Chapter 8
Kovograd, Zagadka
The balcony door nagged at Saga. She paced the confines of her room, trying to ignore it, but each time she passed by, her guilt burned hotter.
She’d made such progress in íseldur. Could not let herself falter now.
And each day that passed without venturing outdoors made it just a little harder to rebuild her courage.
As it called to her now, she glared at the door. Tomorrow, Saga promised it. The truth was, she had no plans to leave this room today. Not after what she’d discovered days earlier—Kassandr Rurik being whipped before his father.
The sight had been shocking, and her initial instinct had been to flee.
But those marks on his back had burned into her eyelids, and before she’d known what was happening, Saga’s anger had eclipsed her panic.
And so she’d stormed back into that room and demanded they release him.
It wasn’t until later that Saga realized the entire thing had been orchestrated by Kassandr Rurik—a plan to force her to meet with the high prince of Zagadka.
Initially, she’d been stunned to find her door unlocked and the corridors beyond unattended.
And in that moment, Kassandr’s casual mention of the red room—of the weapons to be found there—had come swiftly to mind.
Saga had foolishly thought it a sign from the gods.
But no. It hadn’t been the gods at all, but that meddlesome man.
Worry twinged inside her, against her better judgment. She rubbed her scarred hands, wondering if Kassandr had applied ointment to his wounds; if they’d been bandaged properly.
Saga physically shook her head, as though that would dislodge the thought, then continued pacing.
She’d now done as the high prince had requested and written to Ivar.
Saga had taken responsibility for the explosion and assured the king that the Zagadkians had played no role in it.
And she’d had a lump in her throat as she’d penned her apology for her role in Princess Yrsa’s death.
By the time Saga had handed the letter to Alasa, she’d been utterly dejected. Yrsa was innocent in all of this.
But now Saga had played her part, and it was time for the high prince to play his.
He’d assured her they’d meet and discuss her return to íseldur.
Saga would request she be delivered to Midfjord, as Kassandr had originally agreed.
From there, she would find the Uppreisna and try to track down her sister’s whereabouts.
But worry gathered in her stomach as she probed inward for any sign of Eisa.
And for the hundredth time, Saga was met with utter silence.
What if she was too late? What if Eisa had perished beneath the mountain of snow?
She had to get back to íseldur. Had to find out for certain what had happened to Eisa.
A gentle knock at the door had Saga’s heart leaping in her chest. Instinct took hold, and she soon stood beside the trestle table where she took her meals, brandishing a silver candelabra.
The bolt rumbled, and the door swung open, and she readied herself to fight. But instead of the familiar pleated armor the Zagadkian warriors favored, red silk skirts whirled into the room. Saga’s grip on the candelabra loosened.
It was a woman of average height, clad in resplendence that would put even Queen Signe to shame. Saga’s gaze jumped from the enormous golden necklace draped along the woman’s collarbones to her bright-green eyes. Oh. There was no doubt in Saga’s mind that this woman was related to Kassandr.
“Greetings, Lady Saga,” she said in heavily accented íseldurian. “I am Elisava, sister of Kassandr.”
Saga managed a curtsy through her shock. “I’m honored to meet you, my lady.”
Now that Elisava stood before her, Saga realized it was not a dress the woman wore, but an ornate, fur-trimmed jacket in red.
While parts of the jacket were ruched and embellished with red beads and embroidery, other patterns seemed to be woven right into the fabric itself.
And her earrings—gods, Saga had never seen such extravagance.
Delicate gold filaments accented with jewels, they dangled half a handspan long.
Elisava cleared her throat, and Saga’s cheeks heated as she realized she’d been caught staring.
“How fares your brother?” Saga tried. “Has he finished his pilgrimage to…” She thought for a moment. “The golden oak?”
Elisava stared blankly, her lips pressing together.
“Er…have you had word from íseldur?”
Elisava’s tranquil expression rippled with irritation.
She barked in rapid Zagadkian, then faced Saga with a startlingly demure expression.
A heartbeat later, a familiar face peeked through the door, and Saga exhaled a relieved breath.
Rov’s dark, expressive brows sat above a slightly crooked nose, and dimples were carved into his brown cheeks.
Kassandr’s right-hand man loped into the room, hands thrust into the pockets of his armored jacket.
He replied to Elisava in jovial Zagadkian. “I told to her,” said Rovgolod, switching to íseldurian. “It will take much more practice to learn your language.”
Elisava threw her hands in the air, retorting something that made Rov chuckle.
“You did well,” Saga said to Elisava, touched that she had taken the time to learn what she had.
Elisava’s exasperated expression softened, and she spoke to Saga in slower, lilting tones.
“Elisava says she will take the daymeal with you,” said Rov, collapsing into a carved chair near the hearth, limbs sprawled across the arms.
Ordinarily, the prospect of dining with a stranger would have made Saga’s skin itch.
Yet she was so painfully bored, she found herself eager.
And so she sank into a chair across the table from Elisava.
Their gazes met, an awkward silence settling over the room.
Elisava’s gaze fell to Saga’s folded hands, and she studied the branding marks with unabashed curiosity.
Saga blinked, then tucked her hands beneath the table.
“I suppose you haven’t news of íseldur?” Saga said, just as Elisava spoke in Zagadkian.
Both women looked at Rov expectantly.
“She is curious to see what her brother hides so carefully from prying eyes.”
Saga’s anger was instinctive and visceral. Another person wanting a glimpse of the caged creature. But rather than ogle her like some sort of prized pet, Elisava propped her chin on her fists, as though settling in for a good story.
Thankfully, Alasa entered the room, saving Saga from answering.
Rather than the kasha and blackcurrants Saga had grown used to, Alasa unloaded bowls of cold pork, fermented vegetables, boiled eggs, and flatbreads.
She set down a metal carafe with steam drifting from a spout, curtsied, then departed.
Saga stared at the spread before her, then watched Elisava with apprehension as she poured the contents of the pot into the cups.
Immediately, the smell of deep, rich spices hit Saga’s nose, and she found herself leaning forward.
It smelled different from the róabark from back home, yet was intriguing all the same.
“Sbiten,” said Elisava, handing a cup to Saga.
“Sbee-ten,” repeated Saga, taking the cup and examining the purple liquid within.
She took an experimental sip, her eyes widening.
It was sweet and slightly fruity, with pungent, aromatic spices—ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and something else.
“Oh!” Saga exclaimed, as spicy heat pricked her tongue and spread warmth across her cheeks.
Elisava sent her an amused smile as she picked up a small, red berry from the tray and showed it to Saga. She spoke in lilting Zagadkian. Silence filled the room, and both women turned expectantly to Rov, only to find his head resting against the back of the chair, eyes firmly shut.
A flurry of Zagadkian from Elisava had Rov’s head jolting up.
“Elisava tells to you the story of this berry,” Rov interpreted.
“It is not to be eaten, as it makes one fall into a wakeful sleep. The stories tell that the Spring Maiden painted her lips with the berry’s juices, making them red like rubies.
She seduced Old Man Winter with a kiss, sending him to sleep and granting Zagadka an early and fertile spring.
It is good luck to have such berries on your plate, but very bad luck to eat them. ”
Saga eyed the red berries with new apprehension. But her curiosity was piqued. She stood and crossed the room before selecting a book from the shelf. Saga returned to the table, flipping the book open to a page depicting four figures.
Elisava nodded, pointing to a young woman in the top corner of the page. Her lips were red as the berries, her blond hair woven into a crown of flowers.
“Spring Maiden,” Saga murmured, her gaze then flitting to the young man in the bottom corner. Saga recognized the pleated armored jacket at once, but blinked at the headdress upon the man’s head. “Are those…horns?”
Rov yawned. “Must be Brother Summer you look upon. They give him all manner of phallic objects. Sword, wheat, horns, and pouch of cow bollocks.”
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, horned monsters.
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.