Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was little Astrid could do about the assassin on the loose.
Varin had guards investigating the castle, searching rooms, fortifying weak spots.
What good was any of it? They were unlikely to find the assassin’s journal, wherein she’d laid out all her plans.
A creeping frustration overcame Astrid as she was subjected to meeting after meeting to discuss suspicious finds and motives. None were fruitful.
During the fifth meeting of the day, Astrid looked behind her for Freya’s presence. Of course, Freya was gone. Astrid had looked back, again and again, and Freya was still not there, and it was Astrid’s fault.
The things Freya had said to Astrid had stung in a way only Freya could hurt her.
There was a kernel of truth to each one—Astrid had pushed Freya away for as long as they’d known each other.
Freya, with her watchful gray eyes, had told Astrid she was interested in a million ways, had showed her love in just as many, and Astrid was the one who’d chosen not to act.
Always, she’d been the one holding them back.
An ache started behind Astrid’s eyes.
Varin held up a key for which no one knew the lock and sighed. “I believe some unfortunate historian can no longer enter their dwelling. I don’t know if this warrants a meeting.”
Astrid stood and marched to the exit.
She was aware of the silence that ensued, but she did not care, particularly, how she came off. The guards at the door shuffled after her as she briskly walked out, out, out, into the night air and under the moon.
She stuffed her hands under her armpits.
“Help me,” she murmured to the sky. Freya did not believe in the goddess, or perhaps not in her power, but Astrid wasn’t above begging.
She kept doing the wrong thing, and at this rate, she’d never get anything right.
Nothing ever went as Astrid Karrsdaughter wished.
She needed all the help she could get.
A warm hand curled over Astrid’s shoulder. She avoided looking back—the same gesture she’d repeated all day, undoubtedly noticed by others.
“You must be tired,” Ruga said.
“I am quite sick of not going anywhere with this,” said Astrid.
“And missing Freya?”
Astrid huffed. “She is always there. I am not coping well.”
Ruga stepped in front of Astrid. Her eyebrow quirked, but she said nothing. Astrid was never so straightforward with her emotions. In Ruga’s absence, in allowing herself to have Freya… She’d changed.
“She needed to be put somewhere safe where she could heal. Brenn was right, and so were you to follow through,” Ruga argued.
“She has served others her whole life,” Astrid said. “It is not right of me to force her to do anything.”
“You’re thinking about the things she said before she left,” Ruga said knowingly.
“Have I not pushed her away?” Astrid asked. The ache behind her eyes worsened. The tears would come soon, and she did not want to shed them in front of anyone except Ruga. The guards who’d followed them were not far.
“You have pushed many people away,” Ruga said. “Many more than you needed to.”
“I know.” Astrid had pushed Ruga away, too.
Astrid had thought that, as queen, creating distance commanded respect. Maybe in another time, another world where Ulfur didn’t exist, she would have become queen and been allowed to flourish in a peaceful, golden era of Torden.
In this place, where enemies could lurk in the shadows, she’d needed to be unequivocally strong and impenetrable.
Yet everyone had seen her break for Freya.
She cursed herself once, then twice, and then the tears came.
Ruga enveloped Astrid in her arms. Their dynamic had always been like this—Ruga the caring sister, even though she was younger, and Astrid being cared for.
Astrid had pushed Ruga away, emotionally and physically.
She had not resisted when Freya proposed Ruga’s marriage.
Ruga was not far in Branwen, but she was free from the burdens Astrid had handed to her every day.
Free to choose for herself what she wanted. Free to choose love.
Astrid had given Ruga the fate she wished for herself.
With Ruga’s arms around her, Astrid waited until her eyes dried and a deep cold crept past her cloak. She dabbed her face on the furry hem and breathed in painful gulps of night air.
Someone approached quietly, footsteps on the dry ground.
Astrid did look back this time. It was Hedda. The former captain of Astrid’s félag was careful to look at her queen and not at Ruga, even though Ruga was the one who said, “Hello, Hedda. How can we help you?”
“Ruga,” Hedda said, nodding. “Your Majesty, Guthmar and his retinue will be leaving soon. He wishes to speak with you.”
Astrid had asked Guthmar what was going to happen with Sydlig’s throne, and in response, he had locked himself in his rooms. She suspected, in the absence of the king and the king’s brother, Guthmar himself would serve as king in the interim until Sydlig’s council had time to sort out the succession.
The assassination of the king would make this a difficult job to hold, particularly for someone who would rather watch birds than rule a country.
Astrid felt a pang of sympathy for Guthmar. She had not wanted to be queen; she knew what it was like to have such responsibility thrust upon you.
“I will speak with him,” Astrid said.
When they got there, Guthmar was packing his bags with the help of Alvor and Tassi.
Tassi removed several items from the bags—gifts, Astrid realized, from people around the castle, ranging from silverware in the kitchens to the book with the birds.
Alvor muttered to Tassi, but his hunched shoulders gave no room for this indulgence.
Astrid understood why. It did not look good to come home with a series of trinkets from the country where the king had been murdered.
One of the guards from Guthmar’s retinue was present, but there was no sign of the other staff.
“The serving staff was sent home,” said Tassi, brusquely, when he saw Astrid’s unshielded bewilderment. “Our other guard is with your armorer, who was kind enough to offer fresh equipment for the rest of the late king’s retinue.”
King Skarde’s guards still roamed the castle, angrily upturning whatever mattresses or upholstery they felt would contain the assassin’s secrets. Astrid had been careful to appease them with as much food and drink as they wished so they would be less inclined to turn around and stab her.
“Only brought the servants because my cousin insisted,” Guthmar grumbled from his luggage. His voice was gravelly, like he’d been crying or drinking. When he looked up, his eyes were red, and his horns twitched.
Astrid recognized this brand of exhaustion well. “If you need any assistance, just let us know how we can provide for you.”
“Who is this?” Alvor asked.
Ruga stepped forward. Had they really not met? Astrid supposed Ruga had been by her side while Guthmar dealt with his own problems.
“Ruga Karrsdaughter. The queen’s younger sister, and Queen Consort of Branwen.
” Ruga shook hands with Alvor, and her face brightened.
“Oh, do you hunt? My wife loves to hunt. Perhaps we can arrange a visit in a more peaceful time. Branwen is such a beautiful island. A change of scenery might be beneficial—”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think now is a good time,” Alvor said, taking back her hand. “We should discuss the succession.”
“Of course.” Ruga backed away politely.
Where would Guthmar be without his spouses? Astrid wondered as Guthmar rubbed a hand down his face.
“The council is not fond of me,” said Guthmar. “But then, they were not fond of Skarde either.”
“Guthmar,” Tassi warned.
“It’s all right, dear,” said Alvor. “We should be transparent.”
“Thanks, Alvie.” Guthmar patted her hand. “The council may go with me, or they may go with someone else. We will have a mourning period for the current king, of course.”
“Of course,” said Astrid.
“I know it has been said, but I want to extend our sincere condolences for your loss,” said Ruga.
Guthmar looked up at her with wet eyes. “He was an unkind man, certainly to me.”
“You’ve had other losses,” said Alvor.
“The loss of my freedom,” said Guthmar.
An awkward silence ensued.
“In any case,” Astrid said, “we are grateful we could host you here, Ambassador. I have enjoyed your presence immensely.”
She was surprised to find it was true. Whatever the political forces around Guthmar—however they beat him down—he was a ray of sunshine in an otherwise bleak world.
Someone who could find the good in little things.
A rarity to Astrid, who saw the world so differently.
She was swept up with the sudden urge to hug him.
Guthmar threw his arms around Astrid. His enthusiastic squeeze was unlike Ruga’s assuring hugs, but it was still the warm embrace of someone who had come to like her, and that was nice, too. Astrid returned the gesture.
“I will let them know you had nothing to do with Skarde’s death,” said Guthmar. “But they may blame you anyway, you know.”
“I know,” Astrid said with a sigh.
“I hope your little shadow is healing well,” he added in a whisper.
Astrid held her tongue.
“I am sorry that your citizens were hurt by the attacker,” said Alvor. “Even with the number of guards present… It’s just appalling that everything happened the way it did.”
Tassi’s lip curled like he wanted to say something.
“May I hug you as well?” Guthmar asked Ruga.
“Why not?” Ruga said. She hugged him too, and then Guthmar sighed with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Back to packing. We must go home with haste.”
Astrid and Ruga left them. It was kind of Guthmar to consider Freya’s health amidst his own turmoil. Astrid did not envy the journey he had ahead of him, no matter how short he might rule.
A strange feeling overcame Astrid, and she stopped at a window and looked out into the night.
Something wasn’t right. There were answers in this castle, but the person best at seeking them wasn’t here to find them.
A falcon crossed in front of the moon. Even when Freya wasn’t physically here, part of her remained.