“It begins with frost and ends with fire,” said Harpa, taking a deep breath. “Rökkur is coming. The twilight of our world.”
Chapter Seventy
SUNNAVÍK
After countless weeks of preparation, Princess Yrsa’s birthday feast was upon them at last. Tugging at her gloves, Saga made her way through the corridors, bracing herself for the night to come. First came the drumbeats, next the scent of roasted boar. And when the archway leading to the hearth hall came into view, hundreds of voices met her ears. Saga’s feet faltered, her heart hurtling inside her chest.
Yrsa's birthday feast was the biggest celebration in Askaborg until Ursir's Slumber. Much to her chagrin, Saga knew everything down to the last exquisite detail. The royal skald had been industriously preparing tales to recite, and a special mead made with heather honey was fermenting just for this occasion. Drums were fastened with fresh cowhide, the boars fattened, and an abundance of fruit and wine shipped in from the Southern Continent.Hundreds of nobles from all over Íseldur would gather to celebrate the nation’s princess coming of age.
Saga drew a calming breath, reminding herself she just needed to get through the night. There was the daymeal tomorrow. The drugged róa. And when Saga awoke, she’d be safely stowed away on Rurik’s ship.
The thought was utterly terrifying. Five years it had been since she’d left the castle. Her insides kicked and fought at the very idea. But there was no other choice. Askaborg, her refuge, her ally, was no longer safe for Saga.
The eyes are afraid, but the hands are doing,came Rurik’s rough, accented voice in her mind. The words eased the tension in her stomach—helped herdraw in a deep breath. But so many things could go wrong, and Saga could not stop the questions from shoving into her mind. What if someone saw them? What if they couldn’t sneak the seeds into Saga’s drink? What if the weather turned rogue and the ship crashed ashore?
“Forward,” grumbled Thorir, placing his hand on the bare skin of her nape. Flinching, Saga hastened to escape the press of his palm.
Each of Thorir’s heavy steps seemed a reminder from Signe.Comply, darling, or you’ll be crushed.
“Tell me, Thorir, has Signe asked you to select each morsel of food for my plate tonight?” she asked bitterly. Already, Signe had chosen Saga’s attire, down to the slippers she wore and the style of her hair.
He grunted. “You can eat what you like. But Her Highness says you’re to sit by your betrothed and show him affection.”
Saga couldn’t help but cringe. And so the farce of marriage began. All the more reason for her to leave as soon as possible.
“You’re tosmileand make conversation.” He paused, then continued. “And there are men at each doorway who’ll deny your exit. So I’m afraid, Lady Saga, you’ll stay in the hall as long as the queen wishes.”
Saga’s insides twisted.Deny your exit.It was enough to make her heart race and her palms grow sweaty. “My, Thorir,” she snapped. “That is quite the list the queen has entrusted you with. I hope you don’t strain a muscle trying to remember it all.”
“Might I?” the big man asked.
A sly smile curved Saga’s lips. He made it too easy. “Oh yes, Thorir. Over-contemplation can give one a frightening headache.” She lowered her voice. “A hearty drink of ale should help.”
He hummed, lost in thought.
The swell of voices grew louder as they reached the hall’s doorway. Saga took a deep breath, smoothed her stiff skirts and adjusted the fox fur clasped around her shoulders.
“On,” grunted Thorir, nudging her forward.
The hearth hall was barely recognizable. Feasting tables had been arranged end to end, bathed in a buttery glow of torchlight, and fires roared in the enormous twin hearths.
Though the feast fare had not yet been served, the tables were laid with overflowing bowls of fruit, pine boughs and beeswax candles set in the finest silver holders. An ursine grunt drew Saga’s attention to the fighting ring, where Ivar’s pet bears tore into a fresh carcass. Gilded collars encircled their necks, lengthy chains securing them to the floor while allowing them enough spaceto charge any onlookers who got too near. A crowd had gathered round, young warriors jostling and daring one another to step forward.
Thorir’s hand on her nape seemed to burn as he directed Saga through the crushing crowd toward the high table. Thankfully, the crowd parted readily for them. Saga supposed that was one benefit of having a half-troll as a minder.
She eyed a crew of warriors, their chests bare and painted with Urkan symbols. A pair sat in the front, enormous drums between their spread thighs, and they pounded a rhythmic beat with mallets. Others in the back sang, moving as though in a trance.
“Saga, darling,” cooed a familiar voice from behind her.
Saga paused, apprehension knotting her gut, but she forced a smile on her face. Just one night, and she’d be free of Signe. With a steadying breath, Saga turned to face the queen.
“Your Highness,” she murmured, dipping into a curtsey. Signe wore an ivory gown that made her complexion and white-blonde hair all the more pale. But her ice-blue eyes were as harsh as the crown of claws sitting upon her head.
Signe’s lips pursed as her eyes swept down Saga’s body. “You’re wearing appropriate attire.”
“You have excellent taste,” Saga said stiffly.
Signe sipped from her goblet, a crimson drip clinging to the corner of her mouth. “Enjoy the feast, darling,” said Signe. “I’m told it will be a night to remember.”
