Saga was the last to arrive, and all eyes in the great hall fell on her as she entered—all eyes except the king’s, that was, seeing as he was absent. Saga had vowed to keep her cool, to play the pliant version of herself. The queen didn’t need to know that Saga had been growing and changing these last few weeks—that there was no going back to the girl she’d once been. And if Signe thought Saga would simply allow her to perform such gruesome experiments on the good people of Íseldur, then she was in for a surprise.
But for now, compliance. She molded her face into a placid expression, making her way to the head table. Magnus sat beside Queen Signe, and it took all of her efforts not to scowl at the pair. If Saga had ever wondered what Magnus gained from this arrangement, as she took in the ease with which he sat on Ivar’s throne, she understood well enough. Power. Wasn’t it always about power? Men who had it, strove to keep it. Men who did not, schemed to steal it.
Saga settled into the chair beside Prince Bjorn, ignoring his curious look. Food was laid out, and she busied herself filling her plate with berries and griddle cakes and spoons of skyr, trying to pretend everything was as it should be.
“I see you’ve finally graced us with your presence, Saga,” said Queen Signe, bringing a silver cup to her lips. “Why did you miss last night’s evening meal?”
Because I thought I might retch on the table, Saga thought. She met Signe’s gaze. “I felt unwell.”
The queen pursed her lips, her ice-blue eyes darting to the warrior’s table. “Thorir, come here.” The enormous, red-bearded warrior stood. “Saga, darling, Thorir has agreed to help you arrive at your engagementson time.”
The large man grunted in acknowledgement. He was tall as a bear, with thickly corded biceps and hands that could crush her bones without a second thought. A prickle of unease ran down her spine.
“How kind of you, Thorir,” Saga said, forcing a bland tone. She must give no reaction. So Thorir would act as an overgrown child minder. In terms of punishments, this wasn’t as bad as Saga had expected.
Glancing down the table, Saga’s eyes met Rurik’s sharp gaze as he brought a silver cup to his lips. She could tell he was doing that thing—seeing more of her than she wished. Saga had the strange urge to ask him to meet her in a hidden passageway—to confide in him. But the look in his eyes told her Rurik knew Saga had already found more trouble. Hopefully, he wouldn’t try something foolish like chivalry.
“Saga, darling,” continued Signe, spreading butter onto her griddle bread, “since you missed the evening meal, you’ve missed today’s excitement. ’Tis execution day. And today, we shall hold them in Askaborg’s pits.”
It required every ounce of Saga’s energy to keep her face impassive, but her hands began to tremble at the mention of the pits. “Fantastic news, Your Majesty.”
Signe studied Saga with distaste she didn’t bother to veil. “It’s been many years since you’ve attended an execution, has it not, Saga?”
“Yes.”
“What a treat for you.” Signe punctuated her statement with a bite of her bread. “Thorir will ensure you arrive early, won’t you, Thorir?”
As Thorir grunted, Saga forced her gaze to her plate.The pits!her insides screamed. The pits where her parents…where Ana’s little sister…Saga could not finish the thought. Her heart churned violently, and her gaze darted around the room, focussing on the exits.
As the tension squeezing Saga’s chest slowly eased, murmured conversation started up around her. Beside her, she felt Bjorn sending sidelong glances her way. But whatever was on his mind, he seemed to decide against voicing it. Instead, he turned to the Zagadkians.
“How fare the repairs on your ship, Lord Rurik?”
“They are going well,” said Rurik, gaze flitting to Saga’s for the barest of moments.What have you done now?they seemed to say. “We shall be sailing after Printsessa’s birthday feast.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Bjorn. “With any luck, we’ll have the arsonist captured before that time, so you can witness justice with your own eyes.”
Saga took a sip from her too-hot-róa, dropping her cup to the table with a distracting clunk as she fanned at her burned tongue.
“You are well, Lady Saga?” asked Rurik, with the barest traces of a warning.Gather your wits, fool of a girl,she imagined in his gaze.
“Burned my mouth,” she rasped, her tongue singed so badly, she knew she’d feel it for days.
He leveled her with a heavy look. “You must be more careful. Is not fun to burn oneself.”
She choked on her laugh. “It’s too late for that, Lord Rurik.”
Too late indeed, she thought bitterly, tearing into her griddle bread.
Chapter Fifty-Five
KALASGARDE
“Over there,” the barkeep told Rey, nodding to a man in the dark corner of the Split Skull.
Kalasgarde’s mead hall hadn’t changed in the five years since Rey had last visited. Same scarred long tables. Same crumbling hearths. Same bust of Ivar Ironheart, chipped and cracked from years of target practice. He paid no heed to the heads swinging his way, his gaze focused solely on the old man clutching his horn of ale as though it was the elixir of life.
Rey had a moment of doubt. Could this man truly provide a reliable description of the serpent?
