Astrid sat on the edge of her bed and read about Torden’s history. In a way, it was grounding to revisit the past and be reminded why she ruled and how she would be remembered.
The candles burned down. People filtered in and out.
There was no sign of Freya.
On the second day, furniture began to appear.
First, a table for her bedside, where Astrid promptly put her books. Next, a wooden wardrobe to store the pile of clothes she’d been brought. After that, a writing desk and chair. Astrid’s instincts were to question her félag. Under whose orders were these items appearing?
When the hideously red rug from her bedroom appeared, Astrid ascertained who was responsible.
And still Freya did not make herself known.
By the third day, Astrid began to worry. The room was looking too comfortable, even more homey than her old one. A stashof candles had been provided, enough to last weeks, and more clothes made an appearance along with stacks of paper. The only people Astrid saw were the orc guards of her félag and, occasionally, Vera. She guessed Freya would not allow anyone else near her.
Astrid asked Hrothgar for news of the assassin as they brought in her evening meal, and Hrothgar hesitated before answering.
“Freya has the full story for you. She will be here soon.”
Once left alone, Astrid had trouble finishing her meal. The idea of seeing Freya again filled her with a contradictory blend of hope and apprehension. She longed to see the face she associated with comfort and love, but the conversation they needed to have filled her with dread. Some part of her wondered if Freya was keeping her distance becauseshewas the one who regretted how far they’d come.
She needn’t have worried. When Freya made her appearance, it was with her hair slicked back, leather freshly oiled, and a weapon bulging at her hip through her tunic.
Astrid’s heart soared at the sight of her. She had to stop herself from rushing forward to hug Freya, but Freya took a comfortable seat on the stool and gestured for Astrid to sit across from her on the bed.
Astrid remembered, vividly, how Freya’s legs had parted last time they’d been situated like this. The memory was so distracting, she did not at first register Freya’s words.
“What?” she said.
“How have you been? Are you content?” said Freya. Astrid was not entirely sure this was the same thing Freya had said at first, but she swallowed down the urge to respond to questions with a question.
“You are preparing me to stay here for a long time,” she said evenly.
“Only as long as necessary,” Freya said, looking down at her gloves. She adjusted them with the squeak of settling leather. “We analyzed the angle of the arrow. It was shot from the ground by a skilled archer who knew the location of your rooms. From a crossbow, as I suspected.”
“That’s good news,” Astrid said. The sentence lifted at the end like a question.
Freya raised an eyebrow. “Good and bad. There are many archery hobbyists within our staff.”
That came as no surprise; even the mention of archery made Astrid’s fingers itch to pull back a bow-string. In her experience, few things matched the thrill of an arrow making its shot.
“The truly skilled archers, as far as I know, are members of your félag and the armorer. Unless I run an archery competition, there is no way to tell who among them is skilled enough to follow through with such a shot.”
Astrid bit down and tasted blood on her upper lip where her tusks had punctured the skin. Freya suspected a traitor. A spy.
The idea was almost a relief once she’d thought it. Freya was the best spy Astrid knew. She would sniff out another like her in no time.
“We interrogated the ambassador’s bodyguards ruthlessly,” said Freya. “Both were at dinner, as corroborated by eyewitnesses. It is harder to determine who was in the kitchens or elsewhere in the castle. My understanding is Tassi stayed behind with a stomachache.” Her eyes flashed at this.
Surely, an assassination attempt was a good excuse to send the entire retinue from Sydlig home.
“Everyone knows, then, that I was nearly killed,” said Astrid.
“No,” said Freya. “Guthmar’s retinue does not know a thing about this. They think you have fallen ill from some of the food.” She swallowed. “They think it is related to my tasting.”
“Ah. My absence has not been explained?”
Freya worried at her gloves. “It was suspicious of me to send the scholars home before the history fair had officially come to a close. Most did not question the fire excuse, though some rumors are circulating due to your lack of public appearance. Few approach the truth. One of them is that you are pregnant,” she said, humor lighting her eyes.
