They passed an alcove, a polished granite bust glaring at them from atop a pedestal. Saga knew in the alcove’s corner lay a hidden passage which ran beneath the castle, and she fought the urge to flee into the tunnel’s dark solitude.
“Who is this unsmiling man?” asked Rurik.
“That is King Harald the Hard, King Ivar’s father. He is ruler of?—”
“Norvaland,” answered Rurik. “He is often visiting?”
Saga cleared her throat. She supposed a kitchen thrall would know such a thing. “He last visited when Prince Hávar was born.” She paused. “Two years past.”
“They are treating you well here?” he asked, studying her.
Saga felt faint under his perusal. “Y-yes, my lord.”
“But this”—he gestured to her arm—“they are often taking blood from you? From all workers?”
“Yes.” There was no point in lying, she supposed.
“And their…ward,” said Rurik. “Do you often see her?”
“Lady Saga?” asked Saga, clutching his arm tighter as the hallway spun before her.
“Yes.”
“She is…present.” Saga watched him through her hair, wondering why the man sought information about her. “I’m told she’ll soon be wed to Prince Bjorn.”
Rurik muttered something under his breath. “How old is this boy?”
“Thirteen,” replied Saga.
“And Printsessa Yrsa?”
“She’ll soon be eighteen, my lord.” They walked through the winding corridors, Rurik peppering her with questions about the various tapestries they passed. Much to Saga’s chagrin, the man was quite talkative and, it appeared, rather curious. By the time they arrived at the kitchens, Saga was exhausted from keeping up her guise as Árlaug.
“Thank you for your assistance, Lord Rurik,” said Saga, hastening into the kitchens before he could reply.
She leaned against the wall in the pantry for several minutes before she was ready to venture into the passageway. It was not long after that, she was collapsing on her bed, utterly exhausted.
With an oatcake stolen from the kitchens in her belly, she felt her energy crawling back. An afternoon of rest and she should be back to rights. But as sleep closed in on her, the thing she’d walled away surged forth at last.
By now, the falcon was well on its way north. The Wolf Feeders would come for Eisa, and Saga had missed her chance to warn her. Had missed her chance todo something.
Twenty steps, perhaps less. Saga wanted to scream. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to pull her hair out. Long had she honored her need to feel safe by staying within Askaborg’s walls. Five years it had been since she’d set foot outdoors. Her affliction was merely a part of herself—a thing she worked around. But today, here,now, she saw it for what it was.
Hers was a cage with no bars.
Because of it, the Wolf Feeders were coming for Eisa. And there was nothing Saga could do.
Chapter Five
SOMEWHERE EAST OF ISTRÉ
Silla and Rey trudged along the trail, growing ever closer to Istré. As the day progressed, the volcanic rocks mottling the forest slowly vanished, a familiar patchwork of northern lichens joining the moss.
Rey shifted in the saddle, trying to distance himself from Silla’s mass of curly hair. For the dozenth time that hour, he tried and failed to find the right words. They hadn’t spoken since her attempt to flee, and with each passing hour, his guilt gnawed more viciously.
You’re just like Jonas, taking away my choice.
He gritted his teeth against the burn of guilt as her words invaded his mind once more. Again, he’d spoken too harshly to her. He raked a hand down his face, wondering how he’d grown so unhinged. It wasn’t the discovery of her identity, but her attempt to flee, which had knocked him off balance. Rey had yelled at her. Malla’s tits. He’d called her a coward.
