Freya balked. “You don’t want to…? Are you certain?”
A tear trailed down Astrid’s cheek and plipped off the end of her nose. “I know what it is, I think.”
“What is it?” Freya asked, tightening her grip around Astrid’s shoulder.
Astrid smiled sadly. “Something inevitable.”
Once more, Freya searched Astrid’s face for answers and found none. She opened her mouth to speak.
Someone knocked on the door. Three sharp, urgent raps.
Freya jumped to her feet. Her tunic was over her head, legs bare, a knife in each hand by the time the door opened just a crack.
Hrothgar’s eye appeared in the opening.
“What is it?” Astrid asked, tired. She made no move to cover herself.
“Varin is here,” Hrothgar said. “Sorry to, ah, interrupt.”
“You are not interrupting,” Freya said. She had donned her trousers and her leather doublet. “Why would Varin come? I received correspondence that he had been mollified.”
Hrothgar opened their mouth to reply, but they were shoved out of the way by someone else. The door flew open, banging against the wall. Someone from the next room shouted at them for being too loud.
Varin stood in the doorway, professional as ever despite the early hour and his posture, slumped by age. “Your—” He seemed to remember where they were and lowered his voice. “You need to come back to the castle at once,” he said, unusually direct.
Astrid stood. The grooves of her bare muscles and curves were shadowed in dark contrast, making her look like a queen from the myths. “Has something happened?” she demanded.
“The king has arrived, and he is looking for you,” Varin said.
“The king?” Freya asked, but a moment later, she understood.
The king of Sydlig had come to Torden.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Though Varin had been in a panic—or as much of a panic as he ever was—the castle was strangely ordinary when Astrid returned.
By contrast, the difference within her was stark. Now, Astrid had had a taste of the person she was back in the day, and she meant to indulge in that side of herself more, no matter what it took.
This new understanding of herself stole her focus.
The tall horses of Sydlig whinnied restlessly as two young orcs who worked in the stables tended to them. The horses looked worn, travel-weary; Astrid tried to remember how long the journey from Sydlig to Torden was. A month, at least.
“Their hooves have been magicked,” Freya murmured to her as they handed off their own horses to the stables.
Astrid thought the hooves looked normal, but she trusted Freya’s instinct toward magic. Magic was one thing Astrid had not particularly bothered to learn about, seeing as she did not have the ability to perform it.
“I’ve left King Skarde in the grandest rooms I could find,” Varin said. “He is not pleased. He only wished to speak with you and Guthmar.”
“Where is Guthmar?” asked Astrid.
Varin sighed. “Probably getting an earful.”
“Take us to him,” Astrid ordered.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
They left the main hall, where the eyes of the guards and staff gazed upon them.
