Chapter Twenty-Four
Astrid couldn’t breathe.
Freya’s body was limp in her arms, practically weightless. As though the goddess had already claimed her soul and reincarnated her into her next body.
Someone took hold of Astrid’s shoulders and gave her a good shake. Vera, her lips moving. She was saying something.
Astrid could not hear anything.
She was screaming.
An armored hand reached for Astrid. With wild abandon, Astrid unsheathed Freya’s dagger and slashed.
Hedda only just moved her hand in time. She shouted, waving people back.
Astrid rose. Her fingers were slick with Freya’s blood. She released a wordless wail of agony.
Hands up in defense, Vera stepped toward Astrid. Astrid lunged at her with the dagger, and Vera staggered back, stunned.
Blood pounded in Astrid’s ears. She was aware of only two things—the crumpled body at her feet, and the need to protect Freya the way Freya had protected her these last ten years.
The faces in front of her blurred, unrecognizable. A few dared to come closer. Astrid stood her ground for what felt like hours, years: a tireless guard, a devotee to her deity, a mourner standing vigil.
She stared down at Freya’s face. The skin was beginning to turn purple, bruised and sickly.
Astrid had pictured Freya dying a thousand ways: from stress, prematurely aged, or else sick, like humans tended to become. She had known Freya would be gone too soon from her life—had felt it in every interaction—but she could never have imagined losing Freya now.
It was unthinkable. Unreal. And yet here she was, standing over Freya’s dying body.
The few guards left in the room parted as someone new arrived. Astrid’s thoughts moved like sludge, not recognizing their face but instead the distinctive staff and the priestess robes.
Brenn approached, staff held in front of her as if herding a scared animal. Astrid returned to her body, grounded by the recognition.
The dagger clattered out of her grasp.
“Please let me care for her, Your Majesty,” Brenn said. “I turned back as soon as I was far away enough to receive the goddess’s messages. She needs my help. I can heal her.”
Astrid’s feet were leaden as she dragged herself to the side.
Brenn’s face, usually so controlled, fell when she saw Freya. Astrid’s heart lurched. She had feared the worst, but she always feared the worst. If Brenn thought Freya looked bad…
Freya really could die.
“I need you to summon the priestesses from Vakker’s temple,” Brenn said to Varin. When he didn’t move, she added, “Now!”
Varin scrambled away, calling directions to the guards.
Astrid tried to speak, but her throat was hoarse from screaming. “You always work alone,” she rasped. “She told me. You can’t do magic with others.”
“Your Majesty,” Brenn said, and Astrid saw she was crying—of course she was, because Astrid was being selfish as always, and Brenn loved Freya too. “I cannot heal a wound this severe by myself.”
Nonetheless, Brenn knelt next to her friend and pressed a hand to her chest. The sound of chanting filled the room as everyone waited in silence. Freya’s chest glowed under Brenn’s touch, and then began to rise and fall steadily.
Freya was alive. For now.
Astrid stepped back, and her fingers caught on Hedda’s armor.
“We should give her privacy to work, Your Majesty,” said Hedda, and Astrid numbly nodded her assent.
When Brenn had done what she could, she had Sigurd bring Freya to Astrid’s temporary, secure rooms and set her on the bed over Astrid’s plush blankets.
Sigurd helped Astrid out of her blood-soaked tunic and into fresh garments.
Dimly, Astrid registered Sigurd telling her that they’d scoured the area, but the assailant had gotten away.
Someone handed Astrid a cup of hot tea. The cat rubbed against Astrid’s legs, but she could not bring herself to pet him. Meanwhile, Brenn kneeled at Freya’s side, occasionally murmuring a chant that made the crease between Freya’s eyebrows lessen for a few minutes.
After Astrid’s tea had long grown cold and bitter, a herd of orc priestesses flooded the small room. They muttered to each other as Brenn explained the situation. One of them unscrewed the lid of a jar of pungent herbs, and then they surrounded Freya so Astrid could not see.
A trembling hand pressed into Astrid’s shoulder through her cloak. She looked up. Varin watched her, grave-faced. She had not seen him come in. She had barely noticed anything but Freya and her care for the last several hours.
“You have a visitor, Queen Astrid,” he said. “It will be better for the priestesses to not feel the pressure of their monarch’s scrutiny.”
What poor timing. “Send them away. I do not wish to leave.”
“I will watch her, Your Majesty,” Brenn promised. The look in Brenn’s face—the wariness toward the other priestesses—soothed Astrid, if only briefly. Brenn would make sure the priestesses did not do anything Astrid disapproved of.
And queens always had to greet visitors.
“Very well,” Astrid said. Her voice was still thin. “Send for me immediately if there are any changes.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Astrid made no effort to move. Gently, Varin lifted her arm over his shoulder and got her back on her feet.
“I’ve sent out search parties to find the assassin. We do not know much about their appearance—only eyewitness accounts of a silhouette in a window. We have no idea of clothing, gender, or the type of bow used. They have horns, from several recollections, so we are only suspecting orcs.”
Varin had to repeat himself three times before Astrid understood. When she did, she blinked at him in surprise. Of course, it was nice to have Varin’s help, but Freya would investigate this and neutralize the threat.
The revelation hit her like a blacksmith’s hammer. Freya could not investigate. She might never investigate again.
To Astrid’s dismay, she could not remember a time before relying on Freya to take care of such matters. How would Astrid live if Freya didn’t?
She staggered, but Varin had come to a stop in front of the félag guardroom. Astrid did not remember the path she’d walked to get here.
“Who is the visitor?” Astrid remembered to ask. Her heart had been clawed from her chest; she hardly cared to entertain a guest.
Varin pushed the door open. Daylight streamed into the room over a series of bunk beds. At one of the tables where the guards played cards and Tafl, an orc with silky purple hair in a flower-patterned dress paused, her fingers clenching a game piece.
She dropped the piece onto the board, eliciting a gentle swear from her opponent—Hrothgar, Astrid realized.
“Oh, Astrid!” the orc exclaimed, and rushed to throw her arms around her.
“Ruga,” Astrid said, delayed. She could not bring herself to return the hug.
“How is she?” Ruga asked. She searched Astrid’s face, and her expression grew somber. “Oh, never mind. Shall we find somewhere private?”
Astrid allowed herself to be led to one of the guest apartments on the floor below as if in a trance. The room was sparsely decorated and stale and the sun was abnormally bright against Astrid’s dour mood.
“It is nice to see you,” Astrid forced herself to say. She was not sure if it was true. Normally, she would be elated. It was hard to feel anything.
“Varin sent for me,” Ruga said. “I took the first ferry over from the island. Is there anything I can do?”
Astrid snorted. Ruga knew her well—well enough to not ask how she was doing.
“The priestesses will have to heal her,” Astrid said, voice cold. She was echoing what Varin told her, she knew from some deep part of her brain, but she could not recall when he had said it. “There’s nothing else to be done.”
Ruga sat on the end of the bed next to Astrid. “How long have you been together?”
“What?” Astrid asked, jerking her head.
“I’m happy you acted on your feelings, truly,” Ruga said. “You held off for far too long.”
Astrid knew Ruga well, too—well enough to know when the subject was being changed.
Ruga was good at things like this. Distracting people to help them, or delving deeper into the bad feelings when that helped more.
All Astrid did was hurt the people around her.
Cause others to suffer, like Freya was now.
The truth was, Astrid and Freya had been acting on their feelings for years.
Every time Freya patted her weapon from across the room to assure Astrid she was protected, she displayed her love.
Every time Astrid waited for Freya to go to sleep before falling asleep herself, it was an act of love.
This had been going on for a long, long time—and Astrid did not know how to determine its origin, the point at which Freya had tipped from an employee who had proven competent to the most important person in Astrid’s life.
“Is it good to have acted on them?” Astrid asked, voice cracking. “Even though I could lose her?”
“Even so,” said Ruga. Her lips turned up in a rueful smile. “You deny yourself everything, Astrid. You deserve to indulge where you can.”
To hear Ruga affirm Astrid’s feelings brought tears to her eyes. Naturally, her feelings brought her to this mental state in the first place. She had allowed herself too much.
“Was it obvious?” she asked, thinking of Hedda and Hrothgar. Astrid supposed you could only exchange so many meaningful glances across a room before someone noticed. She had been careful to hold all her other emotions close, and yet this one came through clear as day.
“Yes,” said Ruga. “More so from Freya than from you, if you don’t mind my saying so. I do not see her protecting the other Torden citizens—or Brenn, even—the way she does you. She cares for you deeply. I would wager she has done so for a very long time.”
“Queens cannot have love like this,” Astrid said. “I was beastly today.”
She could only imagine how she had looked, not only to her own people, but to the Sydlig retinue. Like she could not be controlled. Lashing out at her own félag. She would have to issue an apology to anyone whose head she had nearly taken off. The embarrassment would set in later.
“Everything ends,” Ruga said. “That does not mean it is not worth experiencing.” She set her head on Astrid’s shoulder lightly. The circlet she wore, signifying her as Queen Consort of Branwen, tickled Astrid’s ear.
“You were sweet to come, Ruga, but I think you should leave,” Astrid said. It was about time she started behaving like a queen again. “There is an assassin on the loose, and they have targeted both me and King Skarde. I cannot promise your safety.”
She had completely forgotten about him until she said his name. He might be dead, for all she knew. She did not care if he was. She did not care about Sydlig, or Ulfur’s battle-worn Lynby, or her own country.
Her only concern was her human handmaiden.
Someone knocked gently on the door. Ruga answered.
“Hello, Brenn,” Ruga said. Kindness seeped from her voice, and empathy. Two things Astrid was not capable of at the moment.
“Hello, Ruga. You’re looking lovely. Things are going well with Elketh, I take it?”
Astrid looked up in time to see her sister blush.
“Very well,” said Ruga. “She certainly keeps me busy.”
“I have heard much about her,” said Brenn. “I do not doubt it.”
“Is there an update?” Astrid croaked from the bed, feeling like she was the only one worrying, even though it couldn’t possibly be true. “How is the healing process?”
Brenn turned to Astrid and gave her an awkward bow.
“King Skarde does not fare well, Your Majesty. We do not expect him to survive the day. I spoke with Varin, who is concerned about retaliation from Sydlig. It does not look good for us. He thinks certain nobility left behind in Sydlig could view the assassination as your doing. It would mean more war.”
Astrid could not convey enough how little she cared about this. “And Freya?”
“Freya is…” Brenn cleared her throat, and Ruga gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We are keeping a close eye on her. The arrow was poisoned, as you may have ascertained. The poison is in her blood. We are doing what we can.”
“What you can,” Astrid repeated. “Brenn, please be honest with me.”
“I don’t know,” she said, and she threw up her hands. “I don’t know, Your Majesty. I am so sorry. We have everyone working as hard as they can. Some people cannot be saved.”
Astrid stood from the bed. She set back her shoulders, pushed out her chest. The change in her posture changed her mindset too, made her voice stable where it had been hoarse.
“I want you to leave,” she said, “and do whatever convening with the goddess you must do to determine whether she will live. And if you see that she will not, you must stop it.”
“Astrid, you can’t ask that of her,” Ruga said. “Only so much can be done.”
“No, that’s all right, Ruga,” said Brenn. “I will leave and see what I can find out. I’ll come back to check on her as soon as I can.”
“Thank you, Brenn,” Ruga said, because Astrid wasn’t going to.