Fallgerd was the biggest man she’d ever seen and was a little bit scary. But Mama had told her he was really a kind and gentle man, that it was only Fallgerd’s job to look frightening. Now Fallgerd had a funny look in his eyes, and Silla thought perhaps he didn’t want to leave.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, beckoning the guards to follow him out of the courtyard.
Sitting on her hands, she swung her legs, wondering what Grandpapa would say. A confession was building inside her, and she pressed her lips together to hold it in.
“A good girl you are, my darling Svalla,” said the king, much to her surprise.He sounded sad, but that was not unusual. “But I miss her so much.” The king let out a long breath, and his whole body seemed to sag. “I’m sorry.”
Silla looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
“A life for a life,” said the king. A blade flashed in his hand.
There was a sharp pain in her neck, and everything went warm and cold at once. Fallgerd was suddenly there, knocking Grandpapa to the ground, and there was an awful clamor as the rest of his guards surged around.
Silla’s eyes went wide, her mouth falling open as she took it all in. A white-hilted knife had fallen to the flagstones, and she stared at it hard. There was something evil about that knife, a vile, horrid presence pouring off it and into the air. The tip was red, and a warm trickle dripped down her neck, wetting her dress.
A life for a life, someone whispered in her ear.
“What?” she tried to say, but the sounds wouldn’t form. The warmth on her neck was spreading down her tummy, and when she reached up, her small hand was slicked with blood.
Fallgerd was there, and he looked furious. She recoiled, but his voice was soothing.
“Hush now, Princess,” he said in a soft voice, putting his hand on her neck. Little lights floated in her vision, like flíta dancing all around. “A healer is on the way, and they’ll fix you up. But I need to keep my hand on your neck, and I need you to stay calm. Can you do that, Svalla?”
She was nodding, staring up at Fallgerd and trying to understand. There were voices all around, fearful and frightening, but Fallgerd was there, and she focused on his face; on his voice. The edges of her vision blackened, like night closing in on all sides.
“The king is dead,” someone cried out.
And then the darkness was absolute.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
SUNNAVÍK
Saga was growing desperate to talk to Ana but did not know how to do so. Sneaking to the falconry tower had grown more challenging in the past weeks. But with Thorir now trailing her every step, it felt downright impossible.
But Saga had to get word to Ana. Not only did she need to inform the Uppreisna of the Black Cloak’s identity, but now that Signe knew Saga had been meddling in her affairs, Saga was eager to plot her escape from Askaborg. For so long, escape hadn’t been a possibility. With her condition, Saga could not set foot outdoors. But the seed Ana had planted—and the realization that there were others willing to help in this endeavor—had bloomed in her mind.
After a day spent thinking of reasons to avoid the executions, Saga knew she had no choice. She would have to attend to appease Signe; would have to watch others killed on the same pillars as her family. Gathering every ounce of grit and determination she possessed, Saga promised herself she would not crumble.
Thorir ensured Saga’s timely arrival at the pits. With a sprawling roof held up by dozens of granite pillars, the pits had once functioned as a gathering place in the cold winter season. Stands circled the central, dirt-packed arena, flat stone benching climbing dozens of rows high.
For seventeen years, she’d avoided this place.
Under her father’s rule, thepitshad been thering, a friendly place of gathering for celebrations. Saga could recall viewing everything from fighting contests to horse shows to performers from the Southern Continent who benttheir bodies in impossible ways. It had been a place where even the poorest of Íseldurians could experience a few hours of joy.
The Urkans had done what they did best—ruined this place.
Now it smelled of violence, with three V-shaped pillars pounded into the earthen floor. This was where Volsik supporters had been taken—where they’d been tortured in disturbing displays with mandatory public attendance.
At age five, Saga had thankfully been excluded from such events, but it hadn’t shielded her from the whispers sweeping through the palace. She’d heard of the good people slathered in raw meat and sent into the pits with Ivar’s pet bears and hounds. Had heard of those who’d been starved for a month, then pushed into the pits to face Ivar’s armed retinue. There were tales of some spread wide on the pillars, hundreds of cuts administered over days, weeks, until they begged for the mercy of death.
While the nobles sat on the dais and surrounding stands, Sunnavík’s peasants remained in the arena. And as Saga stepped onto the packed earth floor of the pits, they turned to watch her. She forced herself forward.No reaction, she reminded herself, searching for the cold place deep inside.
“Forward,” grumbled Thorir, his hand pressed firmly between her shoulder blades. The gathered crowd quieted as it parted, eyes falling upon her as she made her way through them.
As she walked past the pillars, it felt as though her heart was trying to hack its way free from her ribs. Forcing herself forward, Saga kept her expression neutral. Not trapped. Public exits all around. She tried to regulate her breathing, but each breath came short and ragged.
Though it was only a short walk across the arena floor, it felt like an eternity. Her head spun with the openness of this space, palms slick with sweat. But at last, they reached the dais. Centrally located and slightly raised, to Saga’s misfortune, the dais had the best view of the pillars. She climbed the stairs. Crossed the platform. Settled into the chair beside her betrothed. Exhaled at last.
