“It is so intriguing that your maid has an interest in falconry,” he said. “When does she have the time?”
“Oh, you know,” Astrid said, fumbling for an explanation, “much like you, Freya takes pleasure in learning new things.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty,” said Freya. “May I speak with Your Majesty to the side? I think I may be coming down ill.”
Huginn lifted from Freya’s arm and circled above Guthmar, stunning him into silence with her broad wingspan. Astrid turned to Freya, shielding her from the others with her body.
“He knows I’m more than a maid,” Freya said. It was a wonder her voice did not echo around that large place when everything else did. “I need to conduct a more thorough background check on him and his retinue. Do you mind if I go?”
Astrid stole a peek at the ambassador. Hrothgar was distracting him, forcing the aviarist to interact with Guthmar and tell them bird facts that invoked delighted responses.
Hedda would have done the same, Astrid couldn’t help but think. And she might have done it without bothering the aviarist.
“Of course you can go,” Astrid said. “I’m safe here.”
The protest was clear on Freya’s face. She was made of sharp angles: her straight nose, her severe brows, the triangle of her widow’s peak and the beginning of her hair, short on the sides and longer on top. Something was different about her hair up close—and close they were, Astrid realized with a start, so close she could smell the citrus soap Freya preferred, fresh as summer.
“Did you do something with your hair?” Astrid asked.
Freya’s brow scrunched. “No?”
“Oh,” said Astrid. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Your Majesty.”
Neither of them spoke. The voices of the others echoed across the room, and Astrid knew she should be paying attention to them, but all she could register was Freya.
“I’ll take my leave, then,” Freya said at last, breaking eye contact. She bowed to Astrid and exited the room.
The aviary was too spacious now, and Astrid felt exposed. The wind blew around the fabric of her trousers and her cloak.
“Where to next?” Guthmar asked, and Astrid’s sore feet whined.
Chapter Seven
Freya wished she could be in two places at once more than ever. She would have to make this quick. Ask her contacts for information on the bodyguards, the spouses, Ambassador Guthmar’s relationship to King Skarde—whether it matched up with Guthmar’s claims or not, whether anything was amiss. Attendants knew everything. She would start there first, then reach out to her people at the other major cities, see if they knew anything she didn’t.
So much to do. So little time. She was half-tempted to ride down to Sydlig herself for answers.
Freya did not make it to the attendants’ rooms. Instead, halfway into the castle’s foyer, she stopped in her tracks at the sound of a familiar voice: Brenn.
Brenn was not dressed in her priestess robes; she wore a flowy dress the color of midnight. Half in disguise, and half not, because she had her priestess’s staff.
Brenn spoke to one of the guards at the entrance to the main hallway. The guard leaned too close into Brenn’s space, and Freya rushed forward to intervene.
“Stars, Freya,” Brenn murmured, holding the staff close to her chest like a shield. “You might have told the guards I was coming.”
“This is the priestess Brenn,” Freya said. “She has been invited.”
“My sincerest apologies to the queen,” the guard said, bowing. They never assumed Freya would invite people of her own volition, only on the queen’s orders.
And, well. Brenn didn’t come to the castle often.
Freya dragged Brenn into an alcove with a mullioned window.
Brenn set her staff against the stone wall and smoothed down her dress to sit along the windowsill. “I got your letter,” she said, “obviously.”
“Sorry I was not there to greet you. We have had a busy morning.”
