Chapter Eight
One second, Astrid was descending the stairs, and the next, she was on the floor with bruises all over and an arm that didn’t move the way it was supposed to.
Astrid was distracted. Trying to get the ambassador out of the castle, when all he’d wanted to do was see every room on every floor. She’d needed fresh air badly. She hadn’t had Freya by her side.
She had tripped down an entire flight of stone stairs.
And now she was bedridden in the infirmary when she had important things to attend to.
“I am perfectly fine,” she insisted to Brenn, who stood over her. “Not ambushed by enemies. Just some blasted stairs. Tell everyone to hold back the funeral bells.”
“Your Majesty,” Brenn said, “I insist. Please drink some of this.”
Astrid allowed Brenn to tilt the concoction into her throat. The taste was pleasant, at least. The castle healer—not magical at all, merely an herbalist—usually forced Astrid to drink teas that tasted like something meant to exit the body, not enter. The magic tingled on her tongue.
“Is Freya here?” Astrid asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” came Freya’s voice from the other side of the room.
Astrid tried to guess at Freya’s reaction, but her spymaster was stoic as ever. Freya wasn’t likely to believe Astrid had taken a tumble down the stairs out of distraction and clumsiness.
“You’ll be healed up in a week or so with the magic,” Brenn said, but she wasn’t looking at Astrid. “Don’t move the arm unnecessarily, or else you may extend your healing time.”
That wouldn’t be a problem. Brenn had wound up Astrid’s arm so tight in the sling, she couldn’t move it if she wanted to.
The familiar soft scuff of Freya’s boots trod to Astrid’s bedside. “You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?” Freya leaned over her. “Your Majesty,” she added belatedly.
“Yes, I’m sure. Just the arm. Have you checked on Hrothgar?
They blunted my fall quite a bit with their body when I fell on them.
” Hrothgar had grabbed Astrid’s arm, wrenched it out of its socket, then promptly fallen with her.
The arm popped right back in, but a lingering ache told her the damage was more than superficial.
She could only imagine how Hrothgar felt.
“Hrothgar is going to be fine. Your healer is looking after them.” Brenn stepped back, allowing Freya to take up the space.
Freya had not exactly asked Astrid whether it was acceptable for Brenn to join them in the castle, but Astrid liked the way Brenn cooled hot attitudes anywhere she went. And, if Brenn hadn’t been here, Astrid would be choking down some brutal, eye-watering tonic.
“My head is fine,” Astrid said.
A conflicted look crossed Freya’s face. “And you weren’t pushed by—”
“No,” Astrid said. She grabbed Freya’s shoulder with her free hand. “Do not assume it’s the ambassador, please. I tripped. I swear.”
The muscles of Freya’s shoulder were tense under Astrid’s touch. Astrid released her and Freya’s jaw clenched. “I am sorry I was not there.”
Ah, stars. Freya was taking the tumble personally, as if she could save Astrid from the blunt impact of her own clumsiness.
“Her Majesty needs to rest,” Brenn said to Freya.
“Very well. Rest away,” said Freya, and pulled a chair up to the bed.
Astrid closed her eyes. She was awfully tired, and she was sure her exhaustion extended beyond the fatigue of the healing magic. Freya and Brenn continued to talk in hushed voices, lulling Astrid into a deep, pleasant slumber.
When Astrid woke, it took a moment for her to remember where she was. It was dark, her enclosed, curtained area in the infirmary lit by one tallow candle. At the edge of the curtains, Freya jabbed a finger into Hedda’s breastbone.
“Thirsty,” Astrid said weakly.
Freya rushed to her side and placed water into her good hand.
Greedily, Astrid drank. When she was finished, she said, “Why are you fighting with Hedda?”
“She has a problem with her demotion,” Freya said.
Exhaustion swept over Astrid. “Let me speak with her.”
“My Queen, she is quite angry, and you are vulnerable.”
“Hedda?” Astrid called. “You can come in.”
Hedda pushed past Freya. Freya looked as though she would protest, but she sulked back through the curtain, no doubt within earshot.
Hesitantly, Hedda took the seat where Freya had watched over Astrid. “Your Majesty.”
This wasn’t the Hedda Astrid knew. She was stiff, formal. Too formal for someone who had served at Astrid’s side since the beginning of her reign.
It was Astrid’s fault that Hedda was creating this distance. Astrid had put distance between them first.
“How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” Hedda asked.
Astrid’s head was clogged from whatever magic or drug Brenn had given her, her sensations dulled. She took that to mean she had sustained a great deal of bruising. “I am feeling well.”
Hedda nodded. She looked down into her clenched fists on her lap.
“I have apologized before, and I will do it again,” she said.
“I am terribly sorry for my outburst at the midsummer festival and the negative perception it brought upon the félag, and the damage it did to your reputation as our queen. I did not mean the things I said, even under the influence of too much mead.”
Astrid had heard this apology before. There was more hurt in it now than there was before—more remorse.
“I swore my loyalty to you all those fifty-two years ago,” Hedda went on, her voice tight, anger barely held back. “I have never wavered except the once.”
“Yes, Hedda. I know.”
“Then why have you demoted me?” Hedda said. “I thought… I thought I had made it up to you. I did everything you asked me to. Every last demeaning task. I cleaned and took terribly long overnight shifts. I have labored day and night beyond the hours of my duties.”
Astrid’s sluggish brain worked hard to cycle through appropriate responses. “I appreciate the work you’ve put in. It is noticed. But Freya thought—”
“So this is Freya’s fault,” said Hedda. “Of course.”
Stars, what a mess this had become. “No. That’s not what I meant. Freya does not speak for me.”
“Perhaps Freya has too much influence over you,” Hedda said, and the anger finally leaked into her voice.
“Hedda,” Astrid said delicately, “this is why we needed to remove you from being captain. You are at the whims of your fraught emotional state too often for someone with such great responsibility.”
“I see,” Hedda said, deflating. “Shall I look for employment elsewhere, Your Majesty? Is there no hope for me?”
“I would like to reinstate you. Hrothgar will perform your duties in the interim.”
“The interim? Until what? What do I need to do to prove I can do this job well?”
Until what, indeed? Until Ulfur was defeated, if such a time ever came? Until this time of political turmoil was over, if such a thing could be measured? Astrid had no answer for her, and Hedda seemed to understand this, because she stood shakily.
“I was heartbroken when I denounced you.” Hedda no longer faced Astrid but the curtains. “I am heartbroken again to hear how easily the trust of half a century has been ruined.”
Astrid cleared her throat. “As am I.”
Hedda wiped away the tears pooling in her eyes. “There is no chance at redemption, then.”
“I don’t know, Hedda,” Astrid said. Her voice had gone weak.
“I am terribly sorry to bother you in such a state. I’ll take my leave.”
Hedda—fierce, brokenhearted Hedda—left Astrid, and Freya filtered back in. Astrid closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, but Hedda’s words played over in her head, a melancholic song whose rhythm she could not escape.
The next day, Astrid wandered in and out of sleep, spurred on by the effort of her healing body and the magic that kept her unconscious.
At dusk, the healer’s apprentices drew her a bath and sponged her down.
The bruises were already a healed greenish hue, not purple and black.
Brenn was a skilled priestess, Astrid conceded.
The apprentices helped her don a lightweight silk dress and wrapped her arm once more in a sling. It was easier to move, but not without pain. When Brenn and the healer agreed Astrid could go about her day, Freya joined Astrid at the exit from the infirmary with three guards.
Hrothgar filled Astrid in on the ambassador. Guthmar had taken to sitting in the kitchens, and was currently on a quest to bake the most perfect loaf of bread.
“Are the kitchen staff perturbed by his presence?” Astrid asked, and Hrothgar nodded.
“I’ll get him away from them,” said Freya.
“No,” said Astrid. “I will do it myself.”
Astrid spent the next half hour gently redirecting Guthmar to other pursuits which would distract him from the kitchens.
His spouses caught on quickly and joined her, until finally they convinced him the outside of the castle was particularly beautiful, and he agreed he had not yet seen it from every angle.
As he left, the kitchen staff rushed forward to clean up an absurd quantity of sticky clumps of dough.
At midday, Astrid finally returned to her rooms. They were redder than she was used to.
Her eyes adjusted to the sight. On her floor—under her bed, even, meaning someone had lifted it up—was an enormous rug woven with deep red wool.
The saturated color immediately bestowed upon Astrid a pulsing headache.
“What is this?” Astrid asked, more to herself than to Freya. She could not comprehend how a rug would make its way into her room, nor how a group of people had taken it upon themselves to rearrange the furniture. She had ordered no such thing.
She bent to examine the rug, running her fingers over the fine threads. It was woven well. Not the hasty, uneven threads one sometimes received from the priestesses which valued magic function over beauty. She looked up to find Freya wearing a guilty expression.
“What’s this for? Does it have a protection spell woven into it, or…?”
“Since you are so clumsy,” Freya said, “I have decided to cushion the floor, Your Majesty.”