Gods, but she couldn’t do this. She needed to get to safety—back to her chambers. Pushing up from her chair, Saga prepared to flee the room. But as Queen Signe entered, accompanied by six bondswomen, any chance of leaving was extinguished. Numbly, Saga sank into her chair, resigning herself to her fate. She’d have to face this—would have to roll up her sleeve.
“Ursir shall be glad to see you, Lady Saga,” came a woman’s grating voice.Saga quickly identified the source as Lady Geira. As the High Gothi’s pious new wife, she was one of Signe’s most trusted confidants, and the pity in her eyes made Saga crave violence. Instead, she nodded curtly.
“’Tis a beautiful thing to recognize your own faults and move to correct them,” said Geira, toying with a set of keys strung from her neck. The bondswomen surrounding her clucked their agreement.
“Darling Saga,” came the queen’s clear voice. The women parted, and she stepped through, a crown of iron claws atop her white-blonde hair. Saga stood, dropping her brow in deference to the queen. Signe took Saga’s gloved hand, stroking it gently. “I sought the High Gothi’s wise counsel on your behalf.”
Saga’s heart pounded.
“He believes an extra Letting should help in healing your…nerves.” Signe’s bondswomen nodded and murmured in collective agreement, Lady Geira the loudest amongst the bunch.
Of course the answer was blood. Low spirits? Give blood. Bashed your toe? Give blood. Fighting the plague? Most definitely, give blood.
Saga nodded numbly. The queen moved to her daughter, collecting Yrsa’s face in her hands. “Green suits you, my sweet girl.” Signe placed a loving kiss on each of Yrsa’s cheeks.
“Thank you, Mother.”
Signe settled into a chair beside her daughter, bondswomen in the row behind.
Saga swallowed back the burn of jealousy. She should be grateful that the queen had taken an interest in her health. Her foster mother was befuddling. Harsh and unyielding, and yet every so often, she sprinkled in small acts of caring. And Saga, like a starved dog, ate each small scrap up.
A hush fell over the room as Thorir the Giant entered, heralding the king’s arrival. With his bushy red beard and imposing height, it was impossible to miss the warrior in any room. But in the flickering light of Ursir’s House, he felt somehow more enormous than usual.
Following Thorir, came King Ivar Ironheart. Though several inches shorter than Thorir, Ivar’s commanding presence was felt across the room. The king had shoulder-length blond hair streaked with gray, his beard styled in dual Urkan braids. And though Ivar’s eyes were cold and hard, they gleamed with satisfaction as they landed on Saga.
She shifted, looking away. There had always been a discomforting feeling in the king’s gaze. Rather than lustful, it felt…covetous. As though he looked upon a jewel he’d gained for his treasure hoard.
Prince Bjorn, Saga’s betrothed, came next. At age thirteen—nine years herjunior—Bjorn had already gained his father’s height but was lanky and awkward as he loped after Ivar. Clad in a red tunic matching his father’s, and with his blond hair worn similarly, he was certain to be the king’s spitting image when he came of age. Saga did not begrudge Bjorn for her situation—he had no more choice in their betrothal than she. But she had watched warily as Ivar drew Bjorn further into his affairs—had noticed the hardening of his face and the cooling of his eyes. Saga spent a great deal of energy trying not to think of what kind of man her future husband would become.
But she’d survived this long by molding herself to their expectations, so Saga forced a smile at her husband-to-be.
The rest of the king’s retinue filed in after the prince, burly men with dour expressions, finding their seats in the warriors’ section. The last warrior of the bunch ambled into the room with a familiar gait, and as light revealed his face, Saga’s stomach lurched violently. Thin, cruel eyes were set in a windblown, ruddy complexion with a long, graying beard. She forced her gaze back to the altar stone, trying to quell the violent thrashing of her heart.
Magnus Hansson had returned from Reykfjord.
Saga dared not look, but she tracked the Heart Eater from the corner of her vision as he sat to King Ivar’s right, the pair bowing their heads in quiet conference.
She repeated the exits in her mind. The main exit. The High Gothi’s doorway. The trapdoor under the rug.
Thankfully, the High Gothi entered before she lost her wits entirely and fled. He was clad in flowing brown robes, and light caught the gold-embossed bear tooth strung around his neck. Several acolytes flanked him, a gilded cage carried by one, a leashed goat tugged by another. Conversation quieted as they climbed the steps of the dais, the goat screaming loudly and digging its hooves in.
Thorir stood, hefting the goat with ease and setting it on the stone slab atop the dais, before returning to his seat. The acolytes rushed to take Thorir’s place, pinning the goat down, as the High Gothi faced the crowd, pulling a ceremonial dagger from the folds of his cloak.
“We honor you, Ursir, God of Gods, with the blood of our finest beasts.”
It was quick, bloody business. The Gothi murmured soft words while cutting the goat’s neck and collecting the blood in a golden bowl, pouring the contents over the altar stone. They then repeated the process with a dove pulled from the cage.
The High Gothi launched into a sermon, but the words were lost to Saga. Instead, she stared at that altar stone—at the runes carved into its blood-stained surface. It told the story of Ursir—of how he’d defeated the Moonhound toclaim the Great Forest, and the wolf beast’s wife, as His own. She couldn’t help but think of all the others raided and defeated by the Urkans, of all the daughters taken. It was all an endless cycle of violence, driven by the need for the Bear God’s blessing. The need for blood. The need to take.
At last, the High Gothi’s voice trailed off, the warrior’s section beginning to stand as the Letting began. But the Speaker of the God raised a hand, quelling the hushed conversations around the room. Apprehension knotted in Saga’s stomach.
“Before we begin, I’m told one of Ursir’s daughters has come to us in poor health. Lady Saga, please join me on the dais so I might look upon your face.”
Saga’s body prickled as all eyes in the room turned toward her. Their gazes were like acid spilling over her, burning her skin, dissolving her bones. Saga swallowed and pushed to her feet. Took a step forward. She couldn’t feel her feet, couldn’t think. But she was doing it. Stepping up the dais stairs. Sitting in the chair. Looking at the faces of those who either pitied her or wished her dead.
The High Gothi was before her, dark eyes surveying her face. His stubby fingers prodded at her cheeks, turning her face this way and that. Squeezing her jaw, he pulled her mouth open and peered at her tongue.
“It is as I thought,” he proclaimed to the crowd. “Impurities have gathered in her body, feeding on her health.” The rasp of whispers gathered in the room. “I prescribe a heavy Letting to clean the blood and grant Ursir’s blessing.”
