“Where are your clothes?” It took all of her will not to confirm her suspicions. “Are younaked?”
Kass’s head rose, amusement playing across his lips. “During shifting it gets…shredded.”
Saga lost the battle, her gaze drifting downward across ridged, toughened flesh, past scars and a light dusting of dark hair. As it reached his navel, she slammed her eyes shut, cursing herself. “Your seamstress must hate you.”
A low amused chuckle. “Very much.”
Before she could ask him to find some gods damned breeches, his arm slid under her knees, the other wrapping around her back, and then she was being lifted into the arms of an extremely naked Kassandr Rurik.
“I can walk!” she protested, pushing against his hold. But as the gouges scored into her shoulder pulled, an agonized whimper slipped out.
“Stop fighting me, Saga. Let me to help you.”
“That never goes well for me,” she gasped out, but relented.
“Keep your eyes on me.” Backlit by the torches, Kassandr’s face was shadowed, yet those green eyes anchored her. “Do not look behind me.”
Saga did not want to think of what carnage lay behind him. What he’d done to the mountain cat, to all of those shifters—
Kassandr strode toward the exit, then paused by a figure Sagahad not noticed before. “String these men from the fortress walls, Rovgolod,” said Kass in Íseldurian. “Remind Oleg what happens when he crosses me.”
Oleg. The man’s name rang in her ears. He’d tried to have her killed. Would have had her corpse strung from the walls. Saga’s heart kicked up at impossible speed, her breaths growing quick and shallow.
“Not safe,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. “I am not safe here—”
Kass strode through the doorway, carrying Saga back toward her chambers and whispering words that ought to soothe her. Yet nothing he said could assuage her fear.
The moment they reached her chambers, Saga ordered Kassandr to leave. He did as she bade, though the worried look on his face was telling enough. After the dead bolt slid into place, Saga rushed to the bench, swiping tears from her eyes. Fueled by desperation, she hauled it against the door to bar entry. She did the same to her balcony door with the second bench.
And with the last of her energy, Saga flung herself onto her bed.
Only then did she let herself truly fall apart.
Chapter 15
Kopa, Íseldur
Silla’s knee bounced eagerly as she sat by the hearth. She knew she’d drunk too much róa, but hadn’t been able to stop herself. After the attempt on Eisa’s life, Jarl Hakon had appointed Eilif as her food taster, and Silla despised it. This morning, she’d watched despondently as the poor handmaiden had sampled her morning pot of róa and deemed it free from poison. Silla had wasted no time in consuming three full cups, desperate to keep her fatigue at bay. But it seemed the energizing properties of the róabark had done her nerves no favors. Or perhaps her nerves were due to the anticipation of what today would bring.
She would meet Jarl Hakon’s Weaver and have the threads of her fate read.
As Myrkur shifted inside her, Silla tried to keep her moods bright, but gods, it was getting hard. Someone had tried to kill her. There was still no sign of Saga. The feast of the Shortest Day neared; her etiquette training was ramping up. And Silla could no longer deny that the god of chaos was growing more active.
Last night, she’d dreamed of what she hadn’t in so long—the little blond girl’s hand wrenching free from hers. “Don’t leave me!” Saga had screamed as Silla was hauled backward and Urkan warriors swarmed the room.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the dream had soon shifted to Rökkur—the dragon Kraugeir waking from his slumber; the hot, orange lifeblood of the fire mountains spewing forth. Silla had woken drenched in sweat, the remnants of Myrkur’s excitement coursing through her veins.
In that moment, she missed Rey more than she could say. There was no sleep to be found after that. Instead, she’d pored over every book in the stack the magisters had sent her and had found no hint at a cure to her mother’s bargain. Weeks, she’d been at this—as had her queensguard and Jarl Hakon’s magisters—and they were no better off than when they’d started.
A life for a life,her mother had promised Myrkur. The god had the power to take her life at any moment. So why was she still breathing?
At the very least, her daily hindrium doses blocked the god from her Ashbringer source. Yet He seemed unbothered. Instead, she felt Him prodding…as though He was searching for something.
Her desperation to rid herself of this god was growing by the day. And so she’d decided to take her search for a cure beyond books, to Jarl Hakon’s Weaver. Perhaps there was something to be discovered in Weaving the threads of Silla’s past, present, and future?
Now she sat with Liv and Kaeja in the Weaver’s sitting room, an unnatural silence stretching out among them. Silla was so much more comfortable around Hild and the other fortress servants, but she supposed she must try with Kaeja and Liv, and so she blurted, “Ashes, but these dragons make me twitchy!”
Liv looked up from her embroidery in surprise, while Kaeja’s face twisted into a look of derision.
