Surrender, she heard Harpa in her mind.Lean into it. You must surrender.
Tears welled, spilling down her cheeks. Why couldn’t she do this? Why did she continue to fail, time after time?
Silla burst into the yard, steam and white light spilling from her. Her eyes met Harpa’s. “I cannot do it!”
Harpa was unmoved. “This is why you continue to fail. You must believe. You must stop fighting.” She paused. “And then you must surrender.”
Surrender.
Silla wanted to pull the hair from her head, wanted to throw and break and smash. Already, she’d surrendered her dreams. Her happiness. The life she’d known. Was it not enough?
Bitterness filled her. No. It was not enough. Because the gods hungered for her misery. And it seemed they would not be satisfied until she was utterly broken.
Chapter Thirty-Three
SUNNAVÍK
Long had Saga thought herself a woman of horrid luck. But the day a leak sprung in the roof of Ursir’s House, she wondered if the winds of change had finally blown her way. With prayers canceled, a private Letting in the confines of Saga’s chambers had been a great improvement from doing so before a crowd. After a cup of yarrow tea to replenish her strength, Saga had taken a stroll to the western wing of Askaborg, thrilled at what she discovered.
The white linen flew.
The rest of the day had moved at a snail’s pace. Anticipation of meeting with Ana once more had Saga vibrating with excitement. Would this letter prove more revealing than the last? How did Eisa fare in the north? Had anyone offered information about her accomplice?
Apprehension knotted her stomach as she ran a comb through her hair. She hadn’t any information to bring Ana this time, though it was not for lack of trying. Each spare minute was spent practicing her lock-picking skill. It had taken her a day to master a door lock. One more to conquer her trunk’s padlock. She was feeling ready. And the way things were going, she found herself increasingly optimistic.
The comb stilled as she stared at her reflection in the polished metal mirror.
Things had been goingtoo well.
“Gods, Saga,” she chided herself. Why couldn’t she just accept good fortunefor what it was? Why couldn’t she just hope for the best? But she couldn’t. Hope was like a carnivorous plant, lovely and bright to lure you in.That was when the gods sprang their trap.
Pulling on her gloves, she glanced at the door. Soon, Árlaug would arrive to ready Saga for tonight’s feast. She breathed deeply, pressing a palm to her stomach. Her first feast in several months. In contrast to the fifty or so who joined them for prayers, tonight, hundreds of Sunnavík nobles would gather to honor the Zagadkians and the new grain treaty. It would be loud and raucous, and Saga’s attendance after a long absence would most definitely be noted. She could look forward to a night of usurping Ivar’s bears as prime entertainment.
“They don’t matter,” she told herself, trying to quell her rising nausea. She’d get through the feast, meet Ana in the tower, and hope that there would be something useful in the letter.
Stop fighting, came a voice, bitterness prickling through Saga.Surrender. I’ve surrendered my whole life. What more does she want from me?
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as Saga wheeled around. Alone. What was?—
“Good evening, my lady,” said Árlaug, bustling into the room. “Let’s get you ready for the feast.”
Saga sank onto the chair set before her dressing table, probing inwardly and confirming her mental barriers were intact. Cautiously, Saga lowered them.
…the girl’s hair is dry as a hag’s broom. Perhaps a treatment of bear grease would bring some shine…
Saga’s nose wrinkled. Árlaug’s thoughts were both louder and lower in tone than the voice she’d heard. Was she losing her mind?
Giving herself a mental shake, Saga set her barriers back in place and forced her thoughts to the present. Árlaug braided silver twine through a side section of Saga’s hair, wrapping the ends tightly. Next, she helped her step into her dress, a finely woven black gown with shining knotted embellishments running down the front. “Lovely,” said Árlaug, admiring her hard work.
And as Saga examined herself in the polished metal, she decided she was, in fact, dressed finely for a woman planning to end her evening with a bit of forgery.
The noiseof several hundred guests mingled with drumbeats and the soft notes of a lyre. Seated beside Prince Bjorn in the great hall, Saga pointedlyignored the other end of the high table. She had absolutelynotnoticed Kassandr Rurik seated beside Princess Yrsa, their heads bowed together in low conversation. But as Rurik’s irritating voice carried across the room, soon followed by the princess’s soft laughter, Saga bit into her flatbread with a little extra vigor.
Rows upon rows of feasting tables were filled, jarls and wealthy Sunnavík merchants drinking mead and ale in ceremonial horns. They watched her already, scarcely bothering to smother their voices. Saga fought the urge to jump onto the high table, turning round in a full circle so that they might look their fill.
Here she is, Ivar’s Pet.
Saga scowled at a raven-haired woman who stared unabashedly. The woman’s eyes widened as she whirled away, head bowing to whisper in a friend’s ear. With irritation, Saga glanced down the high table, gaze landing on Lady Geira in a high-collared dress, presumably to conceal any lingering lesions.
