“Hedda,” Astrid said delicately, “this is why we needed to remove you from being captain. You are at the whims of your fraught emotional state too often for someone with such great responsibility.”
“I see,” Hedda said, deflating. “Shall I look for employment elsewhere, Your Majesty? Is there no hope for me?”
“I would like to reinstate you. Hrothgar will perform your duties in the interim.”
“The interim? Until what? What do I need to do to prove I can do this job well?”
Until what, indeed? Until Ulfur was defeated, if such a time ever came? Until this time of political turmoil was over, if such a thing could be measured? Astrid had no answer for her, and Hedda seemed to understand this, because she stood shakily.
“I was heartbroken when I denounced you.” Hedda no longer faced Astrid but the curtains. “I am heartbroken again to hear how easily the trust of half a century has been ruined.”
Astrid cleared her throat. “As am I.”
Hedda wiped away the tears pooling in her eyes. “There is no chance at redemption, then.”
“I don’t know, Hedda,” Astrid said. Her voice had gone weak.
“I am terribly sorry to bother you in such a state. I’ll take my leave.”
Hedda—fierce, brokenhearted Hedda—left Astrid, and Freya filtered back in. Astrid closed her eyes and pretended tobe asleep, but Hedda’s words played over in her head, a melancholic song whose rhythm she could not escape.
The next day, Astrid wandered in and out of sleep, spurred on by the effort of her healing body and the magic that kept her unconscious. At dusk, the healer’s apprentices drew her a bath and sponged her down. The bruises were already a healed greenish hue, not purple and black. Brenn was a skilled priestess, Astrid conceded.
The apprentices helped her don a lightweight silk dress and wrapped her arm once more in a sling. It was easier to move, but not without pain. When Brenn and the healer agreed Astrid could go about her day, Freya joined Astrid at the exit from the infirmary with three guards.
Hrothgar filled Astrid in on the ambassador. Guthmar had taken to sitting in the kitchens, and was currently on a quest to bake the most perfect loaf of bread.
“Are the kitchen staff perturbed by his presence?” Astrid asked, and Hrothgar nodded.
“I’ll get him away from them,” said Freya.
“No,” said Astrid. “I will do it myself.”
Astrid spent the next half hour gently redirecting Guthmar to other pursuits which would distract him from the kitchens. His spouses caught on quickly and joined her, until finally they convinced him the outside of the castle was particularly beautiful, and he agreed he had not yet seen it from every angle. As he left, the kitchen staff rushed forward to clean up an absurd quantity of sticky clumps of dough.
At midday, Astrid finally returned to her rooms. They were redder than she was used to.
Her eyes adjusted to the sight. On her floor—under her bed, even, meaning someone had lifted it up—was an enormous rug woven with deep red wool.
The saturated color immediately bestowed upon Astrid a pulsing headache.
“What is this?” Astrid asked, more to herself than to Freya. She could not comprehend how a rug would make its way into her room, nor how a group of people had taken it upon themselves to rearrange the furniture. She had ordered no such thing.
She bent to examine the rug, running her fingers over the fine threads. It was woven well. Not the hasty, uneven threads one sometimes received from the priestesses which valued magic function over beauty. She looked up to find Freya wearing a guilty expression.
“What’s this for? Does it have a protection spell woven into it, or…?”
“Since you are so clumsy,” Freya said, “I have decided to cushion the floor, Your Majesty.”
Astrid blinked at the rug. Was it a joke? Freya did sometimes have an odd sense of humor. Or did Freya really think Astrid would crack her skull open on the stone floors?
“I don’t like it,” Astrid said.
“That is a shame,” Freya said, and left.
The ambassador called for Astrid, but she politely declined, pretending she needed to rest. A courier brought a message from Ruga, the response to Astrid’s previous inquiry, and Astrid devoured the words hungrily—wishing her well, having heard of her injury.
How widespread was the news of Astrid’s embarrassing fall down the stairs? She hardly wanted to know. A queen who’d survived a civil war could have been taken out by one misstep.
