Chapter Four
The ambassador was late.
Astrid waited with her retinue at the castle gates as her hands grew numb with the cold. Her guards had no qualms about hiding their impatience—they shuffled so frequently, Astrid’s determination not to shiver bothered her like an itch.
She glanced to her side at Freya, who faced directly forward with her arms crossed, eyes straight ahead like she could see something Astrid couldn’t.
Freya had sent her falcon to the ambassador’s entourage, so they knew precisely when the ambassador was set to arrive.
To cover their bases, Freya had also consulted Brenn to be sure of the time.
And yet he was not here.
They’d been waiting for nearly two hours. The general chatter that accompanied a large group of people had ended twenty minutes ago when everyone realized they would be out here for a long time. Every now and then, someone’s stomach grumbled loudly.
Astrid’s eye twitched.
“I am old,” the steward said, breaking the silence, “and I am going to the dining hall to eat.”
“Yes, of course,” Astrid said, ashamed she had not thought to let him go. “Anyone outside of the félag may go to dinner.” She bit back an apology on the ambassador’s behalf.
“Thank the goddess,” the elf librarian, Vera, muttered.
Astrid had hoped to use Vera as a kind of cultural liaison, as she was worldly and educated about Sydlig’s history.
Torden and Sydlig had much in common, certainly, but Astrid had found oversights in her knowledge of Sydlig in the past, and she was terrified of stumbling upon one now, facing this ambassador.
Her upbringing had taken her around orc country and occasionally into the Elven Islands, traveling with her merchant family, but she had never paid much attention to politics until it was apparent she was a serious contender for queen.
It wasn’t like she had expected to rule a country.
She continued to wait with the félag. Freya remained at her side in spite of being dismissed.
She’d acted odd earlier, Astrid thought.
True, Astrid did not often make Freya complete the maid duties Freya had technically signed up for, but Freya had seemed uncomfortable when faced with the back of Astrid’s dress.
Was it unprofessional to request that Freya lace up her clothing?
The urge to ask her was strong, but the embarrassment Astrid would feel at the answer was stronger.
She remained quiet.
They waited some more. The hour stretched on, leaving Astrid with little sense of the passage of time and a cold ache in her bones.
The sun set magnificently, orange and pinks and purples reflected on bits of jewelry—armbands, the rings of the félag, gleaming sword and axe pommels.
Her own simple crown left a crenelated half-circle of light around her, and only when she noticed it did someone whisper under their breath, “Thank fuck.” She was fairly certain it was Hrothgar, who as far as she knew was not prone to swearing.
In the distance, the ambassador’s retinue was visible in silhouette. There weren’t as many of them as Astrid had feared—a smallish group, maybe a dozen or so horses. The horses were overburdened with baggage, but it could have been much worse.
Astrid finally allowed herself to shift, to subtly shake out her limbs, as they got closer. The sun finished setting and left them in the dark, and the cold turned brittle.
“Nine,” Freya whispered. Nine people. A collection of attendants, if Astrid had to guess. Maybe some soldiers or guards who had helped them get here safely, not that traveling through Torden was unsafe. She hoped some of them would head right back after dinner.
When the group was close enough to hear, Astrid stepped forward. An orc at the head of the group swung down from his horse. He had broad shoulders and a softness around his stomach, and his skin was smooth and unblemished, unaccustomed to labor.
“Welcome to Vakker Castle,” Astrid said with a tiny dip of her head.
The orc bowed grandly. “Ambassador Guthmar at your service, Your Majesty.”
Something was off, but Astrid couldn’t discern what, exactly. “We were anticipating you earlier.”
Two of the orcs on the horses flanking Guthmar’s dismounted and bowed to Astrid.
They did not have the look of attendants.
The woman to Guthmar’s left wore finer fabrics than even Astrid dared to wear lest she ruin them, though the orc did have the hard look in her eyes of someone who hadn’t lived her entire life in the lap of luxury.
Her hair was a striking magenta, tied into the same kind of loose braid Astrid preferred.
The orc man to Guthmar’s right was shorter than him and stocky, his horns looking a tad too big for his head, and his hair was short-cropped.
The two orcs were similarly dressed in the royal purple and stag motifs of Sydlig’s court.
“My husband, Tassi,” Guthmar said, gesturing to his right, “and my wife, Alvor.”
Astrid forced a smile. She had not invited this ambassador here, and she certainly had not invited his spouses. “Welcome. We have prepared a meal for you, if you are hungry from your travels.”
Guthmar laughed throatily. His entire retinue joined in, like hunger was an inside joke they’d developed on their journey. “Much appreciated, Your Majesty. Please, lead the way.”
Astrid caught Freya’s eye as she turned to the great hall.
“Your Majesty,” Freya whispered loud enough for the félag to hear. “The ambassador we were expecting is named Elgir.”
The ambassador brought his spouses and his two bodyguards with him into the dining hall, forcing everyone who usually dined with Astrid to move over to make room.
The benches were overcrowded and hot. The food was good, though the hall was half-full of people who’d already eaten, waiting for the queen to finish her own meal.
They’d spared no expense to greet the ambassador. The skald stood in one corner, enthusiastically reciting a love story with the musical accompaniment of a lyre.
“How were your travels?” Astrid asked lightly. She was tempted to pry into why Elgir had been replaced with Guthmar, but was unsure whether it was rude to ask outright. She had no idea if Freya had dug into Guthmar’s background.
Next to Astrid, Hrothgar dipped a spoon into their stew.
Her captain ate next to her, both as a sign of their respected status and as extra protection in case something were to happen in the great hall, which Astrid did not find likely.
She did find, however, that Hedda had been a better conversationalist than Hrothgar.
“We traveled well,” Guthmar said. He swirled his goblet of mead. Astrid had not counted how many times it had been refilled, but she thought the staff had stopped by at least thrice. “I always forget how lovely Torden’s towns are. Hospitable, too.”
Astrid nearly flinched, thinking of humble inns housing this grand orc and his people.
The husband and wife were quiet, observing, which made Astrid distrust them instantly. She wished she’d had time to consult Freya. Neither Freya nor Astrid had predicted the spouses would be here, and Astrid didn’t know their histories.
As time went on, Astrid’s sense of alarm dimmed.
She found it easy enough to engage in conversation.
If she didn’t please the ambassador, she at least avoided offending him.
The more they conversed, the more she relaxed—he was prone to talking, sharing more than he needed to, and she could sit there and give the occasional nod.
The ambassador hardly seemed a threat. Astrid noted he did not wear a sword.
Of his entourage, only his bodyguards carried weapons.
After a while, the ambassador’s attendants came for dinner.
Astrid had witnessed them bearing Guthmar’s generous travel bags, and she was not surprised at their fatigue from carrying the luggage up the stairs.
The attendants joined the housekeeping staff at their table, and the kitchen scrambled to bring them fresh food.
Some were human and some were orcs. They did not look ready for battle, either, though Astrid was not sure how the ambassador kept four attendants busy.
When he’d heaped more food onto his plate, Guthmar settled back, cradling the goblet close to him. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, aren’t you?”
Astrid’s eye twitched. “It was clear enough in His Majesty’s letter to my steward.”
“Well, what I’m doing here rather than Elgir, I mean.
” He lowered his voice. “Elgir is His Majesty’s brother, and not of good temperament.
They got into a fight shortly before he was meant to leave.
” He tsked, like fighting with one’s sibling was childish, and Astrid felt a pang of guilt at her past conflict with her own sister. Becoming royalty did divide people so.
“I am King Skarde’s cousin,” Guthmar said. “And I was meant to be the consul of… Stars, what was it? Alvor?”
“Ravn,” his wife supplied.
“Right. Ravn. But I got promoted, so you’re stuck with me.” He laughed then, full-bellied, and launched into some story clearly designed to brag about his closeness with the king.
Good, then. Freya would at least have done some research into his background, as she had for all of the consuls.
Astrid’s attention wandered as Guthmar’s story became more convoluted and harder to follow.
As if by instinct, she sought out Freya, who stood against the wall closer to the staff table, practically invisible.
She was some distance from the on-duty guards, but when two orcs from the kitchen came in with a heavy platter, she rushed forward to help them carry it to the attendants.
After they’d delivered the food, the orcs patted her on the back in a familiar way that put a knot in Astrid’s stomach.
But that was silly, Astrid reasoned. Freya had cultivated relationships with the castle staff because it helped her stay informed of things Astrid had no way of figuring out for herself. That was what spymasters were for.
Astrid couldn’t remember how she’d gotten by before Freya had come around. She’d had no spymaster before, hadn’t even considered the possibility of hiring one. It was the kind of position only shady, corrupt rulers would need, she’d thought, before Freya had proved her usefulness.
And Astrid was a queen, anyway, not someone who could be familiar with people the way Freya could. Patting someone on the shoulder could be seen as construing favoritism. Fodder for a rumor mill. People would think they had the chance to get close to her, that she could succumb to undue influence.
Keeping her distance was something Astrid had done her entire reign. She just wished it didn’t necessitate total isolation.
Was Astrid imagining the additional distance grown between herself and Freya?
Freya was always busy in advance of big events at Vakker Castle, and they had the consuls to think about now, and the history fair to think about soon, so it was not abnormal for her to be absent.
And she never left Astrid completely on her own.
Certainly never unprotected. Staff at the castle came and went with time, but Freya was a constant, just as constant as the félag Astrid had built up over her fifty-some years of rule.
Unbidden, Astrid remembered the soft touch of Freya’s fingers on the sensitive skin of her palm, the way an awkwardness had permeated her room when Freya laced up her dress.
As if sensing Astrid’s thoughts, Freya’s gaze flicked to hers and held her there.
For one beat—two beats—Astrid couldn’t breathe.
Freya lifted her hand slightly, pushing back the fabric of her tunic so Astrid could see the gleam of Freya’s dagger sheathed at her hip.
A message Astrid understood implicitly: You have my protection.
Freya let the fabric of her tunic fall back over her hip, and Astrid saw the strip of skin that vanished under it burned into her sight the way flames remain when staring too long at a fire.
She continued to stare. Freya’s brow furrowed, and she gave a nod of assurance, a half-bow.
Devotion emanated from her, and suddenly the attention was too much.
Astrid slammed down her mead.
“Is everything all right, Your Majesty?” the ambassador asked.
Astrid had not listened to anything he’d said for the last ten minutes, and he had not noticed.
“Yes, of course,” Astrid said, hiding behind her smile. “It’s just that the mead is a bit strong tonight.”