood loss and from the crisis she’d suffered, Saga could scarcely stand, let alone reach her chambers in the northern wing. She tilted her head so that her hair tumbled over her shoulder, a barrier of sorts between the two.
“Kitchens,” she blurted, thinking of the passage in the back of the pantry. “That is, I work in the kitchens and would appreciate your assistance returning there.”
“I think you must rest, Árlaug,” he protested, leading her down the corridor. “You are not in condition for working.”
“I thank you for your concern, Lord Rurik,” she murmured, leaning against his sturdy form more than she ought to. “Cook will prepare a replenishing broth, and I’ll be back to rights.”
“Very well,” grumbled the man, clearly unconvinced. He began leading her down the hall. “While we are walking, tell to me about this place.”
“What do you wish to know?” asked Saga cautiously.
