“You, Lady Saga,” his father was saying, “will write a letter to King Ivar, accepting full responsibility for the attempt on his life. And you will assure him Zagadka played no part in it.”
Kassandr’s heart felt heavy as iron as the interpreter relayed his father’s words to Saga. He tried to find solace in the fact that the high prince had not agreed with all of Oleg’s plan, yet he could not help his disappointment that Saga had not convinced his father to raise arms.
Saga could not hold the high prince’s gaze as she answered in Íseldurian. “I will do it. But I ask you, Sire—no—” Her voice wavered, and she shook her head. “—Ibegof you. Please, I must return to Íseldur. My sister is in danger. I must help her.”
“After you write the letter,” said the high prince, “we will discuss it.” And with that, the high prince strode from the room. As he watched his father leave, Kassandr’s chest grew tight with worry. He could not bring Saga with him to the golden oak—not with her struggles with the outdoors. But how could he leave her in Kovograd?
As though summoned by Kass’s thoughts, his half brother laid a hand on his shoulder.
Kass glared into those yellow-tinged eyes.
“Do not worry, brother,” said Oleg. “I will look out for the Lady Saga in your absence.”
Chapter 5
Kopa, Íseldur
Rey stared across Ashfall’s sparring grounds as he leaned against the armory building. The chill wind scraped across his cheeks, carrying the promise of more snow. It had been a constant thing in recent weeks, making him feel as though winter had lasted an eternity, when in truth they’d yet to celebrate the Shortest Day. Not that he’d be in Kopa to join in the celebrations, given they’d depart for Istré tomorrow.
The very thought of it caused unease to burn in his gut. For so long, he’d been certain of his place in this world, and had been content to be a weapon in the Uppreisna’s arsenal. But everything had changed in Kalasgarde.Frightened together,they’d vowed. How did they do this together, when Rey was being pulled to Istré, and Eisa Volsik was needed in Kopa?
Pushing such thoughts aside, Rey adjusted the wolf’s pelt wrapped around his shoulders, gaze drifting to where Hekla and Silla stood at the edge of the sparring grounds. The tightness in his chest eased as he laid eyes on Silla. Each time he saw her, it was like finding a coveted belonging he’d lost a long time ago. Like his head was in the clouds, but his feet were on the ground. How unsettling it was that a person could have such an effect on him.
Today, determined to embody Eisa Volsik, Silla had opted for a thick, fur-trimmed cloak over heavy woolen skirts, her hair artfullystyled into complicated braids. But he saw the envious way she now eyed Hekla’s lébrynja armor and wondered if she regretted her choice.
Hekla handed Silla her wool-wrapped blade, and Rey watched in amusement as Silla moved through the attack routines he’d taught her under the shadow of Kalasgarde’s mountains. Her skirts inevitably grew tangled, and she grumbled as she righted herself. Her exasperated expression tugged at his heartstrings, but he ought to have seen it as a warning. It wasn’t until she turned on her heel and stormed around a stack of hay bales that Rey knew she was up to something. He was halfway across the yard, ready to chastise her for leaving his field of view, when she reappeared with the elegant furred cloak draped over—her own set of lébrynja armor. His feet faltered and he rubbed his chest in relief.
Rey shook his head at himself. He was a gods damned fool for this woman. But as he studied her newly donned armor, he soon grew perplexed. Had she worn it under her gown? Hekla hooted in delight and pulled Silla close, the pair conversing in low tones.
Reluctantly, Rey returned to his post by the armory building. He tried to ease the jagged beat of his heart. But when it came to Silla, he was always on alert; always watching for danger. How could he not be, when she’d been hunted so relentlessly? All it would take was one misplaced blade; one sly arrow.
Silla reclaimed the wool-wrapped blade, and Rey watched as she worked through the routine once more. Seeing her clad in her lébrynja made Rey’s blood heat. It was impossible to forget their morning sparring sessions in Kalasgarde. His body certainly remembered the feel of hers as he’d adjusted her hips and the grip on her sword.
Silla’s movements were fluid, the wool-wrapped blade arcing through the air with confidence, and pride bloomed inside his chest. She was strong—capable of defending herself. He had to trust in Silla and in himself for teaching her to the best of his abilities.
He forced his gaze elsewhere, lip curling when it landed on Atli Hakonsson sparring with his retinue. The burn in his stomach hadhim quickly moving on until he found a black-clad Sigrún facing off against Runný.
Earlier in the day, Sigrún had approached Rey and apologized in handspeak for her “shameful failures” in Istré. As Rey blinked, dumbfounded, Sigrún had explained that old fears had gotten the best of her, but she would not let it happen again. She’d stroked the scarred flesh on her cheek, and Rey tried to put the details together. Istré had gone up in flames, and Sigrun’s marks looked an awful lot like burn scars. The petite woman had never spoken of her injuries, and Rey had never asked. But now he felt the need to put her at ease.
“You need not apologize, Sigrún,” he’d replied, signing as he spoke. “But if ever you have worries you wish to speak of, you can confide in me.”
She’d sent him a strange look, and Rey realized it was entirely out of character for him. A month ago, Axe Eyes would have simply grunted. It seemed Kalasgarde had softened some of his rough edges. He’d been shown that kindness was not weakness, and that speaking of old wounds could be healing. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about this. And as Sigrún peered curiously up at him, the old urge to keep people at arm’s length kicked in. “What I mean—that is to say—” Rey cleared his throat. “You can tellSilla.”
Sigrún pursed her lips, glancing in Silla’s direction. Then she’d smiled, knowingly.You’re a far better match,Sigrún signed, before striding off and leaving Rey feeling out of sorts.
Movement in his periphery alerted him to Eyvind’s presence, and he turned to greet his old friend with a handshake and a slap to the back.
“Well met, old friend,” Eyvind drawled with a smile.
Clad in Hakonsson red, Eyvind had been busy mustering more warriors to join them on the trip to Istré, and Rey had not seen much of him in the past days. Eyvind’s wavy black hair had once fallen around his shoulders. Now it was cut short to tidy the disorderly singed ends acquired in Istré. Yet Eyvind, who had been known to preen over his mane, seemed utterly unbothered.
He slumped against the wall with a long sigh, a small smile playing on his lips. Rey followed his friend’s line of view to where Hekla and Silla sparred, and his brows shot down at once.
“Good to be back, even if only for a few nights,” mused Eyvind, his gaze never leaving the women.
Rey grunted. “I must thank you for stepping up…for leading my Crew when I could not.”
Hekla twisted behind Silla, sweeping her feet out and taking her down. With a cackle of glee, Hekla pinned Silla to the ground and straddled her hips. Rey made the mistake of glancing Eyvind’s way. His old friend had never been good at concealing his emotions, and right now, Eyvind’s eyes were filled with hunger.
