Chapter Forty-Three
Saga was not certain what to expect beyond the door, but it certainly wasn’t what she found. The room was long, with rough stone walls, curving into a low, arched roof. Soft, dancing light came from a large fireplace set at the far end of the room, illuminating neat rows of beds pushed against the walls.
Saga’s heartbeat accelerated at once.
Beds. Could these be the missing Galdra? The ones taken from Svaldrin?
Closing the door silently, Saga eased deeper into the room. Pulling an unlit torch from the wall, she crept to the fireplace, dipping it into the flames until the pitch-soaked cloth caught. Her heart beat with sharp, rapid strikes as Saga crept to the nearest of the beds. There were so many furs piled on it, it was impossible to tell if it was occupied.
Saga peeled back the furs, a cold sense of foreboding growing low in her stomach. Instantly, the sulfuric scent of rotten eggs met her nose. Smothering a gag in the sleeve of her dress, Saga blinked back tears. Gods, but that was foul. As the seconds passed, the smell dissipated, and Saga held the torch aloft to examine the bed.
With a sturdy iron frame and a ragged straw mattress, it seemed a typical bed to Saga. That was, until she saw the manacles secured to the headboard. Her gaze flew down the row of beds. Were any of these beds occupied?
Her eyes settled on a lock of mousy brown hair peeking out from the furs one bed over. “Hello?” whispered Saga, approaching.
As she pulled back the blankets, that same pungent smell swarmed her face, momentarily blinding her. But as the tears cleared, a woman’s slumbering face came into view. Saga leaned closer, holding her torch aloft to examine her face. The woman’s complexion was sickly, sweat matting her hair. But most curious of all was the webwork of dark blue veins climbing up her neck.
Saga’s gaze drifted down to the corner of a bandage on the woman’s left shoulder. Nudging the furs lower, Saga took in the linen bandages wrapped around the woman’s upper arms. The woman groaned, then fell silent, leaving Saga’s heart drumming in her ears.
Everything seemed to slow. Saga reached out, pinching the linen between her thumb and forefinger. Tugged ever so gently. The bandage fell away, loosing a fresh sulfuric wave.
She knew what she would find but was not prepared for the sight. The wound was perfectly rectangular, cutting from shoulder to elbow—a perfect match to the diagram on Alfson’s scrolls. Horror and revulsion churned in Saga’s stomach. This woman, this poor woman, was in the midst of her Reaping, her Míkrób-filled flesh carved from her to feed to others.
The woman’s eyes flew open.
Saga had no time to assure her she meant no harm. The woman’s face twisted into a mixture of terror and rage as she lunged, teeth snapping like a feral dog. The manacles caught with a rattling clamor, making Saga cry out as she stumbled back. Her legs hit the bed behind her, and she dropped her satchel and torch, snuffing out the light.
“Wait,” she hissed. “I’m here to help—” But it was too late.
“No!” the woman screamed, lunging at her once more, the manacles clanging. The corners of the woman’s mouth frothed, madness in her eyes. “You won’t have it! You cannot!”
Saga’s gaze flicked to the door and back to the woman, her hands held up in a placating gesture. But the woman was too far gone, wild with rage and thrashing against her restraints.
“Let me help you,” Saga pleaded, hands finding the brooch pins in her pocket. Could she pick the manacle locks? But the woman did not hear her, and soon, a man’s voice joined in, then another. Gods, but this was bad. She couldnotbe discovered in this room.
Escape—she needed to escape! She looked around in terror for the exits.But there were no other doors in this room, only the one through which she’d entered, and Saga was frozen in place, so distraught she did not see the large, dark shape charging at her from her periphery. One hand slammed over her mouth, another wrapping around her waist. She was dimly aware of the torch andsatchel kicked under the bed—of the blankets shoved over the shouting woman. Screaming against the rough, dry palm, Saga fought her captor, pulling the brooch pins from her pocket and sinking them deep into his hand. Unfortunately, it did nothing but draw a string of rough, incomprehensible words.
“Calm, Winterwing,” came Kassandr Rurik’s accented voice. “They are coming.”
She froze.
He stopped at the unoccupied bed opposite to the screaming woman, pulling the furs back. Hand falling on the small of her back, he gave Saga a gentle push. Understanding, Saga threw herself onto the bed, tossing an elbow over her nose to stifle the foul smell. To her utter horror, Rurik climbed on the bed with her, flipping the furs over both of them.
“Again, you are seeing things you should not,” whispered Rurik.
“What areyoudoing here?” she hissed.
“Finding another thing which was not on your map,” was his infuriating reply.
“Shut up!” yelled out an angry male voice from beyond the furs, a door slamming shut. “Shut your mouths, you foul beasts!”
Muffled footfalls approached, Saga’s heart beating fast and uneven. The excitement of doing a thing she should not had morphed into remorse and pure terror. She gripped the arm Rurik had slung over her.
“Ursir’s hairy scrotum!” came the man’s voice. “Should’ve known it would beyou. How did you pull your bandage loose?” Silence stretched out. “You must be kept warm, ’tis not my orders, now. Cannot allow the cold to touch you.”
Saga’s body trembled.
“Easy,” whispered Rurik. “Calm,malen’kaya ptichka1.” She forced in a steady breath of the foul-smelling air, tried to relax against the solid form behind her.
