Chapter Twenty-Three
SUNNAVÍK
The morning after her meeting with Ana, Saga sat in the great hall, prodding her daymeal with a spoon as she pondered her options. It was quieter than usual in the hall, the king and his retinue having ventured south of the city to tour the Zagadkians through timber camps and iron-rich bogs. There was also the fact Lady Geira was still abed. Despite the silence, Saga could not decide where to start in her quest to uncover the Black Cloak’s identity.
A liaison between Signe and the Klaernar. Someone who had access. Someone who did not fear Ivar Ironheart. This person would have to be bold…or perhaps stupid. Punishment for such a thing would undoubtedly be a long, painful death.And should the king discover his wife had commandeered his army for her own purposes, even she would not be beyond the king’s wrath.
“Magnus has been pushing your father toward a betrothal to the Karthian prince again, darling,” Signe said, disrupting Saga’s thoughts.
Yrsa blanched. “What about Leif?”
Leif, Saga remembered, was a Norvalander cousin, one whom Signe had been pushing as a suitor for Yrsa. But Magnus wanted to use the princess to forge connections and to keep an eye on Karthia’s inner courts. Like Saga, Yrsa had no say in whom she wed. But unlike Saga, Yrsa would not know her future husband before wedding him. A fierce wave of empathy filled her at the thought.
“Don’t fret, my sweet girl,” Signe said with a sigh. “I shall find a way to convince your father Norvaland is the far safer option for his only daughter.”
Yrsa looked as though she wished to say something but brought her cup of róa to her lips instead.
“What is it?” asked Signe. “Come, darling, with your father gone, you can speak freely.”
Yrsa toyed with the cuff of her dress. “What of Zagadka?”
Signe’s bondswomen tittered in agreement, bringing a pink flush to Yrsa’s cheeks. But the queen set her spoon down.
“It’s only—” Yrsa looked flustered now. “I’ve been speaking to them and thought perhaps?—”
“Darling, no.” Signe’s voice was calm, but firm. “Have you not heard of their barbaric customs? I say this, woman to woman, and I trust word will not spread from this table.” Signe shot a stern glance at each person seated before turning back to Yrsa. “It is a brutal, backward kingdom, Yrsa, unfit for a gentle soul like yours. The high prince is an old, senile man. And his beastly heir? No. I could bear not see you wed to a man like that.”
Yrsa looked down at her plate.
“Besides,” continued the queen, “they’ve not allowed a foreigner on their soil in hundreds of years. This treaty shall be a step forward, but I doubt they’d be ready for such a leap.”
A tense silence filled the air but was soon broken as little Hávar rushed into the room, settling on his mother’s lap. Usually, he dined with his nursemaids, but with Ivar and his retinue gone, it seemed he would join them for the daymeal. The youngest of Signe’s brood, Hávar was two years old, all plump pink cheeks, bright blue eyes and adorable smiles. Saga would never call herself fond of children, but Hávar…he was all right.
The queen was patient as her youngest selected a juicy blueberry and pushed it rather roughly into her mouth. Signe’s smiles, reserved only for her children, made it easy to forget that she was hunting Saga’s sister.
As she picked at her daymeal, Saga decided that the most likely candidate for Signe’s liaison was someone of high rank in the Klaernar—a kaptein or perhaps a kommandor. And as the queen departed the room, Hávar clinging to her shoulder, Saga decided to visit the room of records.
She spouted a story to the Keeper of the Records—that she was compiling records into a book celebrating King Ivar’s “militaristic accomplishments,” which she’d gift him at the feast of Ursir’s Slumber. At the promise of inclusion as coauthor, the Keeper was eager to share the records and had agreed not to let word of her research reach the royals. After scouting a path through the old defensive walls, Saga left bundles of documents which she secreted to her chambers bit by bit.
For the first several hours, she scoured the Klaernar’s incomes and expenditures for evidence of bribery, but she quickly got lost in lists of fines. As she moved past Flóki Gundarsson, fined twenty sólas for drunkenly entering the wrong home and urinating in the hearthfire, and on to Ása Ingolfsson, fined five sólas for calling her neighbor alazy hóra, Saga questioned if her efforts would be fruitful.
Moving on to expenditures was a test of her will. Many expenses were, in Saga’s opinion, wildly irresponsible. Five hundred sterling silver rings with hollow cavities to house doses of berskium powder. Dozens of goats purchased for sacrifice to the Bear God. Casks upon casks of ale ordered to “build harmony amongst the soldiers.” All this excess while the people of Íseldur went hungry.
Saga’s eyes rolled so many times, it surprised her they weren’t stuck in her skull.
The scrolls were maddening, and her task was feeling more impossible by the hour. Thousands of transactions had been recorded. The search for a single misplaced expenditure amongst them was daunting.
By the time she found herself reading the same line of text for the fifth consecutive time, Saga relented to rest. She stashed the documents in her trunk. Blew out the candles. Collapsed in her bed. And was asleep in a matter of seconds.
Saga dreamedof a man straddling her chest, one hand wrapped around her throat. She fought for her life. Tried in vain to push him off her, but he was too heavy. Too strong.
“Punished,” he growled, slapping her hard. “You deserve to be punished.”
Somehow, she got free. Reached for a statue. Crushed the man’s skull.
She awoke with cold sweat slicked on her brow. Heart thundering, she tried for deep, calming breaths. “Not real,” she told herself, trying to push the panic from her body. But it had feltso real, that man’s grip lingering at her throat…
“Killed him,” Saga told herself. “You killed him?—”
