“Queen’s shadow. The shadow’s queen,” Guthmar went on. “The queen without her shadow.”
Brenn stepped forward and reached for Guthmar’s hand, where he’d been guzzling from a great drinking horn. Freya recognized it as one of the ornamental ones from the meadery—stolen.
Sheepishly, Guthmar surrendered it to Brenn. With more grace than the gesture deserved, Brenn poured the mead out onto the dead grass.
Guthmar blinked at Brenn, then hung his head. “I am homesick.”
“How long must you stay?” said Freya.
The ambassador looked to his husband, who shook his head. “Indefinitely.”
“Surely the king doesn’t mean to keep his important cousin away from home forever?” Brenn asked.
Guthmar began to sob.
Tassi wrapped an arm around Guthmar. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”
“No,” said Guthmar. “Please, sit with us. I could use the company of friends.”
There were a hundred things Freya would rather do than sit on the icy cold ground with the Sydlig ambassador, several of which involved sticking her hands in boiling water.
Brenn sat down across from Guthmar with a warm smile.
“I never wanted to come here,” he said.
Pathetic. The display put a bad taste in Freya’s mouth. She had never seen a leader so un-leader-like.
“The king did not like his report,” said Tassi.
“Was there something unpleasant to put in the report?” Freya said, so sharply Brenn put a hand over her knee to admonish her. Huffing, Freya joined them all on the ground. The cold soaked through her leather trousers.
Guthmar wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving behind a shiny smear. “Of course not. It’s so pleasant here, and you’ve treated me well. I just… My letters get all jumbled, you see. I have never been much for reading or writing. He said it was”—Guthmar hiccupped—“like achildhad written it. Uninformative and riddled with errors.”
In spite of herself, Freya felt angry toward the Sydlig king. Why had he sent someone who he knew struggled with writing and reading to correspond about Torden? Not for the first time, she was struck by how little sense it made for Guthmar to be here at all. It was as if he’d been set up for failure.
“Perhaps there is someone else the king could send?” Brenn said. “You could switch places with a courtier whose skills more closely align with King Skarde’s goals.”
Freya wasn’t sure if she would prefer Guthmar’s kind inquisitiveness over someone who was trained to do an ambassador’s job. As it was, Guthmar had proven himself to be observant enough.
“There is no one,” Guthmar said. He put his chin in his hands and sighed. “Do you suppose the consuls in the other cities are as miserable as I am?”
This question was aimed at Tassi, who shrugged. “They have similar responsibilities, I suppose.”
“Stupid Elgir had to go and get himself sick,” Guthmar muttered.
This was a waste of Freya’s time. She began to stand and was overwhelmed by something like intuition. Her eyes snapped to Brenn’s, whose mouth had fallen open in surprise.
It took Freya a moment to understand why Brenn would respond that way. When she did, a chill took over her body.
“He was sick?” asked Freya.
“Oh, yes,” Guthmar said, at the same time Tassi said, “No.”
“That’s not what you told us when you came here. You said the king had had an argument with him.” Freya paid closer attention to Tassi, who grew pale. He was the one with the answers. “Was that untrue?”
“He fell ill,” Guthmar said. “What? It’s the truth, is it not? I never saw the point in pretending. He fell ill, and he is likely ill still. Or dead. A sickly rash all down his torso, pustules aroundhis eyes. Vomiting. So much vomiting. They had to quarantine him.”
“Guthie,” warned Tassi.
