Chapter Eleven
Dinnertime came around sooner than Freya expected. She had spent her day monitoring the scholars’ conversations, scouting out potential threats, and gradually feeling more secure in Astrid’s safety. The scholars posed little danger, unless Astrid was at risk of dying of boredom.
Still, the dining hall was unsettlingly full of people.
The staff had pulled in extra tables and benches to accommodate the many scholars, who were more used to poring over their books than they were socializing over drink, if the increased volume of voices over the course of the night was any indication.
Some of the scholars were simply excited to be there among fellow intellectuals, but several heated discussions broke out over historical accuracy.
The skald’s repertoire had changed for the new crowd.
Often, she shared tales of heroics of times long past, stories of the goddess and her ravens, lovers reincarnated—the types of things Vakker Castle liked to hear.
Legends, fantasy, romance. For the history fair, the skald orated tales specific to Torden and its factual past, which were less romantic but more appropriate for this crowd.
And yet, something was off.
Usually, the queen checked in visually with Freya at least a few times per meal, but Astrid hadn’t looked up at all tonight.
In fact, she’d been quiet since Freya had pulled her aside in the library.
Her body language was rigid in response to Guthmar’s jokes—enough that other people would notice, too obvious to be in her control.
Freya had to wonder if it was because of her gift.
Presenting Astrid with her dagger had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.
She had been thinking about the arrow and the broken weapons on display.
Once, Astrid had defended all of Torden, and now she wore no weapon to defend herself.
But what if someone snuck past the guards and Freya was not around? What if someone somehow got past Freya?
Freya had fretted until she decided gifting the dagger would give her some peace of mind. She had hoped, too, Astrid would glean some peace of mind having it.
But now Freya was fairly certain she had overstepped.
She wondered which action had tipped Astrid over the edge. Not the rug, surely. The cat? The increased guard? Never leaving Astrid’s side, even for a minute? Maybe even earlier, when she’d brought Brenn to the castle for divine assistance?
It did not matter in the end. Freya would do what she thought necessary to protect her queen. She did not need anyone’s approval to do so.
She had been overstepping since she’d landed this job at the queen’s side. In fact, crossing boundaries was what had won her the position of spymaster in the first place. Everything Freya had was hard-earned, and this was no exception.
No matter how Freya consoled herself that this was the same way she’d behaved for years—it was hardly likely her behavior had gotten on Astrid’s nerves now—she was bothered that she could not guess at Astrid’s mind.
They rarely discussed their feelings, but Freya liked to think she knew Astrid after a decade by her side.
Unless Freya did not know Astrid as well as she thought.
Over the last few weeks, Freya had gradually moved from standing by the staff table to approaching the queen’s, and tonight, she was finally just a few feet away, close enough to hear their conversations and feel the splatter of spilled mead.
She knew Astrid had noticed her gradual proximity, yet Astrid still did not look up to acknowledge her.
But why would Astrid be upset by Freya? If Freya had not overstepped more than usual…
Maybe Freya had said something Astrid did not like, but Astrid was too polite to comment on it.
She thought over their previous conversation, combing through the words.
Was Astrid disturbed by how many hidden weapons Freya kept on her person?
Being disarmed was easy, Freya knew from her time on battlefields.
It was always a good idea to have a backup weapon or five.
The skald only served to strengthen Freya’s convictions as she began the tale of Astrid shooting the warlord who’d murdered Torden’s previous ruler.
An orc Freya had briefly, unwillingly served—Ulfur.
She shuddered to hear Ulfur’s name, even in this context.
The fateful arrow had pierced Ulfur’s shoulder so cleanly it caused the severing of her arm.
At the table, Astrid’s back was straight, tension straining the muscles in her neck. She’d stopped eating. Astrid had specifically requested the skalds never recite this particular tale, but Freya understood the need for the exception tonight.
Humility did not account for this level of discomfort.
Lost in thought as she was, Freya did not notice until too late the kitchen staff had returned with dessert. They were well into the room already. She scanned each orc and human, counting off their names in her head, and froze when she got to a smallish human she did not recognize.
Impossible. Freya planned for everything.
She made a point of introducing herself to every new staff member and thoroughly researching each person’s history.
She was supposed to be notified when someone new was hired.
She stared for too long, wondering if she had merely forgotten a name and a face all in one, then she blinked and the staff had reached the queen’s table, dropping off a heavy platter of honey-soaked pastries.
Without thinking, Freya rushed forward, stopping right at the queen’s side. Astrid picked up a pastry with the serving fork and set it onto her plate. She looked back at Freya with a question in her expression.
The table was quiet. All eyes were on Freya as she reached down to Astrid’s plate, grabbed the sopping pastry between her forefinger and thumb, and brought it to her lips.
She took a bite and chewed.
Someone at the table gasped. Freya fought her embarrassment at the reaction—at the spectacle—but Astrid’s own face was a sight to behold, an emotion Freya had never seen on her.
Mortification.
The steward cleared his throat. “There are plenty of pastries available from the serving platter, if you are hungry, Freya.”
This garnered several laughs down the table, loosening the tension. Freya continued to hold the pastry as she counted to one hundred, while Astrid stared and stared at her, her eyes bulging.
Freya set the pastry back down at the hundredth count. If it was poisoned, it was a slow poison, she decided.
She needed to refresh her memory about orcish poisons. What if everyone at the queen’s table was eating something that would make them sick in twenty-four hours? In a week? What if this stranger had infiltrated the castle and successfully offed all of its important players in one go?
Here, Freya had been worried about an accidental death and ordered rugs to Astrid’s bedchamber; she had worried about the queen’s need to defend herself, and so had given Astrid her own dagger; she had worried about intruders sneaking in, and had gotten a cat to alert Astrid.
And yet she had never thought to hire a food taster.
Astrid looked to her bitten pastry and back at Freya, uncomprehending. It was another minute or so before she picked up the pastry and ate it like nothing had happened. Tension rolled off Astrid in waves, but Freya did not leave her queen’s side.
People continued to notice Freya as the chatter at the table resumed. This was the most visible she had ever made herself. She saw curiosity in the orcs’ faces, even Guthmar and his retinue, even those of the queen’s own félag.
Freya stood tall and held her hands clasped like a soldier.
The kitchen staff delivered the next tray of desserts. Freya spied the same new staff member, but it was one thing to attack a stranger unprovoked in the middle of a crowded dining hall and another to merely bite into the queen’s food.
Astrid reached for the tray of pastries, then hesitated and retracted her hand. Somehow, Freya was assured by understanding Astrid’s thought process—she could tell Astrid wanted another, but Astrid did not know how Freya would react.
Don’t do it, Freya willed her.
Astrid eyed the plate, then took another pastry.
She made as if to bring the pastry directly to her mouth before Freya could get to it, but Freya was quicker. Freya snatched the pastry right out of Astrid’s hand.
“Freya,” Astrid hissed. “What in the goddess’s name are you doing?”
Freya did not answer. She turned the pastry over until she found a spot that looked particularly scrumptious, and then she took another bite.
Astrid put out her hand for the pastry. Freya held it farther away. She counted to one hundred, noting the reddening shade of Astrid’s face, and lowered it to the plate.
Her gloves were going to become very sticky if she kept this up.
Astrid opened her mouth as if to speak. It was clear the things she wanted to say could not be said in polite company.
The steward leaned in. “Is she bothering you, Your Majesty?”
Hrothgar raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking the same.
Freya stood still. If Astrid dismissed her, Freya couldn’t defy her without incurring some kind of public punishment. She swallowed heavily, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares once more.
Truthfully, she did not know how she would react if Astrid said yes.
“No,” Astrid said. “Freya is my attendant. She does not act against my wishes.”
The skald finished Astrid’s tale. In the quiet, other tables took notice of the odd situation occurring at the head table. The scholars were paying attention.
Not good. Freya prayed desperately the meal would be over soon.
Just then, a boy brought out a new pitcher of mead.
Freya stepped back; she recognized him. Down the table, everyone filled their goblets.
The night was winding down. Some of the scholars were heading to bed already, excitedly discussing the artifacts they’d seen today and making plans for next year’s travels.
Astrid took the pitcher to fill her goblet.
The cellar for the mead was under the kitchens, Freya remembered suddenly. If the human Freya didn’t recognize had access to the kitchens, she had access to the cellar.
This could be the true method of delivery for the poison.
Freya nearly knocked the goblet out of Astrid’s hand.
The liquid poured out, spilling over Astrid’s red woolen tunic and staining it an unseemly shade of purple.
Of course—berry mead. Freya looked on in horror as Hrothgar rushed to get a cloth to wipe the queen down, but that did not stop her from taking the goblet from the queen’s hand, where Astrid had been limply holding it in shock.
Freya brought the goblet to her lips and took two hearty gulps. There. If it was poison, Freya would go down first.
She clutched the goblet in her sticky fingers just as Hrothgar returned with the cloth. Numbly, Astrid accepted it from him, but she sat there stock-still and made no move to mop up the mess.
All along the great hall, everyone stared. Another tray of pastries came through the door, and the whole room tracked the kitchen staff with their eyes as they made their way to the queen’s table first.
Nobody made a move to take from the communal platter this time. They waited. Astrid looked back up at Freya—just barely up, as Freya was only slightly taller standing than Astrid was sitting—and knitted her brow.
“Freya,” she said again, and Freya heard her frustration, her embarrassment.
“I will not stop,” Freya whispered back.
“You’d better.”
“I can’t.”
Astrid lifted her hand to the pastry plate. Testing Freya. The test was whether Freya would stop her, but Freya could not fathom which outcome Astrid desired. Astrid looked back at her once more when her hand was halfway to the platter, daring her.
Freya couldn’t breathe. Absurdly, she thought of the threat of poison, the way it could asphyxiate her, and this was not so different. Astrid inched her hand forward, and Freya swept in, grasping Astrid’s wrist with her less sticky glove before either of them could blink.
Freya was leaning close, far too close, over the table, her other hand steadying her. The wool of Astrid’s cloak grazed the back of Freya’s thighs.
She was practically sitting in Astrid’s lap.
Their eyes locked, and Freya caught the scent of Astrid’s breath. Mead and the same honey treats that had touched Freya’s lips first. The intimacy warmed Freya from head to toe.
The look in Astrid’s eyes told Freya she felt the same. There was a want that Freya had never noticed before. A want directed right at Freya, right at her eyes and down into her soul.
Hope flared in Freya’s thumping heart.
Astrid’s lips stretched into an awkward smile. A rumbling sound emitted from her throat.
It took Freya a second to realize the queen was laughing.
Freya released Astrid’s wrist and stepped out of her personal space.
Astrid grabbed the table with both hands and threw her head back as she cackled.
Her laugh was the loudest thing in the room, buoyant and heady.
She laughed and laughed and laughed until tears streaked down her face, her entire body shaking.
A couple of sympathy laughs started around the room, but they were quickly stifled by the awkward duration of the laughter. Just as suddenly as she had started, Astrid stopped, and her face sobered. Her features were perfectly subdued; the only evidence of the laughter was her damp cheeks.
“Excuse me,” she said, and rushed out of the room.
Freya dashed after her, guilt clogging her throat.