Saga cleared her throat. “I think you mistranslated—” But then she squinted closer, seeing the bulge beneath Brother Summer’s jacket. “Is he—”
“Aroused?” asked Rov with amusement. “He is virile god and artists like to show him as such.” Rov went on to name the last of the seasonal gods—Old Man Winter, with flowing white hair and a suit of thick reindeer furs, and the Autumn Crone, a stooped woman clad in reds and yellows.
Saga’s blood enlivened as she drank in this knowledge. She flipped to the page she’d come back to countless times. It depicted a great battle, beasts and animals fighting misshapen, hornedmonsters. But it was the skies that had pricked Saga’s curiosity the most. A legion of warriors flew upon winged horses, raining arrows down upon the battle below.
“Who are they?” she asked, stabbing a finger at the winged horsemen.
Elisava’s expression hardened at once, and she exchanged a wary glance with Rov. When she spoke, her voice had a solemn air to it.
“Clans beyond the river,” interpreted Rov. “This battle is many long years ago, when things in Zagadka were different.”
Saga puzzled over his words, trying to make sense of them. But she was quite certain Kassandr had never mentioned the clans. “What happened?”
Rov relayed her question, but Elisava took another long minute before replying. “Would you like to see one of these horses, Lady Saga?”
Saga blinked as her mind scattered everywhere. “You—what—” Somewhere deep down inside Saga, a small child squealed in delight. All thoughts of never leaving this room again quickly vacated her. She gripped the table, staring at Elisava. “Yes!”
But Rov looked far from enthused as he and Elisava exchanged exasperated words.
Elisava waved off Rov’s accusing finger, leaning forward on the table. A sly smile curved her lips. “Ty khochesh’ vstretit’ Havoc?[*1]”
Rov folded his arms over his chest, apparently refusing to translate. Elisava’s expressive brows arched, and she turned in her seat to send Rov a speaking glance. When he didn’t budge, she pushed to her feet, sauntering toward the chair he lay sprawled across.
“Uderzhi menya ot svoikh planov, zhenshchina,[*2]” he muttered, though Saga couldn’t help but notice that the warrior seemed unable to look away from Elisava.
Elisava’s elegant fingers slid around Rov’s neck as she leaned down so that her lips hovered next to his ear. As she straightened,Rov’s head fell back and he groaned at the rafters. With an exaggerated sigh, he unfolded his long limbs from the chair and straightened the front of his jacket.
Rov’s face was impassive, but his words seemed wrenched painfully from him. “I suppose is your…how do you say…good fortune,Lady Saga. Today you will meet the winged murderer they call Havoc.”
The scent of straw and manure was heavy in the air, but the screams of the horse before Saga made it hard to notice anything else. Havoc was a majestic, yet terrifying stallion with a gleaming white coat. Enormous wings of iridescent feathers stretched out as the stallion reared and released another wrathful scream.
Saga’s pulse had thundered as she’d left her chambers, but between Elisava’s casual chatter and Rov’s reassuring presence, she’d been able to gather the courage to continue. Rov thankfully understood the nature of her condition and assured her there was an alternative route to the stables. Rather than leading her outdoors, they’d navigated through a series of corridors before climbing down a spiral staircase—a back entrance.
Now she stared at the winged horse, torn between fear and wonder and outright anger. She glared at the manacle securing the creature’s rear ankles.
“Why is it caged away?”
“Is secured,” grumbled Rov, “so murderous beast does not kill another.”
Saga’s gaze slashed to Rov. “What?”
Elisava’s small, warm hand landed on Saga’s forearm, and she spoke gentle words, with Rov interpreting. “This horse is wild and dangerous,” she explained. “We keep it only because the oracle has told my father we must.”
Saga chewed her cheek, waiting for an explanation.
But Elisava only sighed, turning back to Havoc.
“Horse was…betrothal gift from clans beyond the river tohigh-prince-to-be,” said Rov, taking over. “Was symbol of union of long arguing halves of Zagadka. But creature is dangerous and wild. Impossible to tame.” He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze growing distant. “It kicked the high-prince-to-be, crushing his skull. The beast is cursed. Has robbed us of our heir and has brought discord.”
“Heir?” Saga tried to comprehend. Wasn’t Kassandr the heir?
Rov muttered something in Zagadkian before switching to Íseldurian. “Kassandr’s older brother, Radomir.”
Saga swallowed. “Kassandr was not meant for the throne?”
Rov nodded. “Always, it was to be Radomir. He who was gifted in speech and in combat, loved by even the oldest of crones. Is…how do you say…rather large boots for Kassandr to step into.”
Saga was eager to hear more, but the horse minder appeared. After bantering with Rov in rolling Zagadkian, the minder entered the pen.
