He followed her outdoors, breathing the crisp, early-winter air while trying to see it through her eyes. The western wing of the fortress to their right, climbing three stories high. The gardens to their left, encrusted with heavy frost. The cobblestone footpath beneath their feet, winding around the fortress toward the garden temple.
And the blue skies yawning wide above.
Kassandr’s muscles were primed and ready to catch her should his Saga stumble. Should she need the taps. He was not surprised when her feet faltered, her breaths coming in short, quick gasps. She needed a distraction. Luckily for her, Kassandr was an expert in stoking the flames of her anger.
He placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and casually asked, “I have heard it said women are less smarter than men, because of the smaller size of their heads. Do you think it true?”
His comment had the desired effect. Saga’s gaze swung towardhim, her expression incredulous. “You’re certainly proof against this theory.”
Kass was delighted at her tart reply. Already, her breaths were more even, the redness of her face less pronounced.
“My darling Winterwing,” he drawled, patting his head, “what are you suggesting?”
“Only that your head is certainly not small, and yet I’ve questioned your wits rather often.” Her lips quivered, then broke into a smile that made Kassandr’s beast wag its tail. The moment she realized she was smiling, Saga turned to the pathway, not loosening her grip on his arm. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“To temple of seasonal gods.” He eased her along the trail, and they walked at a gentle pace. Kassandr could not fail to notice her eyes darting in all directions. “Stena,” he said, gesturing to the defensive wall. “Is word for ‘wall.’ As you can see, is built on earthen ramparts.”
Saga repeated the Zagadkian word, then pointed at a guard tower curiously.
“Bashnya,” said Kassandr. “ ‘Tower.’ In Kovograd, we have two defensive walls—one around the city proper, and one around the fortress.” Saga was silent, and so he continued. “The river—reka—flows through the city, and so there are four gates barring entry.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Saga asked with suspicion.
“Because,” said Kassandr, “King Ivar didn’t answer to your letters.”
The silence felt weighted, Saga’s hold on his arm tightening as they walked toward the temple.
“You know he won’t answer,” she finally said, slightly breathless.
“No,” agreed Kassandr, fingertips tapping on Saga’s forearm. “He will not.” He led her along the pathway, toward the frost-burnt gardens surrounding the temple. Red banners flapped from atop the temple tower, and the horned headdress of Brother Summer’s wooden idol came into view.
“What will he do, King Ivar?” he asked casually, wondering if she understood this game they played.
Saga’s breaths had slowed, her back more rigid, but when she spoke, her voice seemed far away. “Winter is coming, which will ice up the bay in Sunnavík. Ivar will need to act hastily to get his fleet safely out to sea.”
It was much as Kassandr had figured, but hearing it from her own lips strengthened his resolve. He gazed toward the temple, now able to make out the raven perched on the staff of Old Man Winter’s idol.
“But,” continued Saga, “there is always the chance he’ll call for his father’s fleet from Norvaland.”
His fingers ceased their tappings at that. “But surely this would take many long weeks. Do you think he would wait?”
A tremor ran through her, and his fingers resumed their rhythmic motions. “I do not imagine so,” she breathed. “Ivar hungered for Zagadkian blood when he learned of the gardens.”
His blood heated in remembrance of that night; the feel of her body was imprinted in his mind. And as Kassandr’s keen hearing picked up the acceleration of Saga’s heartbeat, he guessed she, too, thought of their kiss.
She cleared her throat. “I cannot imagine Ivar’s wrath if he believes you tried to kill him.” But the rapid beat of her heart did not ease; if anything, it grew ever faster. The panic she’d held at bay was wreaking havoc within her, and Kassandr held her steady as her knees buckled.
“Breathe, Saga. It is only us. You are safe.” Her pulse was now furious, a hammering like Kassandr himself had never felt.
“You’re dead,” whispered Saga, eyes squeezed shut. “You cannot hurt me.”
Kassandr’s beast snarled in rage, and he wanted to kill Magnus Hansson all over again. Wanted to make it slower and far more painful. As he sensed Saga’s panic fully grip her, Kassandr eased them both to the ground, his tapping fingers now also working to calm his own anger.
Together, they sat, surrounded by the frost-laced plants of thegardens as Saga’s breaths puffed frantically out of her, pluming into the sky. The cobbled path beneath them was frozen, but the defensive walls surrounding the fortress broke the bitter wind, and the winter sun kissing their cheeks made it bearable. Saga’s crisis passed in a matter of minutes, and as Kassandr helped her to her feet, he felt her exhaustion. Perhaps it was too much, too soon, to be out here.
Beside him, Saga gasped, and Kassandr braced himself for another attack. But she only bent low to pick something off the ground. As she lifted it to the sky, the corners of Kassandr’s lips tilted up.
An iridescent black feather, most likely a raven’s.
