Chapter Twenty-Three
Someone was feeding bad information to King Skarde.
Freya was determined to figure out who. It was clear King Skarde was not the kind of person who would let a conversation go anywhere meaningful. She found her interjection important and necessary, or else she would not have made it.
If they could not trust King Skarde, and they had a threat to every side of them but the sea, Torden was doomed.
As the accusations flung back and forth, Freya caught onto one thing—the poisoned brother.
Guthmar had mentioned that Elgir, the original ambassador, was sick.
Pustules, he’d said, a symptom Freya recognized from her research at Astrid’s bedside.
And he’d said it like he knew there had been some foul play afoot.
Was it possible Guthmar was the poisoner?
Freya had seen him talk his husband out of killing a spider once.
Maybe the king was setting Guthmar up to take this fall, while ridding himself of a brother who he thought was going to kill him and steal his throne like in the old days of orc country.
King Skarde would need someone to take the blame, and Freya fully believed this king who waved his sword around like he didn’t care who caught the pointy end was capable of cold-blooded murder.
The sound of scraping stone drew Freya’s attention from the king. A sound from above. In the calamity, no one had thought to look up, not the félag and not Freya.
She tilted her head back to seek out the source of the noise. There—past the corbels, on the ledge, a silhouette against the morning sun. A figure, crouched. Freya only caught a glimpse when the figure’s arm twitched.
“Get down!” Freya screamed.
She had time to register Norga and Sigurd throw their bodies over the queen, tackling her. King Skarde stood in the middle, dumbfounded as his soldiers at Freya’s demand.
It was one of those times where being invisible did not come in handy.
She leaped over the chair, where Guthmar huddled with his hands over his head, and shoved the king squarely in the chest, knocking him back.
The head of the arrow landed thickly in the rug—just barely snicking the leather of Freya’s boot. If King Skarde hadn’t moved, he would have been shot.
“Out!” she screamed. “Everyone out!”
The Sydlig soldiers bottlenecked the narrow exit. Between them, too much armor, too many broad shoulders. Norga and Sigurd crouched and shuffled Astrid away from danger.
Guthmar jumped out of the chair and hid on the side opposite the window.
Freya chucked one of her knives at the archer just as another arrow whizzed past her and landed in the shoulder of one of King Skarde’s guards. Right in the chink of his armor.
Stars. They were a good shot. The archer caught Freya’s knife under their boot and kicked it away.
The archer was too high up. Freya didn’t have the momentum she needed to be as deadly as she wanted. The arrows would kill anyone in this trapped space.
One of the panicked soldiers pushed through the bottleneck. A bookshelf fell in a clatter. There was a shout from Vera on the other side of the room, and then an arrow thunked into the king’s shoulder, and he screamed.
Freya darted between Norga and Sigurd and took Astrid’s hand.
She tugged her to the thin space between two shelves and pushed with all her might, knocking an entire shelf of books down to clear a path.
Astrid’s eyes were wide, her hands trembling, as she slipped left and right over the sliding pages.
“The king!” someone yelled. “The king’s been shot!”
A second time? The archer was targeting royals.
Freya would not let the archer take Astrid from her.
Freya shoved and shoved at Astrid. Someone slammed into the back of a bookshelf and it began to tilt, threatening to crush them. Astrid dodged; Freya rolled. The top of the shelf scraped the back of her calf, and she bit back a scream. She hobbled away and took half a second to check on Astrid.
They were too exposed. They were going to die.
Astrid hauled Freya up by her hands. “Are you all right?” Astrid wheezed.
Something slammed into Freya from behind, winding her. She jolted forward, crashing into Astrid. Astrid stood steady, held Freya’s shoulders.
Astrid’s midsection was splattered in blood.
Freya reached a tentative hand to Astrid. Where was the wound? Freya’s pulse came quick. She couldn’t find the point of entry, her fingers were slick with hot blood brighter than anything she’d ever seen, and—
“Oh, Freya,” Astrid said. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m not losing you,” Freya said. She tasted copper. “I will keep you safe.” Something warm oozed from the side of her mouth. “You are going to be all right.”
She coughed. Over the ringing in her ears, Vera shrieked. An onslaught of armed guards entered the library. A volley of arrows ensued—too many to be shot by one person. Most hit the stone and bounced off pathetically.
Freya’s heart felt weak. She clutched at it and pricked her finger on the sharp tip of the arrow protruding from her chest.
“No,” she said, as if disbelieving would make the arrow disappear. “No, no, no.”
“Help!” Astrid said. “Send for a healer!”
Freya’s legs gave out under her. She clung to the fabric of Astrid’s cloak, sinking to her knees even as Astrid tried to hold her up.
“I’ll get Brenn,” Vera’s clear voice called back.
Astrid sobbed. “She sent her away. She’s not here! Do something, quick!”
Spots filled Freya’s vision. She steadied her breathing. Look normal for Astrid, she told herself. Look like you can make it through this.
I’ve been shot.
The admission was like cold water coming over her. How bitter, to have survived everything she’d endured, only to go out like this. She knew better.
Freya couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers.
Astrid’s bellowed orders rang against Freya’s ears like the beating of a drum.
Freya’s head tilted back—too far back, against her will—and she caught a blurry glimpse of the mullioned window up high, showing an unobstructed view of a beautiful orange sky with a rising sun.
Someone was lifting her, then, touching her wound. She winced in pain. She winced again when someone broke the arrow in half.
Faces above her. Hedda, hands slicked with blood, a black-feathered fletching between her fingers. Wasn’t she supposed to be resting? Where had she come from? And there was Vera, calm and steady, her cool palm against Freya’s forehead.
Astrid, like her world had ended. Her wet tears fell over Freya.
Freya could not feel her fingers, but she moved them. Brushed them against Astrid’s hand. An attempt to push her away.
“Don’t touch,” she gasped. “Poison.”
And then she said nothing at all.