The wind was crisp and carried a piney scent, wicking Saga’s fogged breaths up into the skies. She pulled her fur hat lower over her ears, timing her steps to the taps Kassandr Rurik’s fingers made against her arm. During their walks, she’d learned to keep her focus on the surrounding curiosities. The Zagadkian soldiers with their fur caps, stationed at intervals along the defensive walls; the raw hides of reindeers stretched on racks before the tannery. Everything was bathed in a sharp, wintery light, a fact that distracted Saga from the tension in her stomach.
Her shoulder wound was quickly healing, but the attack in the gallery had been a setback. Saga had kept herself locked in her chambers. Had stopped venturing onto her balcony. This had gone on for days, until she’d found the raven’s feather in her dress pocket. As she stared at this feather, discovered on her last stroll with Kassandr, Saga realized what she was doing.
It was a strange thing to acknowledge that your mind played tricks on you—that the things it perceived as peril were not always so. And while caging herself away might feel safe in the moment, it was a danger to her in the long run.
She couldnotgo backward. Saga had to expose herself to dangerous elements—both the real ones, and those that were a product of her mind. And so she’d asked Kassandr to take her back tothe temple gardens. And if she’d breathed a little easier when sliding her arm into his—if her blood warmed at the feel of his large body beside hers—Saga would never confess it. Because admitting that she trusted Kassandr Rurik with her safety felt like a betrayal of herself.
But she couldn’t shake his words—What about Midfjord, Saga? Who were you to meet? Where were you to go?Because there was truth to what he’d said. Saga hadn’t a clue what she’d have done in Midfjord—she and Ana had never gotten further than the location.
Saga’s first walk with Kassandr had lasted a matter of minutes. Their next, a little longer. Each day, Saga was able to grow a little more used to those open skies; to the call of birds. The feather in her pocket helped her find strength on the days she felt like fleeing. It reminded her of those winterwing birds finally flying away from their cage.
Now they strolled through the west side of the fortress, a dozen of Kassandr’s Druzhina warriors flanking them. A measure, Kassandr had assured her, in case Oleg got any more ideas.
“Chto oni delayut?[*1]” she asked, pointing to a large vat. Four tannery apprentices stood on a platform surrounding it, stirring the vat with large paddles.
“Eto osobyy tanin,[*2]” replied Kassandr in slow, measured Zagadkian. He switched to Íseldurian. “It makes the leather soft, yet impenetrable by iron.”
Her brows furrowed as she thought of the conversation she’d overheard between King Ivar and Prince Bjorn over the daymeal a month or so past. They’d discussed a metal alloy the Karthians preferred and how it might be used for arrowheads as well. “Is vulnerable to steel?”
Kassandr cocked his head to the side. “Nemnogo.[*3]”
“You plan,” said Saga in rough Zagadkian, “for shields.” She shook her head in frustration, wishing the words would come to her more smoothly. But Saga had to admit, the fact that words were coming at all was progress.
Still, Kassandr nodded in understanding. “We have many shields to deflect steel blades,” he replied in Zagadkian, then paused. “If you were the high prince of Zagadka, what would you do right now?”
This was a frequent game they played while practicing Zagadkian. Saga eyed the defensive walls. Tall and sturdy, they were built atop earthen ramparts. Watchtowers were stationed every fifty or so paces, and the covered walkways between them would defend from projectiles. But there was one glaring weakness in this fortress—one that made Saga’s pulse a little jagged.
Saga paused and sifted through her limited Zagadkian vocabulary. Realizing she was inadvertently staring at his chin, she cleared her throat and looked away. “Arrange for fire.”
Kassandr nodded along.
There seemed to be a hint of stubble on his jaw. Had he shaved this morning? And did Kassandr do it himself, or have a servant do it for him?
“Beach rocks,” Saga coughed out, trying to get her mind back on track.
He gave her a curious look. “Sand?” he guessed.
Saga nodded, trying desperately not to look back at his chin. “To kill fire. Also ocean plant.”
His brow furrowed.
“Roof.” Saga gestured to the fortress. Exasperated, she switched to Íseldurian. “Seaweed to cover the roofs!”
“Ahh.” He stroked his jaw, and damn it, but her gaze was back, snagged on the shallow dimple in the center of his chin. Her fingers itched to trace it, so she balled them into fists.
“And—”
Kass cut her off with a raised palm. “In Zagadkian.”
“Shield wall, no—” Saga shook her head in frustration. “Protectwall with ocean plant.”
“What else?”
“Fire cup.” She wrinkled her nose. “Fireflask.”
“Projectiles?” he asked, switching to Íseldurian.
“The Urkans have clay flasks that erupt with fire when broken,” she replied. “The liquid inside them cannot be extinguished by water.” Saga could not keep the vision of Sunnavík’s pier during the Urkan invasion from forming in her mind’s eye. She’d been only five, yet she remembered it vividly—boats and piers and homes, all exploding with fire. Warriors caught aflame, jumping overboard, only to be picked off with arrows.
