Chapter Fourteen
Astrid was ordered to rest, even though she was not the one who’d been hurt. Emotional duress, Brenn had called it—and that much was true. The shock of seeing Freya’s blood had worn off, and suspicion settled in, rendering Astrid unable to do more than cower under her bed covers.
An assassin roamed the castle somewhere.
Astrid had been left out of the investigation entirely, locked away in her new rooms. To make matters worse, Fenrir prowled around with his sulky feline saunter, less like he was guarding Astrid and more like he was looking for a way to escape the small space.
Astrid couldn’t help but feel panicked at the idea of being trapped. There was only one, heavily guarded exit. She gathered she would not be able to so much as piss alone for a while.
She did not bother speculating about who would assassinate her. Freya would have balked, but Astrid hardly cared. There were plenty of people—people Astrid had not even met—who would undoubtedly seek the notoriety that came with killing her, even if they didn’t want to usurp her entirely.
But she worried Freya could be hurt, caught in the middle. She worried Ruga would be targeted over the channel, that Ruga’s wife could be in danger, that Astrid would lose members of her beloved félag to the killer.
No, she amended. Not a killer yet. She had her loyal bodyguard to thank for that.
But how had someone ascertained the location of Astrid’s rooms from outside? They’d picked out her balcony; they’d been good with their bow, or good enough to nearly hit Freya.
They knew Astrid had kissed Freya like she was the one thing Astrid truly wanted in the world.
Astrid was not worried about Freya physically—the cut had been superficial, and Brenn would heal it. But Freya would be distraught. Thinking of herself as a failure for not apprehending an attack she couldn’t have possibly predicted.
As if summoned by Astrid’s thoughts, Freya entered the room quietly, holding a small stool, and locked the door behind her.
Astrid watched in silence as Freya set the stool next to the bed.
The room was empty of most furniture. Once upon a time, long before Astrid’s reign, it had been used as a holding space for political prisoners.
And now it was a prison for her, she thought wryly.
Freya sat atop the stool and extracted a book from inside her shirt.
Fenrir stopped his prowling and pawed at Freya’s leg, and Freya shifted to let the cat jump into her lap.
Astrid’s heart warmed as Freya removed one of her gloves to run her hands through Fenrir’s fur.
Freya was soft on animals. She was soft on anything she felt needed protection.
Astrid had always admired that about her.
Was Freya going to sit there all night? Astrid held in her questions due to Freya’s serious expression.
Freya did not look nearly as distraught as Astrid thought she would be.
Her ear was healed, albeit missing a chunk of skin, and her hair had been gently mussed—the way Freya styled it before dinner when she wanted to look good.
To Astrid’s dismay, Freya looked so good, it was hard to stop looking.
Astrid forced herself to avert her eyes before she got caught, down to the cover of Freya’s book.
The binding was leather, and the cover illustration displayed a rosy-cheeked orc woman held by another helmeted orc woman in chainmail.
A memory surfaced: little Astrid, hardly more than a hundred and twenty years old, searching through her parents’ cart of goods for reading material to pass the time while they traveled from one city to the other.
She had wanted to be a soldier even then, and had picked it up because of the chainmail, thinking it to be an adventure story.
There had been adventure in the book, to be fair, but the things that kept Astrid awake into the night were not about battling evildoers and putting the kingdom to rights.
Even now, Astrid could recall in explicit detail some of the phrasings about the creative positions the author had given the soldier and her sweetheart.
Her cheeks warmed. Why would Freya be reading that?
Astrid had not known Freya to read fiction at all; Freya’s time was always pared down, utilized in the most practical way possible, and when she picked up books they were about war, weaponry, politics, finance—things that would assist in her spymaster work.
Was it possible the book was meant to send a message to Astrid?
That Freya was in an amorous mood? Or maybe they could experience this kind of relationship in erotic literature, but not in reality?
Whatever the answer, Astrid fully planned on pretending the balcony had never happened, to push it as far from her mind as she could, and now she saw Freya as the soldier in the story, and somehow Astrid was the lover who needed rescuing, and the memory of their kiss merged with her memory of the story, and then she had to turn in bed to face the wall because the sight of Freya overwhelmed her.
There were so many reasons not to pursue Freya, and the only reason Astrid could think of to initiate anything now was because I want to, which was hardly good enough.
The most pressing reason, which weighed on Astrid constantly, jumping ahead: the inevitable heartbreak of losing Freya when her short human lifespan ended.
If Astrid wanted to be more pragmatic, she could admit it was messy for a queen to be involved with her attendant, spymaster or not, and it could jeopardize the whole country if something unpleasant happened between them, or if Astrid prioritized Freya over Torden’s people.
If Astrid was being completely honest with herself, Freya’s impending mortality and Astrid’s queenly duties weren’t the only things holding her back.
Astrid had no time or energy for romance since becoming queen—before then, even, when training to be a good soldier had required every ounce of her attention.
Even if somehow she were to overcome every last one of her reservations, it had been so, so long since she’d been intimate with anyone.
Quite literally longer than Freya had been alive.
Astrid was not confident she knew what to do anymore.
At least like this—rationalizing, counting, compartmentalizing her reasons for not pursuing Freya—Astrid could make them real and remind herself why she could not act on her emotions.
How any love for Freya could only end in heartbreak, one way or another.
On the balcony, Astrid might have been able to pretend they were just two people.
She had pretended there would be no consequences beyond, and now she was going to pay the price.
Fenrir leapt from Freya’s lap, and Freya sighed, closing her book and standing. She lifted Fenrir gently and nudged open the door to the antechamber to let him out, to the dismay of the guards standing there.
“Was he putting you on edge too?” Astrid asked, and flinched. She had not meant to break the silence or open any doors that should remain closed.
“Yes,” said Freya.
Astrid watched her closely as she cleaned her bare hands in the basin. Astrid had never asked where the scars on her hands came from, but she had asked, once, why Freya felt the need to cover them.
A lady’s maid would not have these kinds of scars, Freya had said.
Astrid remembered thinking at the time that this was not quite true; many of the human refugees came to Torden with scars, physical or otherwise.
What Freya really meant, Astrid realized much later, was that there were people who had been active in the war, who had engaged in the violence, and Freya was one of them.
And she had not wanted anyone to know the role she’d played—not as one of the stragglers caught up in everything, but an active participant.
Her deadliness was now weaponized in Astrid’s service.
Freya shook her hands dry and looked up.
Her piercing gray eyes met Astrid’s gaze, and Astrid suddenly admired Freya so much she thought her heart would give out.
How did Freya know when to be quiet and when to be bold, when to disappear and when to make herself known?
How did she know to assure Astrid with her eyes and her gestures that Astrid was safe under her care?
Freya did not sit back down on the stool when she returned to Astrid’s side. Feeling awkward, Astrid pushed back the blankets and swung her legs over to face Freya.
“I think we should bring Hrothgar into this,” Freya said, clearing her throat, “and maybe even Hedda.”
The beginning of a laugh tickled the back of Astrid’s throat.
She couldn’t make a fool of herself like she had at dinner, but what was Freya talking about?
Bring Hrothgar and Hedda into their relationship?
Did she mean to tell them, or was she imagining them being a part of it, all four of them?
Hedda would never stand for that, and Hrothgar was spoken for—
And then Astrid’s cheeks heated as Freya searched her expression, because of course Freya was not thinking of romance at all.
As always, Freya was concerned foremost with Astrid’s safety, with plans for dealing with the assassination attempt.
Foolish, lovestruck Astrid had just been thinking about kissing Freya.
“Of course,” said Astrid. Her voice sounded strange.
“I would like to analyze the angle of the arrow while my memory is fresh,” Freya said, and started to pace.
Just like the cat, Astrid thought. Freya was catlike in many ways—down to their claws.
“I think the archer used a crossbow, not a longbow. The arrow was thick enough to be a crossbow bolt, and the strength of the trajectory suggests that weapon. This is assuming it came from the ground—it wouldn’t have come straight-on like it did from within the castle walls, or another balcony, for example.
But I will need to check the trees. There could be a vantage point I’m missing.
With your permission, I would like to go look for tracks and see if we can replicate the trajectory of the arrow with one of our archers. ”
Freya turned to Astrid, waiting for her consent, as if Astrid would ever willingly tell Freya to leave her side.
“Do what you need to,” Astrid made herself say. “I would like to start trusting Hedda again. I think… I think she is more liable to spill her own drunken secrets, not mine.”
“I will defer to your judgment,” said Freya.
Was she going to give in so easily? Freya followed Astrid’s wishes before Astrid even knew, herself, what they were—and now she trusted Astrid to accept Hedda back into her good graces, even though Hedda was a hothead and sometimes unpredictable.
“I’ll let Fenrir back in, then. I should get going.”
“Freya, wait,” Astrid said.
Freya stood by the door, arching her neck at Astrid’s command, and Astrid jumped from the bed. The idea of being alone in this room, even with the cat, was unbearable.
Astrid approached without knowing what she would do when she reached Freya. If pressed, Astrid could’ve come up with a hundred more reasons why not to act on any urge that would get her deeper into this mess.
Want and need, not rationality, propelled her legs forward. Freya turned around, and Astrid stopped with her heart in her throat. It seemed time had come to a standstill—that the odd, isolated space they inhabited was separated not just from the castle, but from the universe itself.
Astrid was not a strong person. She had floated through queenhood with the support of her sister and her court and her félag, and then Freya had come along. Freya was the one who made Astrid feel safe.
Freya was the one who made her feel brave.
Astrid reached down and cupped Freya’s face in her hands. Freya’s cheeks were warm under Astrid’s thumbs, and Freya’s hands closed over Astrid’s wrists, holding her there. Steady as her gaze.
What would you do if you could? Freya had asked, a question that resounded louder than any of Astrid’s protests.
Astrid had her answer.