Oleg’s snarled reply was distant in Saga’s ears as a dull ringing began. Air, she needed air, her shallow gasps doing nothing to fill her chest. Thankfully, Kassandr turned them away from his brother and ushered Saga back into the keep.
Away from Oleg and surrounded by the comfort of four walls, Saga stopped fighting her crisis. It was easier this way, giving in to the storm. She leaned into her panic—let it roll through her. Still, it took its toll on her, and when she came back to herself, she was panting and dazed, leaning into Kassandr’s body as his fingers tapped along her back.
“You will not be given to Urkans, Saga,” said Kassandr in Íseldurian. “I will not allow it.” He watched her carefully with those too-bright eyes. There was something off-kilter about them—perhaps a little mad. Saga’s insides squirmed with discomfort.
She glanced at his forearms, but only pale skin met her eyes. “Where are your tattoos?”
He blinked, then smirked. “They…show themselves during shifting.” Kassandr disengaged his arm from hers, then tugged hissleeve up to reveal more of those thick forearms, and gods, but she might just like them more than his chin.
“How…far do they go? When they appear. Your tattoos.” Even through the tumult of her mind, Saga could hardly believe she’d just asked that. Yet the tattoos—the brightness of his eyes—they all spoke of the strange dual nature of this man. And while the thought of him shifting into his beastly form filled her with dread, there was also now the thinnest shred of curiosity.
“Far.” His voice was rough and hard, and Saga felt it all through her body. She couldn’t help but wonder how the tattoos looked on his chest…down those muscled thighs…her cheeks flushed, and she looked away.
“We must be careful with Oleg, Winterwing,” Kassandr murmured as she tried to regain her composure. “I fear he will whisper into my father’s ears. Will poison the elders against our cause.” He paused. “If we were to wed—”
A laugh choked out from her, her mind wrangling into a single, unified thought. “Being rejected once was not enough for you?”
“It will give you protection,” he tried, an irritated edge to his voice. “If you were wed to heir of Zagadka, the elders could not give you to King Ivar—”
Saga folded her arms over her chest. “No,” she said, her voice quiet and loud all at once. “And just so we’re clear, Kassandr,” she said, “I shallnevermarry you.”
Turning on her heel, Saga returned to her chambers.
Skip Notes
*1What they do?
*2It is a special tannin.
*3A little.
Chapter 18
Kopa, Íseldur
Silla stole from Ashfall Fortress under full sun, shocked that the guardsmen hadn’t stopped her from leaving. With her queensguard flanking her on all sides, she was certain they’d be stopped—especially when they saw the bags of grain she’d commandeered from Jarl Hakon’s personal stores. Yet with a quick word from Ingvarr, the guards had let her through.
Despite her exhaustion, Silla was exhilarated to feel the sun on her brow and wind on her cheeks, to see the beauty of Kopa up close. From her bedroom window, she could not see the iridescent sheen of minerals in the black stones, nor could she marvel at the intricate masonry. Now she gaped at the tall buildings and archways that defied nature—possible only thanks to the class of Galdra known as the Smiths. These specialized Galdra could forge and break the bonds of this world, allowing them to create stone cities and panes of glass, specialized textiles and so much more.
Despite Silla’s constant stops to fawn over the marvels of Kopa, they eventually arrived at Frida’s shelter home. She had no doubt that Lady Tala would frown upon Eisa Volsik coming to the shelter home—that she’d probably get an earful about how a queen doesn’t go to her subjects, but waits for them to come to her. But she wasn’t truly a queen, was she? And sometime in the darkest hours of the night, as Silla flipped through yet another tome, she’d come to asleep-addled negotiation of sorts. Today, she visited Ástrid and the shelter home asSilla,not Eisa.
She smothered one last jaw-cracking yawn before entering. The children were a balm to her heart, refilling her bank of hearthfire thoughts and making Myrkur cringe deeper inside her. And Silla shed more than a few tears when Hef and Kálf handed bags of grain over to Frida.
She tried not to wonder how Jarl Hakon would respond when her raiding of his stores was brought to light. She hoped that his hoarding of grains while his people went hungry would bring so much shame upon the jarl that he simply would not broach the topic. And as Silla watched Frida wipe tears of relief from her cheeks, she didn’t much care about any consequences she’d suffer.
The children crawled all over Silla—Ingvarr quickly gave up on trying to keep them off her—and squealed with delight when Silla provided them with gifts of her own. They were trinkets, really. Winter-blooming flowers from Ashfall’s great hall; hairpins that had been lost beneath the bed. Then there were the charcoal sticks and bundles of parchment Atli had provided. Based on the conspiratorial wink he’d sent her while handing them over, she suspected he knew precisely who they were for.
Eventually, the winter sun reached its pinnacle in the sky and Silla knew it was time to move on. Her visit with the children had rather exhausted her limited energy, but a frazzled excitement buzzed in her veins. Next, she would visit Fallgerd.
Silla tried to keep her thoughts away from the old warrior. Tried not to divulge to Myrkur that she had not given up on finding a cure. Fallgerd had served King Hrolf during his darkest days—when the king had foolishly made his own bargain with Myrkur. If anyone in this realm might know of a cure, surely it would be Fallgerd.
As Myrkur ruffled His leathery wings inside her, Silla shoved her mind back to the children at the shelter home and her fresh hearthfire thoughts. She thought of the gap-toothed smiles and delight in their eyes as she’d told them the tale of hiding in the Bloodaxe Crew’s wagon and tricking Axe Eyes into taking her to Kopa. Witha hiss at her bright thoughts, Myrkur tucked His wings in tight and settled back down.
At the head of their procession, Ingvarr held up a hand, and they drew to a stop outside a small, nondescript home. Through the throng of guards, Silla could just make out Fallgerd’s form filling the doorway.
“I would speak to Eisa alone,” came the old warrior’s voice.
Ingvarr laughed, shaking his head. “Not a chance, old man.”
