Chapter Eighteen
In a port town several hours’ ride away, Astrid and Hedda sat across from each other at the Rosebriar Inn with two steins of mead between them.
The smell of this place was like coming home. Fish and yeast and the sweet notes of fruit. The ceiling bore the same slightly hideous and ill-woven tapestry of a woman playing the lyre. It was so old that it frayed around every edge, red strings dangling down. Worn, ugly, and familiar.
When Astrid was younger, her family had stopped in Rosebriar more often than the city of Vakker, though it was barely notable enough to mark on a map. Trading hubs in Torden were plentiful, but there was something about this town that had endeared her parents to its fishers.
The creaking of leather followed Astrid when she shifted to face Hedda.
Hrothgar’s leather armor was a tad oversized on her, in spite of her perception that they were the same height.
Hrothgar was back in Astrid’s room, sulking in her clothes.
The narrative they’d come up with was quite simple: Hedda and Hrothgar had left the castle to celebrate their night off.
As long as no one knew the félag did not currently have nights off, they would be fine.
Astrid imagined if it were Hrothgar here and not herself, Hedda would be warmer toward them.
Hedda glowered at Astrid impressively. Once, when Hedda and Astrid had trained to be soldiers together, Hedda would have gladly accepted any alcohol gifted to her, perhaps even challenged Astrid to a drinking contest. Now, reserved, Hedda sipped as daintily as any earl in polite company.
Astrid couldn’t stand it any longer. “I am still your friend,” she said.
Their cloaks were wet from the rain, and they both smelled faintly of horse.
Astrid had not reserved a room yet, but she was considering it.
She needed to know if Hedda was comfortable staying overnight.
Initially, she’d thought Hedda would sneak out with her as part of the plan and then leave, but Hedda had insisted on joining her.
Astrid wondered if Hedda considered herself on-duty or if her role was more like watching over an unruly child.
“Can you be friends with someone you’ve sworn fealty to?” Hedda swirled her mead, staring into its murky depths.
“I meant, I am on your side,” said Astrid. “And I forgive you for your behavior at the midsummer festival, whatever that means to you.”
Hedda looked up sharply. “What about me? I have to forgive you.”
Astrid’s next sip was bitter. Just like before—she was stepping on others to help her rule rather than relying on her own skills. Choosing who sacrificed what.
“I know,” said Astrid.
“May we speak about you and Freya?” asked Hedda.
Goosebumps spread over Astrid’s arms. “Pardon?”
“It’s a little hypocritical, isn’t it?” Hedda huffed. “You and Freya, sneaking around like lovers when you know you shouldn’t be. But I have to be the mature one who can handle losing a relationship.”
Astrid closed her eyes. The resentment leveled in her direction, boiling right under the surface of Hedda’s skin, was a lot to take in. “Ruga needed to get away from Torden.”
“That’s not your choice.”
“It was hers. And she made it.” Astrid opened her eyes, gathered her courage. “It’s my fault. She was miserable here, Hedda. She needed to get away, and we needed the alliance with Branwen. It worked out for all of us. Can’t you see how much happier she is there?”
Hedda was quiet. Even when they were soldiers-in-arms, she had never been adept at swallowing harsh truths. “We were good together.”
“Would you have gone with her?” Astrid asked, gently as she could. “I’m telling you she needed to leave. Would you have left Torden to stay by her side?”
The question was rhetorical. Hedda stood from the table, shoved it away, and stalked to the other side of the room.
Having her gone was a relief. Someone ordered stew, and it smelled incredible. When the server came by Astrid’s table, she asked for two bowls.
Alone with her thoughts, in the anonymity of a soldier’s disguise, Astrid realized how much she needed this.
She would give up her queenhood in a heartbeat to drink in this little inn on the sea forever.
How little pressure it was to just be a normal person, not to have to make any tough decisions that hurt the people around her. She was inept as queen.
All of the books in the world could instruct her in strategy, but they could not prevent the country she ruled from going to war. They could not teach her how you were supposed to care for an entire country and also value people as individuals.
The tales of rulers who played favorites were never flattering.
Hedda returned to the table in time to eat the stew while it was warm. Astrid waited for her to finish. When she was done, Hedda wiped her mouth on her sleeve and threw back the rest of her mead in three loud gulps.
“You’re right,” Hedda said, gruff. “It was for the best. I just wish we had the kind of relationship where you could tell me before acting on something that impacts my life. I don’t know how queens work, but I thought I knew you. Queen Astrid is a stranger to me after all these years.”
Astrid’s heart ached. She and Hedda had been friends. Close friends, even. They had trusted and relied on each other, laughed together and shared food over fire at the soldiers’ camp. It was one part of their relationship Astrid had to mourn when she became queen, like so many others.
You could not be queen and be close to anyone.
“You are right, too,” Astrid said. “About Freya. Do many people know?”
“I brought it up to Hrothgar. We were in your antechamber together these past few nights. Just something about the way you look at each other.” Hedda waved her hand in a somewhat lewd gesture. “I assume you coupled. We both noticed the shift.”
Astrid nodded solemnly. “And you resent me for it.”
“I resent that my own relationship was not allowed to succeed or fail on its own merits,” Hedda said. “I do not resent love itself. And she clearly does love you.”
Astrid hardly dared to join the word love with her feelings toward Freya, as though voicing it would doom them even more. It was one thing to have felt Freya’s skin under her hands and against her lips. It was another to hear Hedda call out what was so clear to others.
“It cannot last, even if it was appropriate for me to court my…” Attendant, spymaster? No single word described Freya’s role. “She’ll live for eighty years, like all humans do.”
“Even if I knew I only had twenty years with Ruga, I would not shy away. And I don’t regret it now that it’s over.”
Tears lined Astrid’s eyes. How could she overcome the constant feeling of dread toward her future? Wyrd was its own ever-looming threat. All things came to an end—life, her rule, this queendom. One day all would be nothing.
“Oh, Hedda,” Astrid said, putting her face in her hands. “Why did I let it go so far?”
“You get so few of the things you want,” Hedda said, which Astrid found generous, considering Hedda’s own life, sacrificing in the name of her queen. “How long have you been…?”
“Only recently,” Astrid said. Her cheeks were warm; she blamed it on the fire roaring in the hearth. “Right before the arrow.”
Hedda tilted her head. “We should go back.”
“Why?”
“Freya will be worried sick about you. She’ll know you’re missing.”
“Not until morning. None of the félag know,” Astrid said.
“She has a sixth sense for you,” said Hedda, “and its name is Brenn.”
Astrid liked Brenn. Brenn was rational and steady where Astrid was not, and Astrid trusted Brenn’s discretion. If Brenn knew Astrid was gone, then she also knew there was no danger to her.
“I want more time,” Astrid said. It seemed they would not be staying the night after all, but the idea of getting back on their horses and leaving was less appealing than jumping into the ocean and letting the water take her where it would.
“Must I say it?” Hedda set her stein on the table hard enough to draw eyes from the next group over. “It was foolish of you to come all the way out here when there’s been a threat on your life. You do not have the luxury of running away when your feelings get in the way of your ability to rule.”
“Hedda…”
Hedda’s voice became low and dangerous. “When you put yourself at risk, you put us all at risk. I am the only one here to protect you now.”
“Thank you for joining me, Hedda.”
Hedda stiffened. “I will serve you, no matter how little sense I think you have. I hope we can go back soon, if you don’t mind my saying so. Freya will tear the castle apart searching for you.”
Did Hedda really think Astrid so out of her wits? Astrid was well aware of how irrational her actions were, but Hedda couldn’t understand what it was like to be trapped in that room. Astrid was already trapped in so many ways. She could not handle one more if it killed her.
In one aspect, Hedda was right: whenever Freya discovered her missing, she would think the worst. Astrid hoped Brenn would be around to reassure her, then felt a pang of guilt that she was relying on other people to pay the price for her actions once more.
“I wish Freya was here,” she mumbled into her stein.
Hedda snorted. “Lovesick is what you are.” She looked over Astrid’s shoulder, and her eyes widened.
“What?” Astrid hissed, suddenly alert. “Do we have to—?”
A familiar pattern of footsteps perked Astrid’s ears like a dog’s. A soft squelching accompanied every near-silent step alongside the stride of a much larger person.
Slowly, she turned. Freya’s face was unreadable and calculated, but her fists were clenched, her stance ready for combat. At her side, Hrothgar walked with their head down. Traveling with an angry Freya Wedd would do that to a person.
When they reached the table, Astrid noted the blaze in Freya’s eyes, but also the relief. She had undoubtedly caused Freya an immense amount of worry.
“I thought something bad had happened to you,” Freya said. She wiped wet hair out of her eyes and sat lightly on the bench beside Astrid. Their thighs just touched.
Hrothgar sat next to Hedda on the other side. The two exchanged a look, and Hedda nodded. Astrid had put them in the awkward position of obeying her while protecting her, and they had done so.
Astrid struggled to formulate an appropriate response under Freya’s burning gaze. “I’m so sorry,” she tried.
“I wish you had told me what you were planning.” Freya took the stein from Astrid and drank it down to the bottom.
“It was an impulsive decision,” Hedda chimed in. “Wrangle your queen for us, shadow. We’ve done our part.”
Freya shot her a dark look.
A musician chose that moment to play a jaunty tune. As one, their heads turned toward the noise. Someone stomped on the floor, and then a lot of someones stomped, and several people stood to engage in a drunken dance.
“I am sorry you felt trapped,” Freya said under the cover of the noise. “I should have asked how you were feeling. I was only considering your safety, not your emotions.”
Astrid’s jaw dropped.
Freya leaned in to speak softer. Her hand hovered over Astrid’s knee and came back to her side. “What is the matter?”
“I feel strange tonight,” Astrid said evasively. “Restless.”
This close, she could see the drops of rain clinging to Freya’s lashes. She was overcome with the urge to lean in and kiss her again, wet hair and all.
“What do you need?” Freya asked.
Instead of responding, Astrid found Freya’s hand and placed it on her thigh.
Her skin hummed under the leather. Maybe it was the general impulsiveness of the night, or something in the air, or the mead, or the soldier’s clothes.
“Dance with me,” Astrid said.