Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Rosebriar Inn was quieter than Freya’s last visit.
The smell of ale, stale bodies, and freshly mopped floors brought back the memories of the night Astrid had fled here. An appropriate place to return to, Freya thought. How different things had seemed back then. A night filled with hope. Freya knew she might never feel that way again.
She picked a table at the back corner, warm enough to feel the hearth and keep both exits in view. Two groups huddled close to the hearth: one trio of orcs, one pair of humans. They spoke in low voices. This time of night, it was late enough to be considered early.
Back at the temple, Freya had gone to bed, waited until she couldn’t anymore, and then crept out of the shared sleeping quarters to the stable.
The horses did not spook—they were unused to crime, their whole lives cared for by priestesses who wore robes like Freya’s.
Freya had taken one with ease, mounting the horse with the help of a stool, though the ride had been taxing with her recent weakness.
She’d slipped into the night like a spirit, stolen alms in her pocket.
She would repay the priestesses as soon as she got the chance.
A sleepy barmaid set a tankard of ale before Freya. She had a tentative sip. The ale was lukewarm, hardly worth the stolen money spent to buy it.
Freya could not afford to stay the night. She had to act soon. There wasn’t time to sleep.
Returning to the castle was a great way to get herself tied up and dragged to the temple via armed guard.
The best thing she could do was bide her time until she could find and confront the assassin on her own.
If none of the priestesses had woken when Freya stole the horse, they would certainly report back to Astrid about Freya’s absence in the morning.
Unfortunately, Freya couldn’t afford to wait.
All time left to spare had been used up during her healing period.
A distracted Astrid had left everything to Varin.
Freya liked the steward, and generally trusted his competence, but he was busy—things slipped past him, as she’d discovered when she first arrived in Torden.
He could not put the kind of focus on the assassin that Freya could.
And surely Sydlig’s council would send investigators to resolve the king’s death.
That was, if they didn’t send an army and blame Torden instead.
Freya drummed her fingers on the table. Ever since the temple, she’d felt an unusual clarity. Suspects filtered through her mind. Many of the visitors were suspicious, but most wouldn’t be motivated to kill a king.
The door to the Rosebriar Inn opened, and an orc and a human entered.
Freya shivered against the sudden gust of cold. She made note of the newcomers’ garb—cloaks like everyone wore in autumn, no weapons at their hips—and let her eyes fall back to her drink, wary of appearing too interested.
The two approached the hearth. Freya waited for them to settle.
“Freya?” one of them said.
Freya’s eyes snapped up. She squinted at the newcomers in the low light of the room. Her knuckles tightened around her ale—she recognized them. Two of the ambassador’s servants. Hjotra, the orc, and Ingirun, the human.
She tried to compose herself, gave a little wave.
What were Guthmar’s servants doing here?
Was Varin doing a thorough investigation?
If it had been up to Freya, she would have locked down the castle and refused to let anyone leave until she had alibis from every last one of them, and at least two stories to corroborate each. And a dead assassin in her hands.
Guthmar’s attendants took the seats across from Freya. They smelled of fresh laundry and looked bright, well-rested. Freya felt a prick of envy. She might smell like eucalyptus, and maybe a bit like horse, but she doubted she exuded restfulness.
Once, Freya had winked at Hjotra at the staff table in the dining hall. Guthmar’s attendants called her handsome, she remembered. She did not feel handsome now.
“Whatever are you doing here?” Ingirun asked gently. She held up two fingers to the barmaid when the barmaid passed and received a grunt in exchange. “Have you sworn yourself to the goddess since we last saw you?”
Freya tugged at the novice robes. “Something like that.”
“We heard you were hurt,” said Hjotra.
“Yes,” said Freya curtly. “Perhaps not a conversation to have around others.”
The two exchanged a half-frightened look. Freya tried to cool her agitation. They’d found her, pallid and half-healed, wearing priestess’s robes at an inn in the early hours of the morning. Excuses would be lacking in logic. A change in subject was better.
“What are you two doing here?” Freya asked quietly. “I thought you would be with the ambassador.”
“We’ve been dismissed,” said Ingirun.
“He never really wanted us there,” confided Hjotra. “I’m sure he was dying to get rid of us.”
The ale tasted sour on Freya’s tongue. “I suppose he didn’t know what to do with you.”
“No, I don’t suppose so,” Ingirun said. “His spouses, on the other hand…”
Hjotra rolled her eyes. “Anyway, we’ve been sent away to find other employment, but traveling all the way to Sydlig is a lot of work. We thought we would stick around and see if there were any opportunities here.”
“What brings you to Rosebriar in particular?” Freya asked.
The barmaid set ale before the two attendants. They thanked her, clinked their tankards against each other, and took generous gulps.
“That’s good ale,” said Ingirun.
“Better than back home. Just another reason to stay in Torden,” said Hjotra.
“What brings you to Rosebriar?” Freya repeated.
Ingirun blinked at her, expression blank. “Oh. Uh. We heard there was good business here.”
“From whom?”
“Sorry?”
“Where did you hear that?” Freya said.
“From someone in the kitchens?” said Hjotra. “Stars, Freya, you sound like the steward.”
Ingirun snorted.
Freya closed her eyes. She needed answers badly. The staff knew everything—she’d made herself approachable to them for a reason. These two had to have some information. Freya couldn’t just interrogate them outright.
“Sorry,” said Freya. “Long night. I thought this place was a hidden hole-in-the-wall for Torden, so I am surprised anyone from Sydlig has heard of it.”
The two relaxed. “That’s all right, Freya,” said Ingirun.
“Is Varin being his usual cranky self?” Freya said, cracking a smile she hoped looked remotely genuine.
“Ugh,” said Hjotra. “Couldn’t piss without him knowing. How many questions did he ask us?”
“At least a thousand,” said Ingirun.
So Varin had done his job. Maybe he’d cleared the two of them early on and given Guthmar permission to release them. The idea of letting suspects go didn’t sit well with Freya, but she was glad to have confirmation something had been done.
“Sounds tedious,” Freya said.
“Truly,” Ingirun said. “Say, do you want to go in on a room together? We’ve been making stops all day, and we are awfully tired.”
“I won’t be staying,” said Freya.
“I suppose I’ve never seen a priestess stay anywhere except the temple,” Hjotra said good-naturedly.
“Right,” Freya said. There was no way these two wouldn’t gossip about seeing her in novice robes here. She could only hope it would take a while to get back to anyone important. “Well, it was nice to see you.”
“Won’t you stay for just another drink?” Ingirun pleaded. “On me. I’m so curious about Torden traditions. It would be nice to know some things before we get established here.”
Freya’s first instinct was to say no. The years in Torden had made her soft, though. She had once been a transplant to the country, taken in by its people and welcomed despite her past.
“I suppose just one drink would be fine,” Freya said.
The barmaid brought another, and the attendants interrogated Freya about Torden’s culture: What was Freya’s favorite part of Torden?
Where were the best markets for fresh fish?
What kind of labor would Freya recommend for someone who wanted to get to know the country?
How did the forestry industry compare to Sydlig’s?
Freya’s eyes started to close as she answered the tedious questions. She downed the ale steadily. The faster she sipped, the faster she could get out of here, but they’d know she wanted to escape them if she drank too quickly.
Freya had to leave while she could still get on her horse. She was already so tired. Maybe she could find a wind-sheltered corner of town to sleep in—she’d slumbered through worse conditions. She would just have a nap, and then be on her way.
The sight of the bottom of the tankard was a surprise to Freya. She set it down a little too roughly, her movements sluggish. This damn injury. She needed more rest than she’d thought.
“Well, ladies,” Freya said. “I’ll be taking my leave now.”
She stood from the bench and black spots filled her vision. With a gasp, she grabbed the edge of the table.
“You don’t look well,” said Ingirun.
She didn’t feel well. This went beyond exhaustion, beyond a wound in the process of magical healing.
“Will you please stay? I’ll order a room for you at once,” Hjotra said.
Freya gathered her bearings, leaning her hip against the table. In front of Ingirun and Hjotra were two untouched tankards of ale. Had they finished their first round? She couldn’t remember. She recalled them sipping, but not gulping.
“What did you do to me?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Hjotra. The orc stood to help Freya, touching her elbow, but Freya nudged her away.
She caught a whiff of them again. Fresh laundry. But hadn’t they been traveling all day?
To the horse. Now. Freya shoved herself off the table and began to stumble away, but her feet gave out. Her thoughts were slow, her previous clarity gone. “Help?” she called.
“Oi, what’s going on here?” Another voice, from the other side of the room. “Is your friend all right?”
“Yes, I think she’s just had too much to drink,” Ingirun said. She lifted Freya’s face from the floor. “How many did you have, Freya?”
“You poisoned me,” Freya choked out. She curled her tongue in on itself. The flesh felt fuzzy; a bitter taste coated her mouth.
Freya’s ears rang. The only indication a newcomer had arrived was the cold air washing over her clammy face. The air was stabilizing, and she had enough left of herself to look up.
The silhouette of an orc woman stood in the doorway.
Freya reached for the stool next to her head, meaning to swing it around and knock over Ingirun. Her limbs weren’t working like they should. Her gloved fingers glanced off the leg of the stool.
A pair of muddy boots stepped into Freya’s line of sight. She tried to look up, but her vision was poor, darkening around the edges, spots in the middle.
“Help,” Freya croaked.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” the voice from earlier said, closer, “but I don’t like it. I’m escorting this woman upstairs to recover.”
“Where did the barmaid go?” someone else asked.
Freya tried to grab the leg of the stool again. A boot stomped on her hand. She whimpered.
Arguing broke out over her head. She couldn’t make sense of it. Drool pooled at the corner of her mouth, and she tried to wipe it away, wincing at the crushed bones in her hand. She thrust herself onto her elbows and began to crawl.
Someone grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Freya tried to resist, but whatever she’d been drugged with was too potent.
Her head slammed into the floor. Darkness overtook her.