Chapter 17
Kovograd, Zagadka
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 could not go 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 to the 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. “Protect wall with ocean plant.”
“What else?”
“Fire cup.” She wrinkled her nose. “Fire flask.”
“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.
“I will ask my chieftains about this,” mused Kassandr, rubbing his chin once more. “You are clever in such things, Winterwing.”
His praise made her skin buzz…made her yearn to glance back at his chin. Gods, but there was something very wrong with her. Instead, she forced her gaze to the main gate of the fortress. Tall and thick, the studded double doors were topped with an enormous bell tower.
“You have considered what you will do after?” asked Kassandr in íseldurian.
“After?”
“After you return to íseldur. Find your sister.”
Saga felt Kassandr’s gaze on her face, and she was too weak—she gave up and stared at the groove in his chin before mapping the contours of his strong jaw. But as his words settled, an ache grew in Saga’s chest and she looked away.
“If she’s alive.” She probed inward for any sign of her sister, but as always, there was nothing to be found.
“I do not know.” For so long, her life had been centered on simply surviving.
How did she explain that she’d lived so long in the shadows of Signe and Ivar, that to conceive of a life of her own was too much?
“I see a queen in you, but more than that, I see a leader.”
A laugh sputtered from Saga.
“No?” he asked, drawing them to a stop. “You do not see it?”
Saga scowled up at him. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”
“I would not jest about such a thing.”
She pulled her collar tighter to ward against the chill. “My name might be Volsik, but it does not mean I am built for such things.”
Before Kassandr could form a reply, a male voice called out, and the Druzhina warriors tightened around them.
Saga clutched Kassandr’s arm as she tried to see past the large men.
But as Kassandr let out a low, deep growl, she had an inkling of who it was.
Her shoulder wound throbbed, reminding her of how near this man had come to killing her.
“Dear brother,” drawled Oleg in slow, measured Zagadkian. “Call off your dogs. Unless you are feeling so insecure.”
Kassandr leaned down, his hot breath tickling Saga’s cold ear. “What do you wish for me to do?” he asked.
Saga tried to ignore the acceleration of her pulse, the shallowing of her breaths, but it was impossible. Oleg had tried to kill her, and seeing him now, so arrogantly unapologetic, made her blood simmer.
“Call down your men,” she said, forging steel into her voice and spine alike. Kassandr did as she bid him, and as Oleg’s smarmy face came into view, Saga refused to cower. She would show this preening turnip how little he’d affected her.
Oleg’s smirk was highly punchable. “Ahh,” he drawled in Zagadkian. “It is little pet of Ivar. Or should I say pet of Kassandr?”
“I am…my own,” Saga said darkly. Oleg’s startlement at her use of Zagadkian granted Saga a small victory. She wished she knew every Zagadkian insult so she could hurl them at him.
“She speaks,” he mused, watching her with predatory eyes.
“What do you want, demon?” growled Kassandr, the muscles of his forearm flexing and relaxing beneath Saga’s fingertips.
“I come from the armory,” said Oleg, slow enough for Saga to follow. “It seems they have set my commission aside in favor of large order of weapons. Do you know anything about this?”
“Forgive me, Oleg, for thinking our warriors might need sharp and durable blades in upcoming weeks,” said Kassandr.
Oleg’s brows dipped low, and he took a menacing step forward. “They will not,” he growled, “as we will avoid the need for it.” His gaze slid to Saga, and a chill spread down her neck.
“Is your skull truly so thick?” asked Kassandr. “Do you think ore and grains will buy peace?”
“No,” said Oleg. “She will buy peace.”
Another low growl came from deep within Kassandr’s chest, and as Saga looked down, she yelped in surprise.
Inky black tattoos slid along his bared forearms and across the backs of his hands.
And as she glanced at his eyes, they turned an inhuman green.
The panic her anger had smothered quickly flared back to life, her heartbeat spiraling while Saga wheezed for breath.
As Kassandr glanced at her, he seemed to understand her inner turmoil. His fingertips found the crook of her elbow, and he tapped rhythmically while speaking to his brother.
“Understand this, Oleg. If your men come near her again, I will rip the limbs from your body and hang them for art on the walls.”
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 his sleeve 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 shall never marry you.”
Turning on her heel, Saga returned to her chambers.
Skip Notes
*1 What they do?
*2 It is a special tannin.
*3 A little.