Signe’s lips tipped downward. “Yes, darling. Go and rest. And when you awaken, think of the future, of what is at stake. And I shall see you at the evening meal. Oh!” Signe reached across the table, her hand encircling Saga’s wrist. “Yrsa’s birthday feast.”
Saga forced herself to look at the queen.
“You and Bjorn shall make an entrance at Yrsa’s feast next week, Saga. It will be a wonderful way for you to show your affection for himpublicly.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Saga through gritted teeth as the queen released her wrist. “My apologies, but I must lay down. I am feeling a touch dizzy now.”
“Yes, of course, Saga. Off with you.”
Saga turned and strode from the solarium, the palace thrall stationed at the door hardly able to yank it open in time as she flew past him.
Her feet carried her through the hallways. Despite what she’d told Signe, she did not, in fact, wish to lie down. Instead, Saga was filled with building energy that drove her at a furious pace toward the door to the falconry tower.
And when she reached it, there flew the white linen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
KALASGARDE
The sun had melted the snow from the forest pasture, yet the shredded wool clinging to rocks and brambles gave the space a decidedly wintery look. Bracing himself against a frigid breeze, Rey couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to Silla. He hoped her second day with Harpa went better than her first. With a shake of his head, he forced himself to refocus.
“The same,” Rey muttered, the gnawing in his stomach only growing. The scent of decay was not altogether unique, but immediately brought to mind the skógungar and wolfspiders they’d clashed with on the Road of Bones. Several weeks it had been since Vig’s sheep had gone missing, yet that smell lingered as though it had stained the ground, the air, the trees.
“Hmm?” asked Vig from beside him.
Rey surveyed the space. Typical for Nordur lands, the forest pastures provided protection from the brutal northern elements while allowing livestock to graze lands difficult to cultivate. Tall pine trees were interspersed with wild grasses and shrubs in the pasture, which was at least an hour’s ride from Vig’s steading.
“How many sheep?” Rey asked.
“Two dozen. They were brought here early summer to fatten until our round-up in a month’s time.”
Inwardly, Rey cringed. Two dozen sheep would be a tremendous blow to Vig’s family, who relied on their milk, meat and wool to survive the harshnorthern winter. And if the chill in the air told Rey anything, it was that they were in for another long winter.
His gaze slid back to the pasture. It climbed to a steep cliffside, fenced for the sheep’s protection. White fluff was stuck on rocks and brambles and low-hanging tree branches. But there was no blood. No bodies. Like Váli, the sheep had vanished without a trace.
A curious sensation brushed down his spine—the feeling of being watched. Rey spun in a slow circle, staring into the shadowy forest surrounding the pasture, finding nothing but varying shades of gray.
“The fence is intact,” murmured Vig, breaking him from his reverie. “We’ve examined the entirety. No loose rails, and the gate was secure. Nothing to suggest the sheep squeezed under.”
“And your hound?” asked Rey, shaking off the unsettling sensation and striding to the fenced cliffside. A streak of dark blue cut through thick forests below, and he traced the river to the glacial terraces on the adjacent mountain.
“Hounds,” answered Vig glumly. “Two of our best. No sign of either, and they’re trained to protect the flock.”
“No blood,” murmured Rey, scratching his beard. “No bodies. Outlaws? Could they have been stolen?”
Vig shook his head. “Should it be outlaws, were the flock brought through the pass?—”
“Someone would note two dozen sheep,” finished Rey. He wove through the forest until he reached the opposite fence line. Still, that feeling of being watched clung to him. He stared hard into the bushes, searching for any sign of life, but again, came up empty. Next, he searched for hoof prints or wool tufts beyond the fence, any scratchings in the posts and rails that might suggest grimwolves. But the forest floor was pristine, the fence weathered but intact.
He glanced at the skies, then to the woods at the base of the pasture. “Does it seem strangely quiet to you, Twig Arms?”
“Strong Arms,” snapped Vig. “Now that you mention it…there are no birds here.”
Rey crossed his arms, scowling.
“Care to fill me in on your thoughts, Galtung?” asked Vig irritably.
“I am wondering,” said Rey, “if the birds know something we do not.”
