“To the Zagadkian Druzhina, we honor you with a tradition passed down through the Urkan lines. A sacrifice to grant you safe passage back to your country.”
Rurik stood, eyes blazing. “We are thanking you for this gesture, Your Majesty. Is unnecessary.”
A collective gasp filled the room, the crowd holding absolutely still.
Saga froze. The impulsive fool. As horrid a ritual as it was, to refuse this sacrifice was a blatant insult to the king. She watched Ivar’s dark eyes cool and sharpen. But Rurik’s own gaze was undeterred as he stared back at the king. All those weeks to broker a deal between their kingdoms, and the impulsive man might shred it in this one move.
“We are thanking you, Your Majesty,” Rovgolod burst out, shooting Kassandr a look that could slice through steel. Rov succeeded at last in pulling Kassandr down into his seat. “Please forgive my colleague. You see, is difference in customs. We are pleased to accept this gift of yours. Is large honor.”
The king nodded at Rov, throwing a look of unconcealed dislike Rurik’s way. And with a wave of King Ivar’s hand, the bloodshed began.
The animals were slaughtered with ruthless efficiency, blood collectedand poured over the altar stone. Saga could not keep her eyes from Rurik as he watched, unflinchingly.
The man was waved forward last of all. Gray-haired, he was all boney, sharp angles. And yet, there was a quiet dignity to him as he stepped willingly to the altar. Saga tried to take solace that this man had come of his own accord, that perhaps, he considered this a great honor. But it did not erase the barbaric nature of it.
The High Gothi tilted the man’s head up to bare his neck as two acolytes held him firmly in place. Forcing her gaze to the table, Saga tried to recall the good things in this world. Sketching; her winterwing earrings; the silk pillow with red tassels…
The bladeshuckedacross the man’s throat. Saga’s eyelids fluttered, her body growing light. She could hear the soft gushing of the man’s lifeblood as they collected it in cup after cup and washed it over the altar stone. When at last Saga allowed herself to look, the High Gothi, the altar stone and acolytes were gone; the sacrifices were being dragged over to Ivar’s pet bears.
Over. It was over.
The king was standing, though his voice sounded distant from the ringing in Saga’s ears. “We honor our Zagadkian brothers with a feast of boars. It is one of Ursir’s most revered creatures, and I would ensure nothing but the best for our new friends.” There was no mistaking the sharp note on the last word—a warning of how tenuous this friendship truly was. “Tomorrow, you will leave, but the bonds of brotherhood will persist.”
Ivar let the crowd utter their agreement. From the corner, a bone popped as the bears began their own feast.
“To my Íseldurian fellows. Our Yrsa turns eighteen next week, and we hope to see you all at her birthday feast. My lovely wife has been busy with preparations—wine and food made with spices from the Southern Continent. There will be a tournament, skald tales and mead fermented specially for the occasion!”
“Enjoy the food and drink!” Ivar lifted his silver cup to the center of the room, drained it in two large gulps, then slammed it onto the table with a resounding thud. The rest of the crowd followed suit, the room echoing with bangs as horns and cups slammed down. Saga pursed her lips, then forced herself to do the same.
Conversation hummed to life as serving thralls poured into the hall. Sadly for Saga, the turnaround from bloodshed to revelry was something she’d grown accustomed to, and her stomach soon growled at the scents wafting from trenchers placed on the table—rabbit dressed with juniper, thick slices of boar topped with rich gravy and roasted vegetables. Saga’s silver cupwas refilled, and she snatched it, draining it quickly. Her stomach was acid, though the mead provided a pleasant, pillowy haze.
“It’s good to see you again, Lady Saga,” came a cool, deep voice. Startled from her thoughts, Saga’s gaze met large, dark eyes. Her teeth clenched together. Jarl Skotha. He looked just as he had as a trusted member of her father’s retinue, though deeper lines now grooved his brown skin, the black of his hair and beard peppered with gray.
Saga swallowed her bitterness back. “Good evening, Jarl Skotha.”
“I’m pleased to see you in good health, my lady,” said Skotha smoothly, studying her face.
Just the royal pet trotting out for inspection, Saga thought, jamming a buttered parsnip onto her spoon.
“Lady Saga shall soon take the name Ivarsson,” said Signe, grabbing Bjorn’s hand and giving it a squeeze.
“Is that so?” asked Skotha.
Bjorn nodded, pulling his hand back and adjusting his over-large rings. “We shall wed before winter’s fall.”
Saga’s hands gripped one another beneath the table linen.
“That is wonderful news,” said Jarl Skotha. His voice was level, but something passed behind his eyes.
“And I hear congratulations are in order to your family as well, Skotha,” said Signe demurely. “I’m told your daughter’s husband has risen through the Klaernar’s ranks with impressive speed.”
Jarl Skotha’s lips spread into a proud smile. “Yes, Your Highness. We are quite pleased. I’m told Kommandor Hilja is the youngest of his rank Svaldrin has ever seen.”
Saga’s brows drew together, a vague memory stirring. She prodded deeper into her mind, trying to recall the details. Svaldrin’s kommandor had been on her list. A respected kommandor who’d recently suffered an undisclosed illness. He’d perished rather quickly and had been replaced by a young man.
A young man by the name of Hilja.
Saga’s gaze snapped to Skotha, examining him freshly. He hadn’t hesitated to turn his back on her father, and it did not seem a stretch to think he might turn his back on King Ivar. But if there was a link between Skotha and the queen, neither of their expressions betrayed such a thing.
