Altogether, it meant Saga had three days left to get the queen’s wax sealer and a sample of Lady Geira’s handwriting. Those two items meant she’d be ready to forge the queen’s instructions for the Wolf Feeders—ready to buy Eisa some time. But if today’s ploy didn’t work, Saga wasn’t sure what she’d do.
She’d questioned the plan a thousand times. Between the hours spent grinding the luna root paste, she’d diligently met with the queen and her bondswomen—had tried using her Sense to uncover any updates on Eisa. But Signe was so rarely alone, and it had proven impossible to listen in on her thoughts with so many others present.
Saga had made certain to seat herself beside Lady Geira, to show interest in the woman. Thus far, she knew Geira to be the most pious of the bunch—knew she enjoyed singing and had a collection of figurines carved from bear bones. As a lover of art, Saga had expressed her interest in viewing the collection. And to her great delight, Geira had taken the bait.
Saga entered a high-ceilinged landing, large arched passages branching off in opposite directions. To the left lay Askaborg’s eastern wing, housing Geira and her husband, the High Gothi, while the passage on the right led to the garrison hall.
Saga moved to the eastern wing, but paused as the clash of steel assaulted her senses. Unbidden, her feet moved to the double doors leading to the sparring grounds. She peered through the window, finding a crowd of black-clad Klaernar.
After a moment, the crowd parted, and she saw him. The light caught a sheen of sweat on Kassandr Rurik’s brow, his dark waves damp. Clad in that same armored jacket, he held a blade in each hand, but no shield. His green eyes were honed in with feral intensity as his Klaernar opponent rushed at him, and he blocked a sword strike with his twin blades.
The men circled around one another, Rurik lithe and smooth, while his opponent seemed encumbered in heavy chain mail. As the Klaernar swung his blade with power, Rurik ducked easily, his smile deepening. Perplexed, Saga watched them circle one another anew. Rurik was patient, his gaze never wavering from his opponent. The Klaernar, on the other hand, grew increasingly angry, the grip on his sword tightening with each step.
He was baiting him.
Sure enough, the Klaernar warrior burst recklessly at the Zagadkian lord in a move even Saga recognized as sloppy. And then Rurik made his move. With confusing grace and speed for a man of his size, he ducked beneath the sword, driving the hilt of his blade against the man’s knee, his shoulder into the man’s side. The Klaernar quickly toppled to the ground, and Rurik straightened, blades poised at his opponent’s throat.
Saga rolled her eyes. Why did it not surprise her that the man taunted his adversaries?
“Yield!” the Klaernar called, raising a chorus of groans from the crowd.Rurik’s face split into a grin as he offered his opponent a hand up. Even from here, she could see the mischievous glint in those eyes as he surveyed the crowd.
“Who is next?” he asked in accented Íseldurian.
Saga took that as her cue to leave, hastening into the eastern wing and far, far away from him.
“I am pious,” Saga recited to herself as she walked. “I am repentant. I crave Ursir’s blessing.” The wound at her inner elbow throbbed in disagreement, and Saga’s lips tugged down.
A raven-haired serving thrall with shadows beneath her eyes led Saga into the drawing room.
In contrast to the opulence of Queen Signe’s chambers, Lady Geira appeared to have far simpler tastes. The room centered on a modest hearth cut into the wall, a pair of carved chairs positioned before it. The dark stone flooring was softened with a crimson rug, and the only hint of splendor was the golden braziers burning in each corner of the room.
“Lady Saga is here, my lady,” said the thrall with a curtsey.
Geira stood, greeting Saga with her stern, no-nonsense expression. Her gown was a pale green with golden stitching, and her auburn hair hung in a tight braid. “Refreshments, Valka!” barked Lady Geira.
The thrall scurried away, leaving Saga alone with the High Gothi’s wife.
“Thank you for having me,” Saga said awkwardly. It was impossible to keep her eyes from darting around the room. Wax sealer. Handwriting sample. Where would Geira keep them?
“Sit, Lady Saga,” said Geira, gesturing to the chairs near the fire. “Valka will bring the figurines out in but a moment.”
Saga eased into a chair. Reluctantly, she allowed her mental barriers to slip down, bracing herself for whatever abhorrent thoughts her Sense might pull from Lady Geira.
…Valka was up well into the night, came Geira’s thoughts.They’d best be polished to a shine…
That explained the dark circles beneath the poor thrall’s eyes. Saga felt a twinge of pity that the girl had been drawn into her scheme.
“I’m eager to see them,” Saga said, far too brightly.Stop smiling like a wolverine,she told herself. “They are all bone-carved, you say?”
Geira nodded, prattling on about the collection. Saga nodded along, surveying the room from the corner of her eye. She guessed this space was for receiving guests, not for everyday living, and doubted correspondence would be located here.
The serving thrall reappeared, pouring mead into a pair of silver goblets andsetting them on a table between them.
…Valka had best not have confused the plain mead with juniper again,thought Geira.
“Fetch the figurines, Valka,” ordered Lady Geira aloud.
Please, thought Saga, biting her tongue.
