Ursir isn’t here right now,thought Saga wickedly. Darting to Lady Geira’s back, Saga’s fingers pulled at the lacings. “One moment, Lady Geira, and you shall have relief. My, but what could have caused this?” Geira was writhing, howling in pain. “It has the look of a pox.”
…surely not!Geira thought desperately.Oh, Ursir, what have I done? How have I wronged you?
Loosening Geira’s binds at last, Saga pulled the back of the gown open, but the marks had formed anywhere the woman’s necklaces touched. “By the Holy Claw,” Saga murmured. “Lady Geira, let us take your necklaces off. Those blisters look fit to burst!”
“Off!” wailed Geira, tugging at the tethers. Saga grasped them, slipping them over Geira’s head and tucking them deftly into her own pocket.
Valka entered the room, carrying a plate of fresh flatbreads.
“Where have you been?” bellowed Geira, causing Valka to stumble back.
“My lady!” exclaimed Valka. “What has befallen you?”
But Geira was beyond words, flailing about wildly. The table toppled to the side, mead and bone-carved figurines falling in disarray.
“It is morbid matter pushing itself out of your body!” cried Valka, only adding to Geira’s distress. “The Bear God punishes you!”
…But I have been devoted, Geira thought. A blister burst, liquid seeping across her skin and causing the woman to howl.
“Bath!” ordered Saga, in her most stern voice. “The lady must bathe in warmed milk. Add honey and lavender to soothe the skin.” With a clap of her hands, Valka was scuttling off in search of supplies.
“Hush now, Lady Geira,” soothed Saga, linking their arms together. With her long-sleeved gown and gloved hands, Saga had little exposed skin at risk, but she was careful to avoid Geira’s fingers all the same. “Come now. Let us bring you to your chambers, where you might rest.”
“C-corridor,” gasped Geira, sagging against Saga.
Saga eased her down the corridor, cooing in sympathy as she glanced through each door they passed—a second sitting room; a bed chamber; a study. Writing desk. Cabinets. Stool and trunk. It was gone in a flash, but Saga exhaled sharply. That had to be it.
“Down here!” called Valka, scurrying after them.
“Milk bath,” repeated Saga. She didn’t want the woman permanently disfigured.
“I’ve sent word for it to be heated, my lady,” said Valka. “We can make a cold compress for now.”
Together they eased Geira onto her bed, the woman clawing at her dress, begging Valka to remove it.
“I can take it from here, my lady,” said Valka, ushering Saga to the door.
“Please send word to update me on her health,” said Saga, trying for her best look of concern.
With Valka’s quick nod, the door closed, and Saga was alone in Geira’s quarters, the keys heavy in her pocket.
She wasted no time in rushing to the study, excitement coursing through her veins. Saga forced herself to slow down and assess the room—tall glass-paned windows, heavy curtains thrown wide; cabinets lining one wall; a solid desk in the middle. On the desk was a slanted writing surface, upon which parchment was secured, ink pots and quills neatly arranged on one side; at the desk’s foot sat a trunk.
Rushing to the windows, Saga pulled the tether from her pocket, wiping the keys and her gloves on the curtain to remove any traces of the luna root powder. Heart pounding, Saga knew she hadn’t time to waste.
Saga examined the writing desk first. The parchment secured to the slanted writing surface was blank, but based on the pile of ash adjacent to it, Saga guessed correspondence had recently been burned. She turned to the cabinet, sliding key after key into the hole, until she heard the telltale click. She pulled the cabinet doors wide. Her heart lurched at what she saw—hundredsof scrolls tucked into storage nooks.
“Bog badgers,” she hissed, pulling a scroll out. There was no outer parchment, no evidence of a royal seal, but Saga unrolled it just in case.
The Bear is the embodiment of the Father, the Husband, the Son, he who shall be worshiped and obeyed…
That was enough to tell Saga this was the High Gothi’s writings. Fighting against the instinct to set fire to the thing, she re-rolled it and slid it back into the cabinet. Her gaze slashed back and forth across the rows of scrolls. There was nothing to be done but to examine them.
Scroll after scroll she pulled out, her heart sinking lower with each passing minute and no sign of a royal seal. After sliding the last scroll back into place, Saga checked the trunk. Nothing but books. Frantically, Saga ran through her memory. Did she have it wrong? Or did Lady Geira use another room for scribing the queen’s letters?
“Where is she?” came a loud male voice from beyond the door.
Saga froze, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Unfortunately, she knew that voice all too well—it belonged to the High Gothi.
