Saga stared up at him. Her mind was gauzy, her limbs tingling. She felt his gaze on her, so heavy it seared her skin.
“What does that mean?” she whispered.
“That I am wishing you well,” he said softly.
Rov snorted, shattering the silence. The Zagadkian jerked upright, looking around. “What?” he demanded, gaze landing on Rurik. “I am awake. I did not sleep.”
Rurik’s lips tipped up, Saga’s quickly following. With a reluctant sigh, Rurik turned to his comrade. “No, old man? I suppose was just resting of eyes?”
Rov pushed to his feet, bleary eyes blinking rapidly. “You are done? Yes? Good.” And with that, their session was over.
As they walked in sleepy silence through the passageway, Saga couldn’t help but dwell on Rurik’s words. Somehow, it had felt a lot like goodbye. It was for the best. Yet for some reason, Saga couldn’t shake off her disappointment.
Chapter Thirty-Two
KALASGARDE
For Silla, the days limped past like a wounded animal, each more painful than the last. She and Rey settled into a routine of sorts. Mornings started with the daymeal followed by ill-fated attempts at feeding Brown Horse. Sparring lessons went next, and then they rode to Harpa’s. During daylight hours, Rey was off with Vig, scouring the woods for any sign of Ástrid and Váli, while Silla spent hours in the unpleasant confines of her mind. By the end of the day, she was bone-weary, ready to drive all memories of her lessons away with a second sparring session.
Practicing swordplay with Rey was the best part of her day. Here, she was in control. She felt herself growing stronger—could see herself getting faster. Rey had taught her both offensive and defensive routines, and while she was far from his skill level, the movements were becoming ingrained in her memory.
But so much time spent near Rey seemed to have befuddled her mind. Twice this week, Silla had dreamed of her fingertips tracing the curve of a dragon’s wing, chased closely by her lips and tongue. She’d awoken misted in sweat, her body tight with unfulfilled desire. During the day, she caught herself watching Rey as he went about the mundane. The way his eyes fell shut as he took his first bite of porridge. The flex of his shoulders as he hefted the saddle up. The twitch of his lips as he stroked Horse’s cheek.
Close quarters. It was merely the product of sharing the shield-home with Rey. She could not allow herself to get caught up in such things.
Silla’s days were spent sitting for hours upon torturous hours, working onwhat Harpa calledsurrendering. She was failing. Silla knew it; Harpa knew it. She could not master her mind. Each time she closed her eyes, each time she allowed herself to retreat into herself,theywere there.
Ilías Svik. Matthias Nordvig. Skeggagrim.
They waited for her. Reveled in her misery. Taunted her with the perfect combination of words to unravel her. She shoved them into cages, slammed the doors shut. Swallowed the keys and tried to refocus her mind. But the task was futile, and time was slipping away.
Time, she’d wastedso much time, and she had nothing to show for it.
Silla swung the axe,striking the log’s edge and sending it skittering to the ground. With a growl of frustration, she wiped sweat from her brow. Her back ached, and a blister was forming on her thumb. But still, it was better than sitting in that cabin, listening to Harpa chant “surrender” over and over.
Frustration twisted her insides at the mere thought of that cabin. Obviously weary of Silla’s failures, of Rykka’s reminders that “this is why you don’t take older students,” Harpa had relented and tried something new.
“You will chop wood,” Harpa had said. “And when you can swing the axe no more, you will rest in the steam bath.”
“But Rey has chopped enough firewood to last you a year?—”
Harpa’s amber eyes had flared. “You will not succeed with your galdur until you surrender. Do as I say and do not question my methods.”
Now she stood in the yard, breath clouding in the cool northern air. Movement from the forest had Silla gripping the axe tighter. Everything these days seemed to raise the hairs on the back of her neck, had her looking over her shoulder in search of man-eating creatures. According to Vig, this creature had the whole of Kalasgarde on edge. Despite countless searches, there had been no sign of Váli nor Ástrid. And with each passing day, Rey’s agitation only grew.
“It strikes on a seven-day pattern,” she’d heard him tell Vig. “First, your sheep. Next Váli, then Ástrid. Do not let your guard down. Have Runný freshen the wards daily.”
Silla readied herself to rush into Harpa’s cabin, but as she gazed into the woods, she saw a clear flash of blue darting toward her.
“Ice spirit,” she murmured, taking in the white-blue form of a tiny woman. The sunlight caught her diaphanous wings, crystalline and gleaming with frost.
Days now, Silla had tried to catch sight of the ice spirit in the woods near thestables, seeing nothing but blue wisps as it darted within the foliage. But now, the spirit revealed herself fully to Silla. It felt special, somehow.
“Beautiful,” she whispered, smiling dumbly. The ice spirit twirled, hair and skirts flowing outward, as though she were preening for Silla. “Rykka says I’m not to trust you.” She paused. “Then again, Rykka named me after a squirrel, so perhaps I needn’t listen to her.”
The ice spirit ceased her dance and opened her mouth, revealing long, pointed teeth. A horrid hissing sound escaped the creature, sending goosebumps down Silla’s spine.
“Oh,” murmured Silla, brows raising. “You’re rather ferocious.”
