Chapter 53
Kovograd, Zagadka
Saga’s fingertips skimmed the lace neckline of her wedding gown as she tried to quell the worry gathering in her stomach. She could hardly believe it was truly happening. Of course it was happening. She’d had days to put an end to the preparations, should she have chosen to do so.
Instead, she’d busied herself overseeing preparations to leave the isle.
Given the abysmal state of the Zagadkian naval fleet, merchant and fishing ships had been commandeered for the voyage and fitted with stalls to carry one hundred winged horses.
Word had arrived from the clansmother that the ore from the eastern mines had arrived and smelting was under way, with two hundred new swords expected to be forged before the ships sailed to íseldur.
Aside from their continued morning language lessons, Saga had seen little of her betrothed during this time.
Kassandr and Rov worked tirelessly to muster the best of their warriors to fight in íseldur.
Somehow, they’d convinced the high prince and Zagadkian elders to send two shiploads of grain along with them, a detail that had rendered Saga speechless.
She knew the long winter in íseldur would be dire, and that this grain would bring some much-needed hope.
In short, Saga’s hands and mind had been so busy, she’d scarcely had time to think of this day. But now, it was here, and there was no avoiding it.
Today, she would marry Kassandr Rurik.
A flutter low in her chest was quickly overshadowed by a twist in her gut.
She didn’t have to do this; Kass had told her as much.
One word, and she’d be on a ship bound for íseldur, Zagadkian warriors at her back.
His offer to fight for her regardless of marriage had meant more to Saga than he’d ever know.
But the fact was, her decision to marry him was not solely for her kingdom.
For thirteen years, Saga had been engaged to Bjorn, and her engagement to Magnus had felt even longer.
She was no fool. She knew that the moment she returned to íseldur, her hand in marriage would once more become a bargaining tool.
And Saga was done being used in such games.
But no matter how often she repeated her good, logical reasons for marrying Kassandr, there were also…intangible motivations. Saga could no longer deny the truth: Her husband-to-be was appallingly handsome, and the curl low in her belly whenever she saw him could no longer be ruled an illness.
Saga’s fingers went to her lips, still tingling with the remembered feel of Kassandr’s mouth. He’d kissed her in the tub with such reckless abandon, and she’d returned it with equal fervor. Her body awakened beneath his touch, as though she’d never truly been alive until she was in his arms.
The door groaned open, and Saga jumped in fright.
“It’s time,” said Alasa, stern and unsmiling.
Saga took one last look at her gown, then strode from the room.
She soon learned that the process of marriage in Zagadka was no simple affair. It began in the red room, with Elisava and her handmaidens burning birch sticks all around her.
“Birch,” Elisava explained, as the smoke drifted over Saga’s skin, “is sacred to the Spring Maiden…she who is goddess of love and fertility and patroness of marriage.”
Next, the women took up a song, flocking around Saga and gathering her hair into a single, long braid.
“Into your hair we braid good intentions that you will carry with you into your marriage,” said Elisava.
With the collective sound of their voices surrounding her—with the countless hands tending to her—Saga’s throat grew thick with emotion. Eisa should be here, on this of all days. If only she could reach her, if only she could talk to her…
Strand after strand of pearls were layered around Saga’s neck, and an ornate, beaded headdress set upon her brow. Bells dripping from each side of the headdress tinkled against yet more strands of pearls. Elisava painted Saga’s lips a bright red before handing her a bouquet of berry sprigs.
“Spring Maiden?” Saga queried, recognizing them as the berries that had once garnished her plate.
Elisava nodded, her green eyes shining as she examined Saga from head to toe. The noblewomen surrounded her, fastening a white fur cloak around Saga’s shoulders.
“Perfect,” announced Elisava with a decisive nod.
When Saga stepped out of Kovograd’s fortress, she blinked at the sight that met her eyes.
The courtyard was still a mess of rubble, though crimson ribbons were now strung from the ruins, punctuated with sprigs of greenery and silver bells.
Flames crackled in golden braziers, lighting a pathway cleared through the detritus and toward, Saga presumed, her husband.
Her feet faltered as the weight of this moment sank into her, and she took smooth, slow breaths, trying to quell her racing heart.
Elisava and her ladies held the hem of Saga’s gown, trailing her down the steps.
Shifting her bouquet to one hand, Saga tapped with the fingers of her other against her shoulder as she followed the path around the bend.
The roof of the royal forge was collapsed in on her right, but the blacksmith and his apprentices had gathered outside in fine crimson tunics. They held candles in their hands, their baritone voices singing a low song.
As the path curved, a group of fortress servants came into view.
Alasa stood at the front of the group, but Saga recognized many others as members of her fire brigade.
Like the blacksmiths, they were dressed in their finest, clutching candles as their voices twined into the song.
She sniffled but managed to send a watery smile their way.
On they walked, passing soldiers and kitchen workers and the townspeople of Kovograd.
It was not lost on Saga that the pathway she walked was the same she and Kassandr had taken during their language lessons.
Her heart raced as the temple’s red flag and the wooden icons rose before her eyes.
The singing grew louder, coming from the direction of the temple, and as the throng of elders and nobles came into view, Saga’s breathing shallowed.
She spotted the clansmother and Khiva, surrounded by horsemaidens, and the high prince, who’d donned ceremonial robes. An arch had been erected before the temple tower, grasses and winter berries woven through it, and beneath it was placed a vibrant rug. And then she saw her future husband.
The blight upon her life.
And the man who’d shown her what heights she could truly reach.
Kassandr Rurik would look dashing wearing a sack, but seeing him clad in a Zagadkian kaftan that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and brought out the green in his eyes, Saga was so distracted she nearly tripped on her own feet.
His gaze raked from her head to her toes, as though he could not decide where it should land.
But as it returned to her face, his eyes gleamed with new intensity.
There was possessiveness in that gaze, so sharp she felt it on her bare skin.
Next to Kassandr stood Oleg, looking as though he were in physical pain. It was clear he’d rather be anywhere but here. Saga stifled a smile.
The song suddenly shifted, growing somehow more beautiful.
Saga could not catch the words, and yet she felt the meaning—a blessing from all those gathered to the new couple.
Saga handed her bouquet to Elisava and stepped onto the ceremonial rug.
As Kassandr took her hands, his eyes burned like emerald fires.
“Krasavitsa,[*]” he murmured.
“I can understand you now,” she said softly in reply.
“Good.” Kassandr brought the scarred flesh on the back of Saga’s hand to his lips. For a moment, she was transported back in time to the gardens in Askaborg where he’d first seen those scars. From the very start, this man had never looked away from her—not even when she’d tried her best to hide.
Elisava and her women arranged Saga’s skirts and veil behind her, then stepped back.
The high prince led them through a prayer, then instructed them to bow to the statues of each Zagadkian god—north for Father Winter, south for Brother Summer, east for the Spring Maiden, and west for the Autumn Crone.
Then Saga Volsik and Kassandr Rurik stood before each other repeating words fed to them by the high prince.
Saga’s heart beat so ferociously, she scarcely knew what she said.
Finally, Kassandr stepped forward, and Saga’s stomach began to dip and twirl.
This man, whose face looked to have been carved by the gods, would be her husband.
His fingertips skimmed along her cheek as he leaned down toward her.
Saga lifted onto the tips of her toes, eager to meet him halfway, and then their lips met, and it felt as though pure, molten gold flowed through her veins.
Saga’s eyes fell shut, his touch making the ground beneath her feet seem to tilt. But he was pulling back. The crowd was quietly clapping. It was over.
Dazed, Saga turned to the crowd, who called out blessings to the couple.
The high prince presented them with a loaf of salted bread—much to Saga’s confusion—which Kassandr accepted proudly before handing it to Oleg.
Kassandr slid his hand into hers, sending Saga’s heart skittering.
His hand was warm and rough with calluses, but as he squeezed hers gently, Saga’s nerves eased just a touch.
With the widest grin she’d ever seen, Kassandr lifted their joined hands into the air, and the crowd cheered.
And with that, Saga was married.
The marriage feast lasted long into the night, with countless boisterous toasts.
Yuri Rovgolod praised Kassandr’s virtue—lies, Saga knew without a doubt—and hoped they were blessed with “one hundred children.” Elisava recounted with glee Kassandr’s first failed proposal, when Saga’s response had been to stab him in the shoulder.
According to Elisava, this was the day she’d known Saga would make an excellent sister.
The high prince looked remarkably pleased with himself, and made more than one speech praising his new daughter for “saving the city” and “taming my unruly heir.” Saga’s constant inclusion as a part of this grand family made something catch in her chest. Logic told her to remain wary—that Oleg had tried to kill her, and the high prince would have handed her to the Urkans.
Yet still, it was a lovely feeling to be enfolded into a family when, for most of her life, she’d been kept at arm’s length.
Or perhaps she’d merely consumed too much medovukha, the Zagadkian mead, which flowed a little too freely.
Elisava, at some point, planted herself on Rov’s lap. The battle, Elisava had explained, had put things into perspective, and Saga couldn’t help but smile as she watched the pair flaunt their burgeoning love.
Khiva and her horsemaidens had eagerly joined the feasting celebrations.
As the medovukha flowed, the uncertainty between the horsemaidens and the nobles softened before Saga’s eyes.
She spotted one horsemaiden teaching a noblewoman their war cry, while another tried to drink the woman’s husband under the table.
And to Saga’s great pleasure, the clansmother sat to the high prince’s right, their heads frequently bowed in quiet conversation.
So far, the wedding had been a surprisingly pleasant experience, though she wished she’d had just a little time with her new husband.
Aside from the ritual where they’d fed pieces of the ceremonial loaf to each other, she’d interacted with him very little.
Each time Kassandr returned to her, he was soon entrapped by some old friend, an elder, a relative.
But this did not keep his heated glances from reaching her, setting her insides aflame.
Saga tried to quell her nerves as she conversed with numerous guests, glad for her growing Zagadkian vocabulary.
Gradually, the candles burned low and Saga’s ladies gathered around her, ushering her from her husband’s side and out of the feasting hall.
“We must prepare your marriage bed,” Elisava whispered conspiratorially.
Saga’s heart once again found its rapid rhythm. The thought of sharing a bed with Bjorn had been abhorrent. With Magnus? Terrifying. But with Kassandr…altogether new feelings stirred inside her. She was flustered and nervous and intrigued all at once.
The women led her to Kassandr’s chambers, anointing the room with birch smoke.
But it wasn’t until Elisava produced a garment made just for Saga’s wedding night that her nerves began to fray.
The gown was stunning—white as snow and embellished with seed pearls.
It was also transparent, leaving very little to the imagination.
With soft, tinkling laughs, Elisava and her ladies departed, leaving Saga all alone in the room.
Skip Notes
* Beautiful.