The Orc and Her Spy (The Sapphic Orcs of Torden #2)

Chapter One

Rain-battered Freya reached the priestess’s house to find the door already open for her. Of course—Brenn’s precognition had prepared her for Freya’s arrival. Prophetic visions from the goddess lent Brenn that advantage.

The inside of Brenn’s house was so bright, Freya had to squint to see.

It was crowded in the way only people who lived in deliberate clutter and kept everything in one specific place could understand.

Keys dangled on strings from the ceiling, catching the light of a ring of candles.

Bits of iron, gold, and marble glittered at Freya, causing her to put up her hand to shield her eyes.

In theory, this mystical stuff helped Brenn work, but Freya would never comprehend how, exactly.

There were large, open windows on every wall, letting in the gloomy light of the afternoon and giving off a glow from within that could be seen from a mile away.

Over the fire, a kettle began to whistle.

“Freya!” Brenn rose from her pile of blankets in front of the hearth.

She stood a foot taller than Freya, but they were otherwise similar in appearance—both human, originating from the same region up north in the human territories, with dark hair and sun-toned skin.

Despite that they were both thirty-five years of age, Brenn’s devotion to the goddess had paused her body in time. On the other hand, the furrow between Freya’s brows was permanent, though none of her wrinkles could be said to come from smiling too often.

Notably, a live raven and a falcon perched on Brenn’s shoulders.

The falcon chirped as she took her spot comfortably on Freya’s extended forearm. Freya cooed at the bird, stroking her feathers. In her jesses was the scrolled note Freya had sent, unopened.

Brenn kissed Freya’s cheek, smiled, and then said, “Aren’t you supposed to be at the assembly?”

“Are you spying on me? I’m not sure the goddess would appreciate your powers used for such nefarious purposes,” said Freya.

“Yet somehow she never revokes my magic,” Brenn said. “Tea?”

Freya removed her boots and shook out her drenched cloak. Brenn had set out two cups of tea on a clutter-strewn table between two mismatched armchairs. She clutched her iron staff in white-knuckled hands. From her armrest, Brenn’s raven cocked its head at Freya.

“So,” Brenn said.

Freya took her seat. Rain pattered the roof in a gentle, steady flow, and the cup of tea warmed her hands through her leather gloves. “You didn’t bother reading my message?”

Brenn raised an eyebrow. “You never come for anything else.”

“How about to see my dear old friend?” Freya asked, showing her teeth.

Brenn laughed. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

From her pocket, Freya extracted a frayed red thread and passed it over.

Brenn twisted it between her fingers. “The alliance was a brilliant idea, Freya. Any attempts to invade Torden are dissuaded. The goddess would have warned me otherwise.”

Freya moodily put her chin in her hand. “It was a brilliant idea. But I can’t shake the feeling something bad is coming.”

“You always think something bad is coming,” Brenn pointed out.

“Only because it always does.” Freya sipped her tea, thinking. “Why, am I bothering you?”

“Never,” Brenn said. She wrapped the thread around the tip of her staff. “I wish you’d come more often for tea and less for prophecy. I love to see you, of course, but nothing ever changes. And you worry and worry no matter the outcome.”

The beginning of their oldest argument: though Brenn received prophetic visions and hunches from the goddess, she only knew what the goddess wished to impart to her. Which was vague, and sometimes nonsense, and hardly ever helpful for Freya’s purposes.

Freya considered giving in. She considered arguing, too, but Brenn did not deserve that. In the end, she decided on one simple word, gently spoken: “Please.”

The fire reflected in Brenn’s eyes. The raven took flight and began to peck at some fabric on the wall.

“It never helps,” Brenn insisted.

This was true, too: Freya was never assured by good news and only took heed of the bad. Good news meant something bad could still happen, but bad news meant something bad would happen.

But the raven knew Brenn almost as well as Freya did. Brenn was going to help anyway.

Freya squeezed her eyes shut. A rhythmic chanting started to her right, deeper than her old friend’s voice; a flash of light brightened the backs of her eyelids; the floor itself trembled, keys and metals smacking into each other in a ruckus.

Tea sloshed over the sides of Freya’s cup and over her gloves, and her falcon took off.

Just as suddenly as the shaking started, it stopped.

Freya waited with her heart in her throat.

Brenn slumped in her armchair. The skin under her eyes was sallow.

Freya wanted to grab her by the collar of her priestess robes and shake answers out of her. “Did you see something?” she asked.

“I did,” Brenn said. “Why don’t we finish our tea first?”

“If it’s something bad, I need to know now.”

Brenn stared into the hearth.

“Tell me.”

“I saw two things. One of them may need your immediate attention,” Brenn said in warning.

“Yes?” Freya croaked.

“You shouldn’t have skipped out on the assembly. There’s important news.”

“That’s specific and helpful.” Freya looked up at the ceiling. “Thanks a lot.”

“The other thing is more abstract.” Brenn took a deep breath and rushed through her next words. “It’s about Queen Astrid. The goddess showed me that she will experience a loss. But this doesn’t mean—”

Freya jumped to her feet. Scalding hot tea splashed over her trousers. “A loss of what?”

Loss of her queendom? Loss of her life?

“Like I said, I do not know. It could be a financial loss,” Brenn reasoned. “Or a friend dying of natural causes.”

Like Freya, Astrid had few friends. Freya laughed dryly. Her throat caught on the laugh and transformed it into a cough. “Why hasn’t the goddess shown this to you before? Has the loss been coming all along?”

Brenn held two fingers to her temple. “I love you, Freya, truly. But that’s not how wyrd works, and you know it. We are not worthy of the goddess’s full knowledge, and we will only ever see glimpses of our fate.”

The raven and the falcon circled overhead, cawing at each other in a reflection of their owners.

Freya was already at the door, donning her wet boots. “I’ll be back if I need more. Keep your window open for Huginn.”

“Freya, it’s going to be okay. It’s not—”

“If you remember more details, please get in touch with me right away.” Her voice had gone stiff, formal. “I’ll see you later.”

Brenn followed Freya into the rain, pleading. “Freya. There are things you don’t understand about the goddess and her magic. It’s okay not to know, but please don’t act rashly.”

The things Freya did not know were ahead of her, not behind. She mounted her horse, one word echoing through her mind over and over again, all-consuming.

Loss.