Freya scowled. “You’ve mentioned twice that I should move out of your rooms. Am I impeding your safety?”
This was nearly as bad as being interrogated by Guthmar. “Freya,no. Of course not. You are excellent at what you do. I wouldn’t have anyone else.”
What you do, Astrid had said, as though she did not want to put words to it. She knew well that she was taking advantage of military tactics Freya had gleaned from a questionable period of her life. Espionage, digging, pretending. She hadn’t done anykilling on Astrid’s behalf, but Astrid knew Freya could. That she would.
“In case you decide to send me away, or you need extra defense,” Freya said, “I want you to have this.”
In one smooth motion, Freya dropped to her knee. She lifted the fabric of her tunic—so high, Astrid thought she would remove it entirely, but that was absurd, no matter how Astrid’s eyes locked onto the strip of exposed skin—and extracted her bone-handled dagger from her side. Freya proffered it to Astrid, rolling the light blade on the tips of her gloved fingers.
“For your protection,” Freya said.
“Freya—”
“Please take it, Your Majesty. And try your best not to fall down the stairs and impale yourself on it.”
Astrid snorted. These were Freya’s most disarming moments—when she could have a sense of humor about things that worried her half to death.
“Do you have other weapons with which to defend yourself?” Astrid asked. She knew a little about the history of the dagger. Namely, that Freya had commissioned it herself after her arrival to Vakker, that it had been carefully and deliberately forged by a silversmith who’d since retired. It was truly one of a kind.
The enormity of the gesture was not lost on Astrid.
In response, Freya reached down and peeled up her trousers to the ankle, revealing two shining knives packed closely into a strip of leather. She let the fabric drop, grasping the handle of the dagger with her other hand, and once more held it to Astrid, point-down.
“I want you to keep this on you in case something happens,” Freya said. “And you must be bold enough to use it.”
From anyone else, Astrid would have found an order presumptuous, but from Freya… Freya did not give orders to her queen often, even when she overstepped with her protections.
Astrid took the blade from Freya. It was surprisingly weightless. Freya was so nimble, she made everything seem light, but Astrid found that the dagger was almost brittle in her hands, like it wasn’t as deadly as she knew it could be. She held it, and thought to put it away, but could not think of where it was supposed to go.
Freya understood Astrid’s dilemma. She lifted her tunic again—flash of skin, smell of citrus—and unbuckled the leather belt around her waist with its scabbard, perfectly crafted to fit the dagger.
When Astrid touched the leather, the first thing she noticed was its warmth from the heat of Freya’s body. She was overly conscious of the history of leather. Its past as skin, its proximity to Freya’s skin. The two objects in her hands were flesh and bone and steel, and though it did not make sense, she thought of them as Freya’s—an offering of Freya’s body. Of the things she used to protect herself and those around her.
Freya got back to her feet and leaned forward as if to help Astrid buckle the belt. The idea of Freya’s hands on Astrid’s waist was too much, and Astrid stepped back, hastily buckling it herself and sliding the dagger into its scabbard like a hand into a tailored glove. Her eyes fell to Freya’s gloves, perfectly fitted, and the warm fingers underneath.
Stars. What had her thinking like this? Had there ever been a point when Astrid knew how to behave around Freya? She had no problem distancing herself from her other subjects in the name of royal duty. People expected her to be the hero who’d shot the arrow that had subdued Ulfur, someone with godlike status. Not someone who had all these cravings of the flesh.
“Does it fit you?” Freya asked, breaking whatever spell handing over her prized weapon had caused.
“Yes,” Astrid choked out. Freya’s waist seemed particularly small, just then; it was a kind of magic that the same leather fit around Astrid’s own. “It fits perfectly.”
Chapter Eleven
Dinnertime came around sooner than Freya expected. She had spent her day monitoring the scholars’ conversations, scouting out potential threats, and gradually feeling more secure in Astrid’s safety. The scholars posed little danger, unless Astrid was at risk of dying of boredom.
Still, the dining hall was unsettlingly full of people. The staff had pulled in extra tables and benches to accommodate the many scholars, who were more used to poring over their books than they were socializing over drink, if the increased volume of voices over the course of the night was any indication. Some of the scholars were simply excited to be there among fellow intellectuals, but several heated discussions broke out over historical accuracy.
The skald’s repertoire had changed for the new crowd. Often, she shared tales of heroics of times long past, stories of the goddess and her ravens, lovers reincarnated—the types of things Vakker Castle liked to hear. Legends, fantasy, romance. For the history fair, the skald orated tales specific to Torden and itsfactual past, which were less romantic but more appropriate for this crowd.
And yet, something was off.
Usually, the queen checked in visually with Freya at least a few times per meal, but Astrid hadn’t looked up at all tonight. In fact, she’d been quiet since Freya had pulled her aside in the library. Her body language was rigid in response to Guthmar’s jokes—enough that other people would notice, too obvious to be in her control.
Freya had to wonder if it was because of her gift. Presenting Astrid with her dagger had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. She had been thinking about the arrow and the broken weapons on display. Once, Astrid had defended all of Torden, and now she wore no weapon to defend herself. But what if someone snuck past the guards and Freya was not around? What if someone somehow got past Freya?
Freya had fretted until she decided gifting the dagger would give her some peace of mind. She had hoped, too, Astrid would glean some peace of mind having it.
But now Freya was fairly certain she had overstepped.
