And with that ominous statement, the queen wandered off.
Saga quickly foundthe deepest corner of the hall, a cup of mead in hand. Scowling, she watched the festivities. Thorir had joined Magnus for a sizable horn of ale, and as the Heart Eater’s smug gaze met her own, Saga looked away.
Gods, but she wanted to leave this space. One more night. She only needed to make it through tonight. Irritated, she sipped her mead.
“Is not wise topit1 tonight.” The deep voice reverberated through her body, settling deep in her stomach.
“It would make it far more tolerable,” replied Saga, turning to find Rurik tugging at his sleeves. Sipping her mead, she allowed her eyes to slide along Rurik’s body. His tailored Zagadkian jacket stretched across the expanse of his shoulders, the finespun tunic beneath doing little to hide the muscular cut of his body.
Saga edged nearer to the courtyard’s doorway, which was propped open toallow fresh air to flow in. And as Rurik strode wolfishly toward her, she was grateful indeed for the flow of cool air.
Bracing a forearm on the wall, Rurik leaned toward her, placing his mouth near her ear. “All things are set for tomorrow,” he whispered. A shiver vibrated through her. “But you must be careful, Saga. Careful and clever.”
“Perhaps it is not wise for you to be seen with me,” said Saga, glancing over his shoulder.
“Perhaps I cannot help myself.” His green eyes seemed too bright, his smile too sharp, and Saga wondered if he, too, was nervous about the next day.
Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it isyouwho requires supervision.”
“Is noperhapsabout this, Saga.” He chuckled, then drank deeply from his horn of ale. “The problem is, Winterwing”—he leaned closer—“I want what I want. And always I get it.” He stared at her for a moment, nostrils flaring. Eyes falling shut, Rurik rolled his neck in agitation.
“Are you feeling well?” she asked in a low voice. “You seem…restless.”
The intensity of his gaze made Saga squirm. But after a long moment, he blinked, and his eyes softened. “I miss my country,” Rurik said, unexpectedly. “I am eager to plant my feet on Zagadkian soil.”
Swallowing, Saga nodded.
“Lord Rurik,” came a female voice, and Saga’s eyes flitted to Yrsa, standing behind Rurik.
As always, Yrsa was perfection. She was clad in a vibrant red gown, and glittering candlelight caught the golden embroidery along the bodice. Glacial pearls—woven into her braids and dripping from her ears—accented her gown.
Rurik turned, bowing to the princess. An acidic pang pierced Saga’s stomach as Yrsa’s eyes raked over him in appreciation.
“You are looking beautiful as a sunrise,” he said jovially. “May your mead never spill, your stockings never tear, and your bathhouse never be haunted by evil spirits.”
Yrsa’s gaze locked on to Saga’s, and they both burst into laughter. “Evil bathhouse spirits?” Saga asked, shaking her head.
Rurik nodded gravely. “Is considered worst form of bad fortune in Zagadka.”
“I should think so,” murmured Yrsa, cheeks pink. “I thank you for the sentiment, Lord Rurik. I was hoping to have a word with you.” Her eyes darted back to Saga’s for a moment. “Alone.”
“Of course,” he replied.
Saga dipped her brow in deference to Yrsa. “Enjoy the feast, Lord Rurik,” she murmured, making her way to the high table.
Chapter Seventy-One
The feast was a revolting show of excess, nobles and royalty gorging themselves while pretending the rest of the kingdom did not starve. After a lengthy five courses, countless boisterous toasts in honor of Princess Yrsa, one failed proposal met with laughter and the skald’s tedious recital, Ivar’s bear minders finally stepped forward. After unchaining the bears, the king’s beloved pets were led out of the hearth hall.
And then the brawling began.
The youngest warriors went first, grappling and wrestling across the stone floor until the loser fell unconscious or relented and rang the iron bell. Sólas exchanged hands, fresh horns of ale passed around, and the crowd grew louder. Prince Bjorn stepped into the ring, the crowd giving a dutifully raucous cheer as he faced a trembling boy his own age. It was no surprise when the lanky prince was crowned the victor, yet the crowd cheered as though name alone had not earned this victory.
At last, it was time for the main event. At this point, the long tables had been abandoned as onlookers crowded around the fighting circle. Anticipation rattled the room.
Saga watched dutifully, fighting her cravings for another calming cup of mead. Rurik was right, she needed to be careful and clever. With a deep breath, she joined the crowd at the ring. Her gaze caught Rurik’s across the pit, his green eyes gleaming as he shifted in agitation.
King Ivar raised a hand, and the clamor of voices hushed. “And now, a traditionlong held by our ancestors,” he boomed. “The princess has selected a champion to fight for her tonight.”
