Chapter Ten
The history fair was an annual source of dread to Astrid.
The fair had been Vera’s idea shortly after she arrived in Torden. She’d proposed the event directly to Astrid, suggesting it would be good for morale. A reminder to Torden’s people about their past and Astrid’s role. Right away, Astrid had known how effective the idea would be.
She could not have predicted then how much she would grow to hate it.
The library was meticulously arranged for the event—rows and rows of tables brought in, important books and documents laid out, artifacts under glass so the visiting scholars could look but not touch.
Usually, Astrid endured the fair by mentally occupying herself with what she’d do when it was over—perhaps a luxurious bath of some sort to reward herself for making it through the day.
When anyone approached her with questions about the great feat that had won her the position of queen, she answered as curtly as she could and redirected attention to Vera.
Unfortunately for Astrid, Vera had taken a strong disliking to Guthmar. Vera ignored every one of Guthmar’s probing questions.
“Is this the actual arrow you shot or a symbolic representation?” Guthmar asked, having dragged Astrid over to a table with a slightly bent iron arrow on prominent display.
The placard read: The arrow shot by Astrid Karrsdaughter which impaled Ulfur Rowansdaughter, thus ending the battle at Westgate and forcing Ulfur’s troops to retreat.
Astrid did not believe the display required further explanation.
“It is in such good condition, even after all this time,” Guthmar went on, unable to read Astrid’s cold expression. Or, maybe, unwilling to stop even though he had. “I can only imagine how clean a shot it was.”
“It was a clean shot. I was there,” Hedda cut in.
Until this year, Hedda only ever attended in official capacity as the captain of the félag, but Astrid had told her she was not worthy, and here Hedda was, ready to prove herself. She wore not her standby leathers, but her civilian clothes—present on her day off. Astrid let Hedda take over.
Once, Hedda and Astrid had been soldiers under Ruler Lyn. It was odd to think now of when they’d been equals. Their relationship had transformed since then.
Astrid had seen glory in the pursuit of becoming a soldier after her soft upbringing.
Before becoming queen, the worst thing that had ever happened to her was her parents dying of natural causes.
Back then, she’d thought it was her wyrd to become a strong, powerful, and admirable soldier like the heroes of old.
Of course, Ulfur murdering Ruler Lyn in cold blood had dashed Astrid’s hopes for a life of battle-ready servitude, and Ulfur’s rallying of a rebellion force had drawn even the regular castle guard into Torden’s civil war.
Once Astrid was crowned, she inherited a country cut in two: not just Torden, but Torden and Lynby.
A fragile balance, sure to shatter at any random catalyst.
She’d been struggling ever since, leagues away from the person she’d hoped to become.
“Marvelous,” Guthmar said as Hedda explained the setup of the battlefield on that day. Even thinking about that important event made Astrid queasy. She was beyond relieved Hedda had stepped in.
“Can you still shoot so well?” someone asked from Astrid’s side. Astrid jumped. Guthmar’s wife Alvor had snuck up nearly as silent as Freya.
“Likely not. That was a while ago,” Astrid said. As long as the conversation was veering away from the event itself, she’d be fine. “When it came down to it, I was in the right place at the right time, that’s all.”
Alvor laughed. “I am sure Torden does not see it that way. Why would they elect a queen who just happened to be there?”
Astrid bit back a bitter response. Why indeed?
“Queen Astrid is a great ruler,” Freya said.
Alvor jumped in surprise. Like most, she hadn’t noticed Freya.
“She’s hardworking and cares deeply about her people, and that would be true whether she’d shot the arrow which gravely injured Ulfur or not,” said Freya.
“Of course,” Alvor said, eyes flashing.
Tassi and Guthmar looked their way. Oh, stars, they’d been listening the whole time. Astrid shuffled her feet under the weight of their full attention.
“So humble, too,” Guthmar said, and though Astrid was fairly certain he meant it genuinely, there was a sharpness to it she disliked. She took it that Guthmar was not generally one for humility.
Thankfully, Guthmar’s interest turned to history and the rulers who’d served before Astrid. Time passed slowly, but it passed.
The longer Astrid was there, the more the bustle of bodies became too much. On another day, Astrid might have retreated to her favorite nook of the library as a peaceful sanctuary, but she could not escape there now. What a violation to make this sacred, quiet space so boisterous.
By the time most of the scholars had left, going back to their rooms to prepare for dinner, Astrid was left alone with Guthmar’s retinue, her félag, Freya, and a few stragglers.
“What’s this?” Guthmar was saying across the room.
“A recreation of the ceremonial crown,” answered Hedda tightly. Astrid froze in horror as Hedda excused herself from the library.
“Well,” Guthmar said to Tassi, “that was abrupt.”
“Why a recreation?” Alvor asked Vera.
Vera smirked. They’d nearly been in the clear, but now Astrid wished more than ever that she could skip the rest of the day to hide in bed.
When Vera launched into a fictional account of how the original crown had been destroyed, Astrid had no energy left to stop her.
They’d come up with a reason for its destruction that wasn’t so inflammatory as the truth—the scholars would know the difference, and ultimately, it was not worth hiding from them.
Astrid slumped against a bookcase, allowing herself a moment of being Astrid, not Queen Astrid, if such a person existed anymore.
“My Queen,” Freya said, so softly Astrid almost didn’t hear.
Astrid turned her head a fraction. “Yes?”
“May we speak privately?”
Anything to get away from Guthmar and his curiosity. “Of course.”
Astrid did not hear Freya leave her side, but she felt her absence, the coldness left in her wake.
She caught sight of Freya’s boots turning the corner around a giant wall of bookshelves just in time. Excusing herself from a lingering scholar who attempted to engage her in conversation while clinging to his monocle, Astrid followed Freya into a small nook with a single chair surrounded by books.
“What is it?” Astrid asked. The enclosed space gave her a sudden sense of claustrophobia. She grabbed at the collar of her dress, tugging it loose from her sweat-drenched neck.
“Do you feel safe?” Freya asked.
Astrid examined her. Freya’s eyes were open, earnest, curious. Concerned. A dangerous thing to be around Astrid, whose life was politics and people she’d never met both loving and hating her from faraway lands.
Freya was someone Astrid almost never needed to worry about. Why was she so concerned with Astrid’s well-being of late? Astrid did not feel any more susceptible to danger than she usually did during these events.
“I am protected,” Astrid said judiciously.
Freya scowled. “You’ve mentioned twice that I should move out of your rooms. Am I impeding your safety?”
This was nearly as bad as being interrogated by Guthmar. “Freya, no. Of course not. You are excellent at what you do. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”
What you do, Astrid had said, as though she did not want to put words to it.
She knew well that she was taking advantage of military tactics Freya had gleaned from a questionable period of her life.
Espionage, digging, pretending. She hadn’t done any killing on Astrid’s behalf, but Astrid knew Freya could. That she would.
“In case you decide to send me away, or you need extra defense,” Freya said, “I want you to have this.”
In one smooth motion, Freya dropped to her knee.
She lifted the fabric of her tunic—so high, Astrid thought she would remove it entirely, but that was absurd, no matter how Astrid’s eyes locked onto the strip of exposed skin—and extracted her bone-handled dagger from her side.
Freya proffered it to Astrid, rolling the light blade on the tips of her gloved fingers.
“For your protection,” Freya said.
“Freya—”
“Please take it, Your Majesty. And try your best not to fall down the stairs and impale yourself on it.”
Astrid snorted. These were Freya’s most disarming moments—when she could have a sense of humor about things that worried her half to death.
“Do you have other weapons with which to defend yourself?” Astrid asked.
She knew a little about the history of the dagger.
Namely, that Freya had commissioned it herself after her arrival to Vakker, that it had been carefully and deliberately forged by a silversmith who’d since retired. It was truly one of a kind.
The enormity of the gesture was not lost on Astrid.
In response, Freya reached down and peeled up her trousers to the ankle, revealing two shining knives packed closely into a strip of leather. She let the fabric drop, grasping the handle of the dagger with her other hand, and once more held it to Astrid, point-down.
“I want you to keep this on you in case something happens,” Freya said. “And you must be bold enough to use it.”
From anyone else, Astrid would have found an order presumptuous, but from Freya… Freya did not give orders to her queen often, even when she overstepped with her protections.
Astrid took the blade from Freya. It was surprisingly weightless.
Freya was so nimble, she made everything seem light, but Astrid found that the dagger was almost brittle in her hands, like it wasn’t as deadly as she knew it could be.
She held it, and thought to put it away, but could not think of where it was supposed to go.
Freya understood Astrid’s dilemma. She lifted her tunic again—flash of skin, smell of citrus—and unbuckled the leather belt around her waist with its scabbard, perfectly crafted to fit the dagger.
When Astrid touched the leather, the first thing she noticed was its warmth from the heat of Freya’s body.
She was overly conscious of the history of leather.
Its past as skin, its proximity to Freya’s skin.
The two objects in her hands were flesh and bone and steel, and though it did not make sense, she thought of them as Freya’s—an offering of Freya’s body.
Of the things she used to protect herself and those around her.
Freya got back to her feet and leaned forward as if to help Astrid buckle the belt.
The idea of Freya’s hands on Astrid’s waist was too much, and Astrid stepped back, hastily buckling it herself and sliding the dagger into its scabbard like a hand into a tailored glove.
Her eyes fell to Freya’s gloves, perfectly fitted, and the warm fingers underneath.
Stars. What had her thinking like this? Had there ever been a point when Astrid knew how to behave around Freya?
She had no problem distancing herself from her other subjects in the name of royal duty.
People expected her to be the hero who’d shot the arrow that had subdued Ulfur, someone with godlike status.
Not someone who had all these cravings of the flesh.
“Does it fit you?” Freya asked, breaking whatever spell handing over her prized weapon had caused.
“Yes,” Astrid choked out. Freya’s waist seemed particularly small, just then; it was a kind of magic that the same leather fit around Astrid’s own. “It fits perfectly.”