She wondered which action had tipped Astrid over the edge. Not the rug, surely. The cat? The increased guard? Never leaving Astrid’s side, even for a minute? Maybe even earlier, when she’d brought Brenn to the castle for divine assistance?
It did not matter in the end. Freya would do what she thought necessary to protect her queen. She did not need anyone’s approval to do so.
She had been overstepping since she’d landed this job at the queen’s side. In fact, crossing boundaries was what had won her the position of spymaster in the first place. Everything Freya had was hard-earned, and this was no exception.
No matter how Freya consoled herself that this was the same way she’d behaved for years—it was hardly likely her behaviorhad gotten on Astrid’s nervesnow—she was bothered that she could not guess at Astrid’s mind. They rarely discussed their feelings, but Freya liked to think she knew Astrid after a decade by her side.
Unless Freya did not know Astrid as well as she thought.
Over the last few weeks, Freya had gradually moved from standing by the staff table to approaching the queen’s, and tonight, she was finally just a few feet away, close enough to hear their conversations and feel the splatter of spilled mead. She knew Astrid had noticed her gradual proximity, yet Astrid still did not look up to acknowledge her.
But why would Astrid be upset byFreya? If Freya had not overstepped more than usual… Maybe Freya had said something Astrid did not like, but Astrid was too polite to comment on it. She thought over their previous conversation, combing through the words. Was Astrid disturbed by how many hidden weapons Freya kept on her person? Being disarmed was easy, Freya knew from her time on battlefields. It was always a good idea to have a backup weapon or five.
The skald only served to strengthen Freya’s convictions as she began the tale of Astrid shooting the warlord who’d murdered Torden’s previous ruler. An orc Freya had briefly, unwillingly served—Ulfur. She shuddered to hear Ulfur’s name, even in this context. The fateful arrow had pierced Ulfur’s shoulder so cleanly it caused the severing of her arm.
At the table, Astrid’s back was straight, tension straining the muscles in her neck. She’d stopped eating. Astrid had specifically requested the skalds never recite this particular tale, but Freya understood the need for the exception tonight.
Humility did not account for this level of discomfort.
Lost in thought as she was, Freya did not notice until too late the kitchen staff had returned with dessert. They were well into the room already. She scanned each orc and human, counting offtheir names in her head, and froze when she got to a smallish human she did not recognize.
Impossible. Freya planned for everything. She made a point of introducing herself to every new staff member and thoroughly researching each person’s history. She was supposed to be notified when someone new was hired. She stared for too long, wondering if she had merely forgotten a name and a face all in one, then she blinked and the staff had reached the queen’s table, dropping off a heavy platter of honey-soaked pastries.
Without thinking, Freya rushed forward, stopping right at the queen’s side. Astrid picked up a pastry with the serving fork and set it onto her plate. She looked back at Freya with a question in her expression.
The table was quiet. All eyes were on Freya as she reached down to Astrid’s plate, grabbed the sopping pastry between her forefinger and thumb, and brought it to her lips.
She took a bite and chewed.
Someone at the table gasped. Freya fought her embarrassment at the reaction—at the spectacle—but Astrid’s own face was a sight to behold, an emotion Freya had never seen on her.
Mortification.
The steward cleared his throat. “There are plenty of pastries available from the serving platter, if you are hungry, Freya.”
This garnered several laughs down the table, loosening the tension. Freya continued to hold the pastry as she counted to one hundred, while Astrid stared and stared at her, her eyes bulging.
Freya set the pastry back down at the hundredth count. If it was poisoned, it was a slow poison, she decided.
She needed to refresh her memory about orcish poisons. What if everyone at the queen’s table was eating something that would make them sick in twenty-four hours? In a week? What ifthis stranger had infiltrated the castle and successfully offed all of its important players in one go?
Here, Freya had been worried about an accidental death and ordered rugs to Astrid’s bedchamber; she had worried about the queen’s need to defend herself, and so had given Astrid her own dagger; she had worried about intruders sneaking in, and had gotten a cat to alert Astrid. And yet she had never thought to hire a food taster.
Astrid looked to her bitten pastry and back at Freya, uncomprehending. It was another minute or so before she picked up the pastry and ate it like nothing had happened. Tension rolled off Astrid in waves, but Freya did not leave her queen’s side.
People continued to notice Freya as the chatter at the table resumed. This was the most visible she had ever made herself. She saw curiosity in the orcs’ faces, even Guthmar and his retinue, even those of the queen’s own félag.
Freya stood tall and held her hands clasped like a soldier.
The kitchen staff delivered the next tray of desserts. Freya spied the same new staff member, but it was one thing to attack a stranger unprovoked in the middle of a crowded dining hall and another to merely bite into the queen’s food.
Astrid reached for the tray of pastries, then hesitated and retracted her hand. Somehow, Freya was assured by understanding Astrid’s thought process—she could tell Astrid wanted another, but Astrid did not know how Freya would react.
Don’t do it, Freya willed her.
Astrid eyed the plate, then took another pastry.
She made as if to bring the pastry directly to her mouth before Freya could get to it, but Freya was quicker. Freya snatched the pastry right out of Astrid’s hand.
