“What are you doing?” she’d exclaimed, bursting into the bedchamber. A dozen or more guards gathered her things and were carrying them from the room. Clothes were pulled from the wardrobe, drawers emptied, jewelry and drawing tools and furs all carted away. Eyes slid in her direction, along her bare feet and collarbones, but the men did not pause in their task.
“Those are my belongings!” Saga tried to block a pair of guards carrying her dressing table off.
“Step aside, Lady Saga,” Thorir’s weasel-faced replacement had glowered, “or I’ll use force to assist you.”
Clad in only a nightdress and surrounded by men twice her size, Saga had no choice but to relent. It wasn’t long before they’d taken it all—her bench, her drawing supplies, her furs and blankets—even the rug. All that remained was her bed with a single threadbare blanket.
The room was large without her belongings, so empty and cold. For so long, this room had been her sanctuary within Askaborg. But now, it had been violated, and Saga realized it had only been another illusion. There was no safe place for her within these walls.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would leave. But the chasm in her chest had expanded. Yrsa had seen her and Rurik embrace in the gardens. Had she told Queen Signe? King Ivar?Saga did the only thing she could think of—she pushed this thought aside, clinging to a thin shred of hope that Yrsa had kept it to herself.
It had been a long, cold night. When Árlaug had discovered her, curled under the single banket, she’d gasped.
“My lady, what happened?”
Saga opened her mouth to answer, but feared she might cry. Thankfully, her lady’s maid had understood enough.
“Oh, child. I was barred entry to your room. Told not to return until the morrow.” Árlaug tutted. “Not to worry, Lady Saga, we will set you to rights before the daymeal.” She’d retreated to the bathing chamber, returning with something in hand. “At the very least, we have a comb.”
After diligently working the tangles from Saga’s hair and weaving it into a side braid, Árlaug had disappeared beyond the door, exchanging some sharp words with Thorir’s replacement. And after a while, a rumpled garment had been delivered—a gown of plain blue wool, which Árlaug had helped her don.
And now Saga sat at her hearth, drawing with the ashes of her dead fire. Uncertainty gripped her. Today would grant her freedom or imprisonment. Reward or harsh punishment. But one thing felt certain—regardless of what happened, by twilight, Saga’s life would be changed.
The ominous thought was disrupted as Árlaug poked her head in, informing Saga she was now late for the daymeal.
With a sigh, Saga stood, making her way to the door.
“My lady,” called Árlaug, eyes landing on her bare hands, “your gloves.”
Saga paused with her hand on the iron door ring, looking down at the raisedred marks. Showing her marred skin to Rurik had been strangely empowering; had made her emotions feel justified.
“I shall no longer hide my hands,” she said with quiet anger.
And then she pushed into the corridor, her new guard clambering behind her. The walk to the great hall went far too quickly. Reaching the doors, Saga refused to hesitate. She stepped into the room and made her way through it.
Saga quickly noticed the secondary feasting table was empty. No jarls, no skalds, no High Gothi dined with them today—and no Zagadkians.
Her chest squeezed, but Saga focused with all her might on breathing through it. She nearly tripped as she realized the high table was reconfigured—chairs arranged on both sides, with no vacant seat beside Prince Bjorn. Slivers of cold lodged in her spine as Saga spotted the only empty seat in the room.
Next to Magnus.
With a steadying breath, Saga moved to the empty seat and sank down beside the king’s Chief Hirdman. She stared at her plate, taking stock of who was present from the edge of her vision—Ivar, Signe, Magnus, Yrsa, and Bjorn. Too many people for her Sense to be of use.
“You look terrible, Saga,” murmured Signe from across the table. “You must not have slept soundly last night.”
Saga was too busy wrangling her spiraling fear to answer. She had to remain calm.
“Saga,” snapped King Ivar, his face reddening. “Your queen has addressed you. Show her some honor.”
Saga lifted her hands and folded them together across her plate. She heard a sharp intake of breath but didn’t look to see the source. “No, Your Highness,” she said, looking at Signe. “I did not sleep well.”
Signe’s lips turned down as she stared at Saga’s bare hands, but her recovery was swift. “A shame, darling. But the greater shame is what Yrsa saw in the garden last night.”
Saga’s hands clenched tightly. Signe’s cruelty was so often a subtle thing, but Saga knew in this instant she’d best brace herself for brutality.
“Saga, why don’t you tell us what happened?” asked Signe, her voice light. “I should like to hear your explanation. One must hear all sides of a story before leaping to conclusions.” Signe’s gaze flicked to her husband; for once, they were a united front.
The king’s face was stern, his eyes solemn. “Explain.”
