Chapter Twenty-One #2
“What I did was cowardly. We were so sick of everything, Freya. All of the fighting, all of the death. I convinced Hedda to sneak with me into the other camp. We donned the slipshod armor of Ulfur’s dead warriors and made our way in.
Everyone was asleep or caring for their injuries.
” She stopped, looked out the window. “There was no moon that night.”
Freya kept herself completely still. She thought she would be sick.
“We dispatched the guards around Ulfur’s tent.
It was almost too easy. They didn’t make a noise, and her tent was larger than the others to show her importance.
I think she wasn’t used to it yet. She had only just broken away from Torden and hadn’t developed her strategy.
She had killed the head of the country and hoped, in the bedlam, she would become the new queen. ”
The way Astrid spoke of Ulfur, like she understood the inner workings of her brain, made Freya’s pulse quicken.
After all, Astrid had had the same idea. To cut off the head of the beast.
“I got into her tent. She had someone with her…in bed. And I killed them first.” She licked her lips.
“It wasn’t clean. The gurgling, the thrashing—it awoke Ulfur.
She jumped to her feet and swung at me with everything she had.
I was able to strike her bicep with my axe.
She was incapacitated by it—nearly immobilized.
Because…” Astrid put her head in her hands.
Freya let her hand fall back to her side. “Because the blade was coated in poison.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, like she was sick with herself. “It was poisoned.”
“What happened then?” Freya asked. Her mind couldn’t keep up with the pace of the story, with this restructuring of everything she thought she knew about the queen she loved.
“We escaped somehow. Well. Not without running into some people who saw the fresh blood on us. Perhaps the goddess watched over us, because we made it out of there. And Ulfur lost the arm, as you know.”
“There was no arrow,” Freya said, keeping her voice even.
“No,” said Astrid. “There was no arrow. When I got back to Varin… He was furious, as you might guess. He said, next time I tried to assassinate someone in their sleep, I’d better not miss.
We spun a story about meeting with Ulfur in a skirmish.
Me, atop a horse, valiantly nocking the fateful arrow that would strike Ulfur dead if only it had been a few inches to the right. ”
“Ulfur knows the truth,” Freya said. “But she does not speak of it.” Freya had worked for Ulfur for half of a year, and not once had this come up in Ulfur’s inner circle. Ulfur hardly talked of Astrid at all.
“I imagine she wouldn’t. Even if she did, it would be spun as a false story to turn people against me. She has enough people turned against me already, in any case.”
“Why not just tell the truth?” Freya asked. More than anything, the lie did not sit well with her. All this glory afforded to Astrid when it had happened so differently—the results would be devastating if people found out. Freya would have shared the true story from the start, shameful or not.
“I was craven,” Astrid whispered. “Cowardice led us to go after her in her sleep. To use poison. That is not the making of a queen. I have lived with the guilt all these years.”
Freya choked down a dry laugh.
It was funny, in a way. Astrid’s greatest shame had been Freya’s lifestyle for over fifteen years, ever since she was old enough to wield a blade and strike true.
She had encroached upon countless camps and killed hundreds of people in their sleep to prove her place in multiple warbands.
To keep them from deciding she was just another mouth to feed and getting rid of her the way they’d done to so many.
“Who else knows?” Freya asked instead.
“I don’t know who in Ulfur’s circle knows,” Astrid said.
“On our side, only Hedda and Varin know. I think some of the félag suspect it did not happen quite how we said, but they are too loyal to question it publicly. Many people have pretended to witness the act to retain some of the glory for themselves. It’s how myths are formed. ”
Varin deserved some credit. He’d fed the tale to those who hadn’t been there, and then they’d fed it to the skalds hungry for stories, and those skalds had gone and spread the word about Astrid’s near-victory as if it had truly happened.
The historians, Freya remembered. None of them had questioned the arrow. Briefly, she wondered if Vera suspected anything.
Astrid cleared her throat. “Do you think less of me?” she asked.
Less was impossible. Freya had given her full self to Astrid as best as she knew how—but differently might have applied.
All of the things about Astrid that Freya looked up to had given her something to which she could aspire.
That the two of them might be more similar than Freya’d thought was more than a little odd.
This new perception sat sourly in Freya’s stomach, but she had to admit, deep down, part of her was thrilled.
If Astrid could have done this and still be considered good, there was hope for Freya.
“Of course I don’t think less of you, My Queen,” Freya said absently, realizing she had paused for too long.
Astrid wove her fingers with Freya’s and pressed her face into Freya’s collarbone. “Thank you, Freya. I am not sure I deserve your loyalty, but I always appreciate it.”
They settled back into silence. The crackling of the fire began to feel like the ticking of a clock. Freya stroked Astrid’s hair, and Astrid held onto Freya like an anchor at sea.
Loyalty… Freya had always been good at loyalty, when it came to those she cared about—Brenn, Astrid. She had been true to the warlords she’d served until a stronger one came around and took over, and then she was true to the new one.
She did not feel loyal now. A terrible thought occurred to her: Could she still be loyal while keeping secrets from the queen?
“Astrid,” Freya said urgently.
“Hmm?” said Astrid.
“I have to tell you something. Since you trusted me with your secret.” She watched Astrid’s head bob with her chest. “It’s something Brenn saw in your future. It’s… It’s not good.”
Astrid lifted her head and cupped Freya’s cheek in her hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said, gentle but firm.
Freya balked. “You don’t want to…? Are you certain?”
A tear trailed down Astrid’s cheek and plipped off the end of her nose. “I know what it is, I think.”
“What is it?” Freya asked, tightening her grip around Astrid’s shoulder.
Astrid smiled sadly. “Something inevitable.”
Once more, Freya searched Astrid’s face for answers and found none. She opened her mouth to speak.
Someone knocked on the door. Three sharp, urgent raps.
Freya jumped to her feet. Her tunic was over her head, legs bare, a knife in each hand by the time the door opened just a crack.
Hrothgar’s eye appeared in the opening.
“What is it?” Astrid asked, tired. She made no move to cover herself.
“Varin is here,” Hrothgar said. “Sorry to, ah, interrupt.”
“You are not interrupting,” Freya said. She had donned her trousers and her leather doublet. “Why would Varin come? I received correspondence that he had been mollified.”
Hrothgar opened their mouth to reply, but they were shoved out of the way by someone else. The door flew open, banging against the wall. Someone from the next room shouted at them for being too loud.
Varin stood in the doorway, professional as ever despite the early hour and his posture, slumped by age. “Your—” He seemed to remember where they were and lowered his voice. “You need to come back to the castle at once,” he said, unusually direct.
Astrid stood. The grooves of her bare muscles and curves were shadowed in dark contrast, making her look like a queen from the myths. “Has something happened?” she demanded.
“The king has arrived, and he is looking for you,” Varin said.
“The king?” Freya asked, but a moment later, she understood.
The king of Sydlig had come to Torden.