Chapter Seven
Freya wished she could be in two places at once more than ever.
She would have to make this quick. Ask her contacts for information on the bodyguards, the spouses, Ambassador Guthmar’s relationship to King Skarde—whether it matched up with Guthmar’s claims or not, whether anything was amiss.
Attendants knew everything. She would start there first, then reach out to her people at the other major cities, see if they knew anything she didn’t.
So much to do. So little time. She was half-tempted to ride down to Sydlig herself for answers.
Freya did not make it to the attendants’ rooms. Instead, halfway into the castle’s foyer, she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a familiar voice: Brenn.
Brenn was not dressed in her priestess robes; she wore a flowy dress the color of midnight. Half in disguise, and half not, because she had her priestess’s staff.
Brenn spoke to one of the guards at the entrance to the main hallway. The guard leaned too close into Brenn’s space, and Freya rushed forward to intervene.
“Stars, Freya,” Brenn murmured, holding the staff close to her chest like a shield. “You might have told the guards I was coming.”
“This is the priestess Brenn,” Freya said. “She has been invited.”
“My sincerest apologies to the queen,” the guard said, bowing. They never assumed Freya would invite people of her own volition, only on the queen’s orders.
And, well. Brenn didn’t come to the castle often.
Freya dragged Brenn into an alcove with a mullioned window.
Brenn set her staff against the stone wall and smoothed down her dress to sit along the windowsill. “I got your letter,” she said, “obviously.”
“Sorry I was not there to greet you. We have had a busy morning.”
“The ambassador?” Brenn asked.
“Yes,” said Freya. “He’s demanding, though not in the way you’d expect.”
“I’m planning to stay per your wishes. But know the sacrifice I am making.”
Freya leaned her head against the wall. “I know. Thank you.”
Brenn watched the sight through the window. It looked out onto the courtyard, where a couple sat at a fountain that no longer ran. They whispered to each other, completely unaware of their onlookers. So carefree.
A dull ache throbbed in Freya’s chest.
Brenn broke the silence. “If something bad is going to happen, I can’t prevent it. Neither can you.”
“Of course. Anything we can do is better than nothing.” Not true, but what else could be done?
“And…I’m worried about you.”
Freya dropped next to Brenn on the small lip of the sill. “About me?”
“I remember how it was back when we first escaped the human wars. How protective you were. Looking out for me before yourself.”
Discomfort itched at Freya’s skin. She did not like the attention on her, nor did she know how to react to the gratitude in Brenn’s voice.
“I don’t need looking after anymore.” Brenn traced the pattern on the window with one finger.
“No, you’ve carried on well,” Freya said.
“I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.”
Freya waited for one furious beat. Her instincts screamed at her to slither out of this conversation. “I have to get back to what I was doing. The ambassador brought some attendants I mean to interrogate now that I know more about him. Would you like to accompany me?”
Brenn laid a hand over Freya’s bouncing leg. “The queen will be safe for half an hour. She’ll be safe for longer, too. She’s got the most loyal guard in Torden. Nothing bad can happen to her here.”
Freya made a conscious effort to keep her legs still. “What about the prediction from the goddess? The loss?”
Brenn shook her head. “I wish I hadn’t told you the truth.”
“What? Why?”
“Have you seen the bags under your eyes?”
“It’s my duty to protect the queen and to keep her appraised of all pertinent information. Maybe, yes, if I don’t have all of the information I need… Maybe not being able to perform my duty prevents me from sound sleeping. Is that so odd?”
“It’s different, is all I’m saying.” Brenn took back her hand and placed it primly in her lap. “From when you took care of me.”
“Brenn,” Freya said, “please be plain.”
“You’re so intense about Queen Astrid. I worry that you have an unhealthy attachment. Do you think your well-being is dependent on your proximity to the queen?”
“Why would I think that?” Freya asked.
“You notice your surroundings. Every detail,” Brenn said. “I’ve seen you check the exits three times since you brought me here. But you don’t notice yourself.”
“You think I’m not self-aware.”
“I think you could benefit from more introspection,” Brenn agreed diplomatically.
Maybe it had been a mistake to invite Brenn to the castle. Any priestess would do for the purpose of conveying the goddess’s visions, for the purpose of healing magic, illusion magic—but Brenn was the only priestess Freya trusted.
Or so she’d thought.
“I disagree,” Freya said. “Can I show you to your rooms? I know the castle can be overwhelming.”
“That’s vicious, Freya.”
Freya threw up her hands. “I am feeling defensive!”
Dryly, Brenn laughed. “I suppose you are self-aware. Have you given any thought to why you defend the queen so adamantly when she has entire armies at her disposal?”
“She needs my eye for defense. And you’ve told me something bad will happen to her.”
“I didn’t say that,” Brenn said. “I said she’d experience loss. She could lose anything. Her favorite armband… Anything.”
The suggestions did not convince Freya. “And I suppose the goddess cares to tell you when a queen loses her favorite armband but not when an ambassador has completely switched identities.”
“I can’t control that.”
Freya sighed. “You and I were just two humans in a warzone. Two warzones. Protecting us was easier. Anything could be a threat to an orc queen. I have to remain vigilant.”
“Right.” Brenn shifted to face Freya. “You don’t think there’s any other reason? Have you ever felt the need to guard anyone else so closely?”
Comprehension dawned on Freya. She stood abruptly, scuffing her boots. “You think I care too deeply for her.”
“She’s unavailable.” Brenn stood and faced Freya.
She was taller, looking down, and Freya had the sense of being imposed upon.
Not priestess magic, exactly, but a persuasive habit Brenn had picked up—leverage.
“She’s closed off from romantic opportunities, or else she’d have taken any number of lovers.
And you can’t be with someone who needs to care for an entire country.
She won’t have space for you. And…your life will end sooner. ”
That went without saying. It had taken a long time to become accustomed to the way orcs lived out their much longer lives, and Freya had maybe fifty years left if the stress of her lifestyle didn’t age her heart sooner.
“I’m not in love with the queen,” Freya protested.
“I didn’t say you were,” Brenn said. “You came to that assumption.”
Freya remembered when she touched Astrid’s hand. How she needed outlets for her frustration when they spent too much time together. Freya knew what that meant. She also knew what was possible and what wasn’t.
But what about Astrid? She’d asked about Freya’s hair. She was wrong that Freya had done anything different to it. When she’d asked, Freya’s body had been charged like the moment before lightning strikes.
Too often, being close to Astrid made her feel like that.
Brenn took Freya’s gloved hands in her own. Unblemished, perfect cuticles against golden skin. Hands unused to engaging directly in war, though Brenn had been complicit in some things.
Nothing as bad as Freya had done.
“You will get hurt,” Brenn whispered, like it was one of her prophecies.
“Do you say this as my friend? Or did you see it in a vision?”
Brenn hesitated before answering, giving Freya the confirmation she needed.
Through the gloves, Brenn’s fingers squeezed Freya’s. Her dearest friend. No matter how many times they fought, Brenn was quick to forgive first. They’d forged their friendship in the darkest of circumstances—they knew each other better than they knew anyone else.
And Brenn knew, both within herself and with deific confirmation, that Freya would be hurt by her connection to Astrid.
Presented like this, the inevitability was undeniable. Freya’s mouth was dry, unpleasant. She thought of lacing up Astrid’s dress. The discomfort. The want.
“Fuck,” she said.
“It’s not too late to step back,” Brenn assured her.
“Brenn, I have stepped back. I lost myself in my work. And I’m still…”
“It’s not so easy to let go, is it?”
Freya huffed. “Said like you’re talking from experience.”
Brenn’s expression darkened. “There are things about me you don’t know.”
“I’m not in love with her,” Freya insisted.
“I believe you.”
Freya looked into Brenn’s eyes. What she wouldn’t give to have the powers Brenn had—the ability to know. Brenn would say those abilities were only given to those chosen by the goddess.
Very well. Freya fought hard for everything she did know, and she would continue to do so, goddess or no goddess.
A commotion broke out down the hall back in the foyer. Freya readjusted her gloves as she took them out of Brenn’s hands, tilting her head to listen.
Brenn’s eyes widened first. It was her reaction that spurred Freya to action.
Freya broke into a run. She threw herself into the foyer with such force that she slammed directly into Hedda’s burly chest. Hedda reached out to steady her, surprise and hurt registering on her face.
One of the ambassador’s bodyguards was beside her, looking rather more upset than the stoic exterior Freya noticed earlier.
“What’s happened?” Freya demanded, clutching Hedda’s leather armor with both hands.
“You have the priestess,” Hedda said with relief. “The queen’s been hurt.”