Chapter Twenty-Two
Though Varin had been in a panic—or as much of a panic as he ever was—the castle was strangely ordinary when Astrid returned.
By contrast, the difference within her was stark. Now, Astrid had had a taste of the person she was back in the day, and she meant to indulge in that side of herself more, no matter what it took.
This new understanding of herself stole her focus.
The tall horses of Sydlig whinnied restlessly as two young orcs who worked in the stables tended to them. The horses looked worn, travel-weary; Astrid tried to remember how long the journey from Sydlig to Torden was. A month, at least.
“Their hooves have been magicked,” Freya murmured to her as they handed off their own horses to the stables.
Astrid thought the hooves looked normal, but she trusted Freya’s instinct toward magic. Magic was one thing Astrid had not particularly bothered to learn about, seeing as she did not have the ability to perform it.
“I’ve left King Skarde in the grandest rooms I could find,” Varin said. “He is not pleased. He only wished to speak with you and Guthmar.”
“Where is Guthmar?” asked Astrid.
Varin sighed. “Probably getting an earful.”
“Take us to him,” Astrid ordered.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
They left the main hall, where the eyes of the guards and staff gazed upon them.
Freya cleared her throat. “I will check in with Brenn.”
Stars. Astrid had not thought of that. How could King Skarde have visited without Brenn knowing? Had Astrid left the goddess’s favor for fighting her wyrd?
Unease swirled within Astrid, made worse by Freya’s disappearance.
Two of the félag joined Astrid and Varin: Sigurd, who had served as her double while Astrid was in hiding, and Norga, who Astrid had known since her own training back in the day.
She’d have preferred Hrothgar, or even Hedda, but both of them were exhausted after the night guarding her, so she had told them to catch up on sleep.
Freya’s quiet steps slid in behind Astrid as she began to ascend the stairs.
“Brenn?” Astrid asked.
“Sent her home,” Freya said.
Astrid stopped and faced Freya on the stairs.
Perhaps Freya needed to sleep as well. The whites of her eyes were red around her gray irises.
“Brenn’s magic is much weaker surrounded by all these people,” Freya said. “She admitted she’d been having nightmares since coming here, but they were useless to parse through. All they did was scare her.”
Astrid continued up the stairs. Though Freya had tried to explain before how Brenn’s magic was different from that of the orcs who served as priestesses in Torden’s temples, Astrid had little understanding of magic in general.
Brenn was more sensitive—more empathetic, perhaps, than was entirely useful.
Sigurd and Freya reached out to grab each of Astrid’s arms as she faltered on the steps.
When had Astrid started thinking of people in terms of how useful they were to her?
That was something she needed to work on while she was being conscious of incorporating the old version of herself. The old Astrid would never have thought of Brenn in such a way. Where was her compassion?
Freya’s voice was tight when she released Astrid’s arm. “I am begging you not to bludgeon yourself on the stairs again, Your Majesty.”
“You’re right. Yes. Sorry,” said Astrid.
A guard waited at the top of the stairs. He took Varin’s arm when they got close and whispered something in his ear.
“Back down the stairs,” Varin said. “They’re in the library.”
“I thought King Skarde would be in our guest apartments,” said Astrid.
“Guthmar is hiding in the library, and King Skarde has caught word.”
Down the stairs again they went, Freya boring holes in Astrid’s back with her eyes.
For an older orc, Varin’s pace was brisk. Never a good sign, when it came to Varin. The closer they got, the more audible the yelling became. Astrid held the end of her cloak so as not to trip as she rushed through the open library doors.
“You’re not my king,” Vera was saying. “I don’t bow to you.”
“I demand you hand over my cousin right this second,” King Skarde boomed.
He was surrounded by his retinue—attendants and soldiers, most of whom looked like they would rather be somewhere else, and two bedraggled priestesses.
The soldiers had swords extended in Vera’s direction, which she was understandably not taking well to.
She shoved the weapons out of her face, only for them to be pointed at her with renewed vehemence.
Vera would certainly be injured soon if Astrid did not intervene.
“King Skarde,” Astrid said. “I insist you refrain from skewering my favorite librarian.”
The king jolted. “Queen Astrid,” he said, cloying. “In Sydlig, we are usually present to greet our guests.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you forgot to send word you were coming.”
King Skarde stared. Astrid stared back, cocking her head in challenge.
The king was a muscular orc who might have seen some battle on his own. Unlike Astrid’s, his crown was quite elaborate, littered with jewels that sent cascades of light in every direction from the morning sunlight that streamed through the windows. He was dressed in fine velvet, richly colored.
“I need to speak with my cousin, but your librarian is hiding him,” King Skarde said.
“I am a scholar,” said Vera, “not a babysitter.”
Astrid turned on her heel. “Vera, where is Guthmar?”
Vera sneered. She had told King Skarde she would not bow to him, but in truth, she did not bow to Astrid, either. “In the back with his spouses. I should mention he does not seem fond of His Royal Majesty.”
“Noted,” Astrid said. She gestured for King Skarde to stay and headed to the private nook of the library that had served as her sanctuary over her years of ruling.
Guthmar was seated in the cozy reading chair. Tassi stood stoically behind him while Alvor kneeled at his feet, holding Guthmar’s hand and muttering reassurances. His face was puffy and red from crying.
“Hello, Guthmar,” Astrid said pleasantly. “Do you have any idea what your king wants from us that would warrant an uninvited and unannounced visit?”
Guthmar sniffled into a notably damp kerchief. “His brother’s dead, I’d wager.”
“His brother,” Astrid repeated.
“The one who was supposed to be the ambassador,” Freya supplied. “He’d fallen ill.”
“Ill,” Guthmar repeated, and laughed sadly. “If only. ’Tis a shame. His brother was a better man, though the standard is not high.”
“Queen Astrid!” King Skarde shouted from the front desk. “You are being rather rude.”
Astrid returned to the desk, where Vera stood glowering impressively at the entire retinue all at once.
“Your steward has been inhospitable and refused to answer my questions,” said King Skarde. “Your librarian is impossible. You are a terrible hostess.”
Astrid forced her trembling hands to be still. “And is it not rude to arrive in my queendom unannounced?”
The king’s face turned an impressive shade of chartreuse. He responded by charging past Sigurd, bumping her on his way to Guthmar.
Astrid followed. Tassi and Alvor now stood protectively before Guthmar, who sobbed anew.
“Move,” King Skarde ordered.
“You must be kind to him,” Tassi said, voice shaking. “He has done nothing wrong.”
“Both of you, leave.”
Neither of Guthmar’s spouses budged.
“That is an order from your king,” he added darkly.
“We will protect him,” Astrid promised them.
There was a clatter at the entrance to the small alcove as Sigurd and Norga held Skarde’s guards back from joining him. This area was crowded enough already, the least peaceful Astrid had ever seen it.
Alvor and Tassi parted around Skarde to exit the library.
“Stand up for your king, you sniveling piece of shit,” Skarde yelled down to Guthmar.
Anger rose in Astrid. She had become fond of Guthmar in his time at Vakker Castle, fonder than she thought possible.
“King Skarde,” Astrid said, “I really must insist you do not accost my guests in my home.”
“This guest is only here because I sent him.”
Freya slid in behind Guthmar’s chair. She patted the blade at her hip, and Astrid nodded.
“You never clarified why you sent your ambassador, not to mention the consuls in every major city. You’ve never offered to help us before, so I have to assume you’re spying on us,” Astrid said. “Why get involved now? Have you taken up with Ulfur’s people?”
The king unsheathed his sword. Sigurd and Norga surged forward, blocking Astrid with their arms. No longer held off by Astrid’s félag, King Skarde’s guards came through, packing in like a mound of dead fish at the market.
Astrid shuddered. “Am I to take this as a yes, King Skarde? Are we at war?”
Skarde’s chest heaved. The point of his sword descended and scraped against the floor.
Vera would have something to say about that, Astrid thought.
“We are not at war,” King Skarde said, “but if you do not allow me to reclaim my useless cousin, I may reconsider.”
Useless. Too similar to how Astrid had caught herself thinking about Brenn. She looked at King Skarde and saw how cold he had made himself, how calculating he had become as king. Maybe he had always been like this.
But Astrid hadn’t.
“Consider Guthmar officially under my protection until you can tell me exactly what’s going on here,” said Astrid.
“My brother,” King Skarde said, spittle flying, “is dead. Guthmar poisoned him.”
“Poison?” Astrid said. The idea of Guthmar poisoning someone was so absurd, she wanted to laugh. “Do you really think this kind man is capable of poisoning someone?”
“Yes,” said King Skarde. “My brother told me so, right before he died. He and Guthmar shared mead the night before he became violently ill. We had the mead tested.”
Which meant Skarde had forcibly made someone else drink it, Astrid guessed.
“And it was poisoned,” King Skarde went on, like he thought Astrid was slow to understand. “So Guthmar has done it.”
Guthmar cried some more. “Did he really think…? He died thinking that I killed him?”
“Didn’t you?” King Skarde said. “You’ve always been unpredictable, Guthmar. Unfit to do anything that required more than picking daisies in the garden.”
“I like daisies,” Guthmar said weakly. “They are beautiful.”
“Do you have any proof Guthmar did this?” Astrid asked. “Did he ferment the mead himself?”
“I do like mead,” Guthmar said. “Though I know not how to make it.”
Astrid fought back a sigh. Of course, during the one night she took away from her responsibilities, the entire queendom would fall apart. “King Skarde, what is your plan if I do give you Guthmar?”
“Give me my own cousin,” King Skarde said, snorting. “The plan is to take him home and behead him, of course.”
“That is where we are at odds, Your Majesty,” said Astrid. “I would like him alive.”
“You are a terrible queen and a worse woman,” King Skarde said. “I do not trust you to defend yourself from Ulfur’s warbands any more than I would trust a horse to be my treasurer.”
“I had a horse that could count, once,” Guthmar offered.
Astrid and Skarde glared at him.
“Have I done something to make you lose faith in my competence, Skarde?” Astrid asked, forgoing his title deliberately. He puffed up like he was going to say something, but she cut him off again. “The last time we spoke, we treated each other as equals. What’s changed?”
Astrid waited with her heart in her throat. If Skarde had news about Ulfur moving in… She didn’t know how she could preserve her old self and defend the country from active war. It wouldn’t be possible.
“I received word from a reliable source,” the king began, “that you planned to redirect Ulfur to us first to buy yourself time after the alliance with Branwen.”
“Your source is wrong,” Astrid said. Her mind felt jumbled, unsure.
What did Branwen have to do with this? The alliance between Torden and Branwen—cemented with the marriage of Ruga to Princess Elketh of Branwen—had been supposed to deter war, not encourage Skarde to act.
Was Ruga safe there, or would Skarde come after her, too?
“My source is incredibly reliable and verifiable. Guthmar, tell your new queen.”
Guthmar threw up his hands. “I cannot say,” he said.
“Why, you—”
“If we could refrain from name calling, please,” Astrid said, suddenly feeling very tired.
“I have never spoken ill of you in court, Skarde, nor have I thought you wanted to be involved after my many pleas for Sydlig’s help were ignored.
I do not understand how it has possibly been turned against me like this. ”
“Who is your source?” Freya asked from her corner.
Everyone turned to face her. Freya was serious, her knife on display. She did not look like the meek servant who blended into the background.
She looked like a threat.
“I would just like to say,” Guthmar interjected, “that I do not think this is true any longer, Skarde. As I said to you in my letter, I believe the source was mistaken.”
“Damn your useless letters.”
“Who is your source?” Freya repeated.
And then Freya looked up, up, up, and her eyes widened in horror.