“I won’t let them find you,” whispered Saga. She sank to the floor, staring at the wall as she considered her options. By the time she stood and beat the dust from her skirts, Saga had the bones of a plan. And unfortunately, it involved befriending Lady Geira.
But Saga vowed she would do what it took. The next time Signe sent word to the north, she would be ready.
Chapter Nine
As Saga climbed out through the hidden panel in the library’s oldest hearth, her blood flowed with vigor. Thankfully, this fireplace was infrequently used and located well out of sight in the back corner of the library. But as Saga stepped out, it was impossible to keep old ash from fluttering up and joining the dust on her skirts.
“Plague and boils,” she muttered, beating her skirts. But despite the ash on her slippers, Saga felt as though she could fly. Finally, she had news. Finally, she had hope. She need only return to her chambers and map out her plan.
As she neared the end of the aisle, a voice fractured the hush of the library. Saga hesitated. Not that she waseverin the mood to engage in small talk, but today, her need to avoid it was high. She peered between the shelves, identifying the source of the noise—one of King Ivar’s advisors, trailed by a group of ten or so men. Based on the tailoring of their jackets and the rolling lilt of their voices, they seemed to be Zagadkian.
“The library was built in the six hundredth and fifty-fifth year of the Volsik Dynasty, under the rule of King Adils,” droned Ivar’s advisor, allowing the Zagadkian translator to speak. After a long moment, he continued. “His great grandson, King Sigurd, expanded upon it in the six hundred and thirtieth year.”
“Seven hundred and thirtieth,” muttered Saga under her breath. Mortification crept through her as she recognized Kassandr Rurik in the bunch.
A week ago, when she’d first dined with the Zagadkians, Saga had waited for Rurik to recognize her. Seated at the farthest end of the high table, she’d worn avibrant gown of Zagadkian silk. Her hair was immaculately styled, eyes lined with kohl, and when they were introduced, there had not been so much as a flicker of recognition in Kassandr Rurik’s eye. If Saga had it her way, he’d never realize the disheveled woman he’d met near the falconry tower was really Lady Saga.
She’d quickly realized the man had the kind of charisma she preferred to keep far away from. The serving thralls and jarl’s wives alike turned to watch him enter the great hall at mealtimes, whispers and giggles following in his wake. And the irritating man seemed to feed on the attention of others—always laughing, always speaking in his loud, carrying voice, his spoon waving in the air as he conversed with King Ivar. What in the gods’ burning bollocks could Ivar have possibly said that was so amusing? Nothing, that was what.
Mind back in the present, Saga retreated a step. She’d just hasten down the aisle and skirt the library’s outer edge.
“Lady Saga,” came a deep voice in heavily accented Íseldurian. Her feet faltered. “May you repeat this?”
Saga held her breath, pressing her back into the wooden shelves. She should have known she wouldn’t escape unnoticed. But how had she been heard?
A figure appeared between the rows of books. Though light filtering from the windows cast his form in silhouette, Saga had no problem identifying him as Kassandr Rurik. For one thing, the man was tall amongst the Urkan and Zagadkian warriors alike. And for another, he walked with a graceful sort of arrogance, near silent despite all the blades strapped against the strange, armored surcoat he wore.
The last time she’d tried, Saga had been unable to hear this man’s thoughts. Now, she eased her barriers down, longing to know what exactly he wanted. But as she allowed her Sense to stretch out, she was met with silence. Her brows lifted in surprise.
“Perhaps I should be calling you Árlaug?” Rurik said in a lowered voice, leaning against a shelf.
The world seemed to drop out from beneath her. “I beg your pardon?” she managed, gripping the shelves to steady herself.
Rurik rolled his eyes. “You can stop this”—he gestured at her—“game.”
Saga’s mind whirled in search of a reply. “How did you know?” she asked.
Rurik prowled closer, and Saga’s heart pounded faster with each step. “Bird,” he said, his large hand reaching out, flicking a dangling winterwing earring. Saga forced herself not to recoil.
“Bird,” she repeated. It felt as though a bird was trapped in her ribcage, thrashing about.
“You are wearing the birds, as did Árlaug.”
She was an utter sculpin. Of course, she’d worn that blasted winterwing pin the day she’d called herself Árlaug.
“Why did you give yourself new name?” he asked, thankfully in a low voice.
Saga swallowed. “I did not wish for you to know it was me,” she confessed.
Rurik’s brows drew together. “Why?”
Saga searched for the right words but came up blank.
“First, you give to me wrong name. Now you try to run away. It appears you wish not to see me.”
“I wasnotrunning,” she lied.
“Shall I call for my Druzhina, Lady Saga? Ask them what they think of this?”
