Saga shook herself, forcing her attention back to her betrothed.
Tonight, Bjorn’s blond hair was woven into a warrior’s braid, though without a beard, his youth was only pronounced. With rings far too large for him adorning his fingers, and a crimson tunic which emphasized his narrow shoulders, it seemed that Bjorn was trying to emulate his father’s style, with awkward results.
“And then, we tested the new Karthian steel, and it cut through a hare as though it were butter,” Bjorn was telling her, swirling ale in his goblet.
“That’s…wonderful,” Saga managed. She waved over the cupbearer to refill her own goblet, reflecting that there was not enough mead in the kingdom to make this evening pleasurable.
“’Tis promising indeed. Is only a fraction heavier than Íseldurian metal and—” As his voice cut off abruptly, Saga followed Bjorn’s gaze, settling on a figure whose presence made her blood chill.
Jarl Skotha was here.
Once, Skotha had been a trusted member of King Kjartan’s retinue. But when the Urkans had landed, and it was clear who’d be victorious, Skotha turned his back on the king to whom he was oathsworn. Over the years, whispers had reached Saga’s ears, rumors that it was Skotha who’d revealed Saga and Eisa’s hiding place to the Urkans.
And Jarl Skotha had risen to prominence among Ivar’s new regime. But his lands were south of here, and she thankfully hadn’t seen him in some time.
“The bread is dry,” complained Signe, diverting Saga’s attention. “Can nothing in this castle go right?”
Seated on Bjorn’s other side, the queen had been quiet thus far. Easing forward as subtly as she could, Saga examined the queen. A delicate clawed crown of polished steel sat atop Signe’s head, and her white-gold hair was immaculate. But what was most beautiful of all to Saga was the irritation etched into the queen’s face.
Had Signe and the Wolf Feeders finally realized the warband had wasted weeks traipsing in the wrong direction? Or had something gone amiss with Signe’s dealings in Svaldrin?
“Is it the thievery you speak of, Mother?” inquired Bjorn.
“Thievery?” asked Signe.
“In the garrison hall’s undercroft. The place was sacked—barrels of ale tipped over, weaponry strewn about.”
Rurik, thought Saga at once,you delinquent.Who else could it be, brashly ransacking the castle, but him? His departure was imminent. The man must be growing desperate to find whatever it was he sought. What could it be? Without thinking, she glanced down the table to the Zagadkian lord. A smile spread wide across his face as he entertained the princess and several of the queen’s bondswomen. Saga’s brows drew together as her gaze fell on Yrsa. The princess gazed at Rurik with unabashed wonder.
“How awful,” said the queen, drawing Saga’s attention back to this end of the table.
“Father is rather furious.”
“I imagine he is,” murmured Signe. “I’ve heard so little of what has transpired with the Zagadkians. Won’t you share a bit with me, my Little Bear?”
Bjorn’s cheeks reddened. “Mother,” he hissed. “I’ve told you before not to call me that in company. And I am not to speak of our dealings. Toanyone.”
Signe’s face filled with hurt. “Surely you can speak of it to your mother, darling.”
Bjorn only folded his arms over his chest.
“Signe, don’t bother the boy,” boomed Ivar as he seated himself in the high-backed chair beside Signe’s. “He’s doing a man’s work now. Nothing for the women to brood over.”
Oh, this was getting better and better. From the corner of her eye, Saga watched the queen’s face sweep a furious shade of red. How had she gone her whole life without noticing Signe was a ball of quietly contained rage?
“Of course, darling,” Signe said in that demure, queenly voice of hers. Unfortunately for Saga, the queen’s gaze quickly fell upon her. “Saga darling, you look so pretty when you put in a little effort. Doesn’t she,Bjorn?”
“Yes,” said Bjorn, a red flush creeping up his neck. “Your”—he stumbled over his words—“…eyes…look as blue as a”—he paused in thought, his expression brightening—“as a Norvalander hound’s,” Bjorn concluded. “And your hair as yellow as a fire serpent’s scales.”
Saga blinked, unsure how to take that. “My thanks?” she tried.
King Ivar’s chair scraped across the stone floor as he pushed to his feet. He was garbed in a wine-red tunic and bearskin cloak, and the twin braids of his beard were set with golden rings. The crowd quieted, finding their seats.
“Thank you all for coming,” thundered Ivar, raising his cup. The crowd raised their drinking vessels in unison. “We’ve much to celebrate tonight. We’ve reached a treaty with our Zagadkian brothers.” Ivar tilted his cup toward Rurik and the other Druzhina. “They’ve delivered fine quality grain, with the promise of shiploads more!” A murmur swept through the crowd, some nobles nodding, others stricken with relief. “Tonight we pay tribute to our Zagadkian guests and induct them as honorary Brothers of the Hearth.” The crowd bellowed in approval.
The doors to the great hall burst open. The High Gothi entered, trailed by acolytes with the altar stone and an assortment of leashed animals—a swan, a sheep, a hog and, to Saga’s great dismay, a man.
Her temples throbbed.
