Chapter Sixteen
Astrid woke to a dark room with the warmth of a cat weighing down her ankles. She shook out her legs to bring the feeling back, upsetting Fenrir, and when she reached out to the other side of the bed, her fingers closed over a cold, empty blanket.
Freya.
What had happened last night could very well have been a dream, but Astrid remembered it vividly—the rapid beating of her heart, the sound of Freya’s breathing, Freya leaning back in the stool with her neck extended.
The vulnerable, blissful look Astrid never thought she would have the privilege to see.
No, it had been real. And Astrid was at once reduced to a girl with her first crush.
She felt under the pillow for the dagger Freya had gifted her. Her fingers wrapped around the bone handle. It was as much a part of Freya as Freya’s own skin and flesh. Astrid imagined, by holding it, Freya was protecting her, even in her absence.
Would Astrid ever have to use it? Always, she was surrounded by guards, soldiers, protectors.
She was good with her weapon—better, even, than some of her most trusted guards—and yet she had no need for one.
The irony put a bitter taste on her tongue, even as running her thumb over the handle soothed her.
Astrid did not regret acting on her urges—how could she, when she’d wanted this for so long?—but she needed to be rational, to proceed with caution. One way or another, this would end in heartbreak, and Astrid would have to accept that to accept the relationship itself.
It scared her, the willingness to sabotage her future self so readily. Would she be able to rule the country while dealing with the hurt? Would she slip up and make a mistake that would become immortal in the tales of skalds and shared for tawdry entertainment in taverns centuries down the line?
Astrid remained in the dark for an indeterminate amount of time before the thoughts began to circle, never reaching a conclusion.
Uneasy, she went to the door and knocked.
Hrothgar was waiting for her in the antechamber.
They rushed in to light some candles. Someone had left a tray of food on the table.
All cold foods; nothing fresh and hot like Astrid was used to.
Perhaps foods that were easier for Freya to prepare herself.
“Is it morning?” Astrid asked, realizing she had no way of telling the time.
“Midday,” Hrothgar said, apologetic. “Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?”
Astrid thought to beg Hrothgar to let her escape. They had to listen to her orders. She was queen, after all.
But if Freya was right, and Astrid’s safety was at risk as much as Freya thought, then Astrid could wait a few days while they carried out an investigation.
Staying here was more a favor to Freya than to herself.
“No,” said Astrid. “There is nothing.”
In spite of Astrid’s insistence on needing nothing, she was not left alone for most of the day.
She would have welcomed a bit of solitude. More time to think and decide what to do, and less time figuring out how to act around people now that they treated her like she couldn’t defend herself.
Instead, Astrid was constantly interrupted by members of her félag. They brought her a stack of practical clothing. Someone replaced the water pitcher. Vera came by with a pile of books, blessedly free of any erotic content.
Astrid sat on the edge of her bed and read about Torden’s history. In a way, it was grounding to revisit the past and be reminded why she ruled and how she would be remembered.
The candles burned down. People filtered in and out.
There was no sign of Freya.
On the second day, furniture began to appear.
First, a table for her bedside, where Astrid promptly put her books. Next, a wooden wardrobe to store the pile of clothes she’d been brought. After that, a writing desk and chair. Astrid’s instincts were to question her félag. Under whose orders were these items appearing?
When the hideously red rug from her bedroom appeared, Astrid ascertained who was responsible.
And still Freya did not make herself known.
By the third day, Astrid began to worry.
The room was looking too comfortable, even more homey than her old one.
A stash of candles had been provided, enough to last weeks, and more clothes made an appearance along with stacks of paper.
The only people Astrid saw were the orc guards of her félag and, occasionally, Vera.
She guessed Freya would not allow anyone else near her.
Astrid asked Hrothgar for news of the assassin as they brought in her evening meal, and Hrothgar hesitated before answering.
“Freya has the full story for you. She will be here soon.”
Once left alone, Astrid had trouble finishing her meal.
The idea of seeing Freya again filled her with a contradictory blend of hope and apprehension.
She longed to see the face she associated with comfort and love, but the conversation they needed to have filled her with dread.
Some part of her wondered if Freya was keeping her distance because she was the one who regretted how far they’d come.
She needn’t have worried. When Freya made her appearance, it was with her hair slicked back, leather freshly oiled, and a weapon bulging at her hip through her tunic.
Astrid’s heart soared at the sight of her. She had to stop herself from rushing forward to hug Freya, but Freya took a comfortable seat on the stool and gestured for Astrid to sit across from her on the bed.
Astrid remembered, vividly, how Freya’s legs had parted last time they’d been situated like this. The memory was so distracting, she did not at first register Freya’s words.
“What?” she said.
“How have you been? Are you content?” said Freya. Astrid was not entirely sure this was the same thing Freya had said at first, but she swallowed down the urge to respond to questions with a question.
“You are preparing me to stay here for a long time,” she said evenly.
“Only as long as necessary,” Freya said, looking down at her gloves. She adjusted them with the squeak of settling leather. “We analyzed the angle of the arrow. It was shot from the ground by a skilled archer who knew the location of your rooms. From a crossbow, as I suspected.”
“That’s good news,” Astrid said. The sentence lifted at the end like a question.
Freya raised an eyebrow. “Good and bad. There are many archery hobbyists within our staff.”
That came as no surprise; even the mention of archery made Astrid’s fingers itch to pull back a bow-string. In her experience, few things matched the thrill of an arrow making its shot.
“The truly skilled archers, as far as I know, are members of your félag and the armorer. Unless I run an archery competition, there is no way to tell who among them is skilled enough to follow through with such a shot.”
Astrid bit down and tasted blood on her upper lip where her tusks had punctured the skin. Freya suspected a traitor. A spy.
The idea was almost a relief once she’d thought it. Freya was the best spy Astrid knew. She would sniff out another like her in no time.
“We interrogated the ambassador’s bodyguards ruthlessly,” said Freya. “Both were at dinner, as corroborated by eyewitnesses. It is harder to determine who was in the kitchens or elsewhere in the castle. My understanding is Tassi stayed behind with a stomachache.” Her eyes flashed at this.
Surely, an assassination attempt was a good excuse to send the entire retinue from Sydlig home.
“Everyone knows, then, that I was nearly killed,” said Astrid.
“No,” said Freya. “Guthmar’s retinue does not know a thing about this. They think you have fallen ill from some of the food.” She swallowed. “They think it is related to my tasting.”
“Ah. My absence has not been explained?”
Freya worried at her gloves. “It was suspicious of me to send the scholars home before the history fair had officially come to a close. Most did not question the fire excuse, though some rumors are circulating due to your lack of public appearance. Few approach the truth. One of them is that you are pregnant,” she said, humor lighting her eyes.
Astrid did not find this so humorous. “Ill or pregnant,” she repeated.
“Yes, in your old rooms.”
This caught Astrid’s attention. “Surely people suspect something. My félag is guarding these rooms, not those. There has been an influx of sizable furniture to this part of the castle.”
“We are merely rearranging since our guests have left,” Freya said. “And… We have some people guarding your old rooms, too. This part of the castle has been closed off for renovations.”
Astrid found it hard to believe anyone would buy such a simple excuse, that there would need to be so many guards and food coming and going from this space and no one would bat an eye.
“We have a decoy,” Freya admitted. “That is why I have not had all of your clothes delivered to you. Sigurd from the félag has been wearing your dresses and walking out on the balcony to bait a potential repeat attempt by an assassin. I have people on the ground, too, waiting for someone to take the bait.”
“Freya,” Astrid gasped. “That’s too dangerous. I demand you put a stop to it at once.”
Freya looked up at Astrid then. Astrid nearly faltered under the intensity of Freya’s gaze. It was as though Freya had pierced Astrid with an arrow right through her heart.
“Astrid,” she said firmly, “I will protect you at any cost. Your félag swore to serve you for the rest of their lives. Sigurd volunteered when I brought up the idea.”
Astrid could be sick. When would queenhood stop risking others and start focusing on actual ruling, making important decisions, keeping the peace? All she’d done since ascending to the throne was climb on the backs of her friends and allies as she ground them into the dirt under her heel.
She was damned sick of it.
“I need to get out of here, Freya,” she said. “Please.”
Freya closed her eyes. Stood from her stool, walked to Astrid. She bent to press a kiss to Astrid’s cheek.
Desperately, Astrid seized her arm. “Please,” she repeated. From the corner of the room, the cat mewled as though pleading her case with her. “Freya.”
“I think it’s better if these become your permanent rooms,” Freya said. “I will let you know when I think it’s safe for you to leave. Can you do this for me? Can you stay here?”
“This is a cage,” Astrid said. “I need a window. I need air, natural light. I need you.”
Freya sat on the bed. Astrid found it hard to read her expression; her guard was up, her brows pinched.
“I can’t focus on figuring this out unless you’re safe,” Freya said. “I know it’s frustrating. I’m sorry you feel trapped. I’m trying everything I can to make this box welcoming.” She threw up her hands, gesturing to the room.
She had done well, if one could make a prison feel like home. Someone had brought a tapestry earlier that day, and Astrid recognized her sister’s handiwork. It made her miss Ruga so very much.
“I am the queen. I will not be stuffed in this prison. I don’t care so much about an assassin. They failed, didn’t they? The castle is only inhabited by people you know and approve of?”
Freya scowled. “Assassins are dedicated. Anyone could bide their time for years upon years, waiting for the right moment to strike. You can never really know someone.”
“I know you,” Astrid said, hurt.
Freya’s mouth opened and closed. She reached for Astrid’s horn and gently guided Astrid’s head to her shoulder. “Do you have a solution that works for both of us?” Freya asked.
That odd laugh Astrid had been using lately nearly came back. A human who had only been here for ten years had so much influence over an orc queen who had ruled for fifty. It was funny, in a gallows-humor sort of way.
Freya placed a hand on Astrid’s hair, gently pinning Astrid to her shoulder. Astrid felt warm inside and out. Secure. Held. Like Freya would always be there.
It was obvious they wouldn’t come to a conclusion tonight. When Freya got up to leave, Astrid tugged Freya toward her, and Freya curled up under the covers, and for a little while, Astrid did not feel so trapped.
Over the next few days, Astrid began enticing members of her félag to keep her company.
They engaged in the same activities the guards did to pass time in the barracks.
Astrid remembered how to play the card games, and she was excellent at Tafl.
It helped to pretend she was the soldier, defending someone else, playing games during an uneventful overnight shift.
She asked Hrothgar about the increased defenses; she sat across from a terse Hedda, who moved pieces around the Tafl board in silence.
At night, Freya would come and update Astrid.
Nothing had changed. No more clues had been unearthed, and there were no new suspects.
Freya had sent several of the staff she did not know well home on leave, and in doing so, had caused a bit of controversy.
Worse, she had done it through Varin, who was bitter about the whole thing.
Astrid slept well with Freya at her side, but it was another thing during the day.
She felt she was searching out one distraction after another to fill the time.
Conversations with the guards grew bland fast. They did not dare to speak of certain things with their queen, not even those who had served with her as fellow soldiers.
The books lost their luster or made her miss the outdoors.
One description of a garden brought her nearly to tears.
It wasn’t until Hrothgar stood from their stool and stretched their legs after a particularly grueling game of Tafl that the idea came to Astrid. She’d taken to playing with Hrothgar over the others. Some of them thought, because she was queen, she should win, and Hrothgar never let her off easy.
They were of nearly the same height and build. Standing next to them, Astrid was directly at eye level. Their hair was shorter, and their attire more masculine than Astrid sometimes wore, but it wasn’t a bad idea.
After all, Freya had employed one decoy already.