“I got into her tent. She had someone with her…in bed. And I killed them first.” She licked her lips. “It wasn’t clean. The gurgling, the thrashing—it awoke Ulfur. She jumped to her feet and swung at me with everything she had. I was able to strike her bicep with my axe. She was incapacitated by it—nearly immobilized. Because…” Astrid put her head in her hands.
Freya let her hand fall back to her side. “Because the blade was coated in poison.”
“Yes,” Astrid said, like she was sick with herself. “It was poisoned.”
“What happened then?” Freya asked. Her mind couldn’t keep up with the pace of the story, with this restructuring of everything she thought she knew about the queen she loved.
“We escaped somehow. Well. Not without running into some people who saw the fresh blood on us. Perhaps the goddesswatched over us, because we made it out of there. And Ulfur lost the arm, as you know.”
“There was no arrow,” Freya said, keeping her voice even.
“No,” said Astrid. “There was no arrow. When I got back to Varin… He was furious, as you might guess. He said, next time I tried to assassinate someone in their sleep, I’d better not miss. We spun a story about meeting with Ulfur in a skirmish. Me, atop a horse, valiantly nocking the fateful arrow that would strike Ulfur dead if only it had been a few inches to the right.”
“Ulfur knows the truth,” Freya said. “But she does not speak of it.” Freya had worked for Ulfur for half of a year, and not once had this come up in Ulfur’s inner circle. Ulfur hardly talked of Astrid at all.
“I imagine she wouldn’t. Even if she did, it would be spun as a false story to turn people against me. She has enough people turned against me already, in any case.”
“Why not just tell the truth?” Freya asked. More than anything, the lie did not sit well with her. All this glory afforded to Astrid when it had happened so differently—the results would be devastating if people found out. Freya would have shared the true story from the start, shameful or not.
“I was craven,” Astrid whispered. “Cowardice led us to go after her in her sleep. To use poison. That is not the making of a queen. I have lived with the guilt all these years.”
Freya choked down a dry laugh.
It was funny, in a way. Astrid’s greatest shame had been Freya’s lifestyle for over fifteen years, ever since she was old enough to wield a blade and strike true. She had encroached upon countless camps and killed hundreds of people in their sleep to prove her place in multiple warbands. To keep them from deciding she was just another mouth to feed and getting rid of her the way they’d done to so many.
“Who else knows?” Freya asked instead.
“I don’t know who in Ulfur’s circle knows,” Astrid said. “On our side, only Hedda and Varin know. I think some of the félag suspect it did not happen quite how we said, but they are too loyal to question it publicly. Many people have pretended to witness the act to retain some of the glory for themselves. It’s how myths are formed.”
Varin deserved some credit. He’d fed the tale to those who hadn’t been there, and then they’d fed it to the skalds hungry for stories, and those skalds had gone and spread the word about Astrid’s near-victory as if it had truly happened.
The historians, Freya remembered. None of them had questioned the arrow. Briefly, she wondered if Vera suspected anything.
Astrid cleared her throat. “Do you think less of me?” she asked.
Lesswas impossible. Freya had given her full self to Astrid as best as she knew how—butdifferentlymight have applied.
All of the things about Astrid that Freya looked up to had given her something to which she could aspire. That the two of them might be more similar than Freya’d thought was more than a little odd. This new perception sat sourly in Freya’s stomach, but she had to admit, deep down, part of her was thrilled.
If Astrid could have done this and still be considered good, there was hope for Freya.
“Of course I don’t think less of you, My Queen,” Freya said absently, realizing she had paused for too long.
Astrid wove her fingers with Freya’s and pressed her face into Freya’s collarbone. “Thank you, Freya. I am not sure I deserve your loyalty, but I always appreciate it.”
They settled back into silence. The crackling of the fire began to feel like the ticking of a clock. Freya stroked Astrid’s hair, and Astrid held onto Freya like an anchor at sea.
Loyalty… Freya had always been good at loyalty, when it came to those she cared about—Brenn, Astrid. She had been true to the warlords she’d served until a stronger one came around and took over, and then she was true to the new one.
She did not feel loyal now. A terrible thought occurred to her: Could she still be loyal while keeping secrets from the queen?
“Astrid,” Freya said urgently.
“Hmm?” said Astrid.
“I have to tell you something. Since you trusted me with your secret.” She watched Astrid’s head bob with her chest. “It’s something Brenn saw in your future. It’s… It’s not good.”
Astrid lifted her head and cupped Freya’s cheek in her hand. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said, gentle but firm.
