Stones were cast, and Saga was distantly aware of the cheers of the crowd, thudding rocks, the crunch of bone and cartilage.
A stone hit the softest part of Ana’s stomach, and pain ruptured from Saga’s middle. She wheezed as disbelief hurtled through her—Ana’s face did not so much as flinch. Pain speared through Saga as a large stone crunched sickeningly into Ana’s shoulder.
Saga gritted her teeth. Ana’s eyes were vacant, her face calm and peaceful. A jagged stone slammed against the side of her face, and Saga’s vision exploded, pain slicing through her skull and consuming every part of her being. Ana’s thread was fading, like footprints swept clean by an ocean wave. But Saga held on, determined not to let go.
Gripping the arms of her chair, Saga held Ana’s empty gaze as pain ripped through her, rocks crashing into her chest, her pelvis, her face, her shoulder. Her body was on fire, an explosion of heat and pain, obliterating the crowd, the noise, the dais, the pillars. It was just Saga and Ana, alone in the pits, the last wisps of Ana’s thread fading until, at last, it was gone.
The pain vanished in a sudden flash, her vision rushing back. Ana’s head lolled to the side, but the crowd’s thirst for blood had not been sated. With the last of her energy, Saga wove her barriers back in place and slumped against her chair. The execution continued for an excruciating eternity, until the last stone had been cast, and the three women hung bloodied and limp.
It was over. They’d feel no more pain. And Ana would soon be amongst the stars with her sister.
Saga closed her eyes to keep her tears at bay. She wouldnotcry. Would not grant the queen such a victory. But as the sounds of the crowd dwindled, Saga felt a prickling sensation on the side of her face. Her eyes opened and snapped to the right, locking with Signe’s.
The queen’s lips curved up.
Pure hatred dripped down Saga’s spine, pooling in her stomach.
“Saga?” asked Bjorn, wrenching Saga’s gaze away from Signe. “Your nose is bleeding.” Bjorn handed her a square of linen. With a trembling hand, she dabbed at her bloody nose.
“Are you well?” he asked. “You look sickly.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, closing her eyes as she held the linen to her nose. She swallowed her remorse, wishing she’d been softer with him. She breathed in deeply. Let it out slowly. Tried to calm her rising panic.
Movement beside her. The royals were leaving. Saga stood, gripping the chair for balance. Gods, she needed to lie down. Moving toward the exit, her eyes landed on Rurik. A line had formed between his drawn brows as he stared at her with an unreadable expression. But then he pushed off the wall, following Rov down the stairs and out of the pits.
Saga trailed numbly behind Bjorn, his movements stilted as though he were affronted. She was too weary to consider it. How she made her way back to her chambers on her own two feet, Saga could not recall. She collapsed onto her bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Until Thorir pounded on her door the next morning, ordering her to get dressed for the daymeal.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
KALASGARDE
Rey ran his thumb along the freshly sharpened blade of Harpa’s axe. It was honed to a deadly point, as were Harpa’s kitchen knives, daggers, and any other blade he could get his hands on. Yet no matter how many passes of steel across the whetstone he made, Rey could not ease the tightness in his chest.
The sun was sinking lower toward Snowspear, the slanted light casting Harpa’s yard into stark shadows. No sound. No voices.
She must still sleep.
Gritting his teeth, he strode to the cabin. Enough was enough.
His mood had been foul since he’d rushed from the mead hall to his grandmother’s home and discovered she’d sent Silla up Jökull. Rey had stared at Harpa with incredulity. He knew well enough which methods his grandmother used with her students—after all, it was Harpa who’d taught Rey the benefits of giving his apprentices a taste of danger. And if Rey had allowed a vampire deer or two to attack greener members of the Bloodaxe Crew, that was well enough.
But this was Eisa-gods-damned-Volsik, and there was a giant-gods-damned-serpent hunting these parts. He couldn’t understand what head injury his grandmother must have suffered for her to think this wise.
When he’d discovered Silla stumbling through the woods near to Harpa’s property, his foul mood had turned to pure, incinerating anger. Her brow had been slick with sweat, incoherent words spilling from her lips. And as he’d searched her frantically for a wound, he’d found naught but a puncture throughthe back of her boot. Curiously, it was too small to have belonged to the fang he and Vig had found in the excrement.
After racing her to Harpa’s home and stripping her boot off, his brows drew together. It was shallow, yet the woman was shaking, mumbling the same thing over and over.
“The king is dead.”
Did she mean Ivar? But it made no sense. Rey stared up the mountain, Jökull’s ice shields glinting through the trees. He wanted to charge up there and find what had done this to her. Yet he was confused…beyond confused. Had it been the giant serpent described by Bjalla, surely she’d not have lived to tell the tale.
He pushed through the door to find Silla slumbering, his stomach knotting tighter. Rey needed her to wake up. Needed to know she was all right.
Harpa stepped out from the shadows, and Rey’s teeth clenched so hard they almost cracked.
“She sleeps, Reynir. Let her rest.”
