One of the panicked soldiers pushed through the bottleneck. A bookshelf fell in a clatter. There was a shout from Vera on the other side of the room, and then an arrow thunked into the king’s shoulder, and he screamed.
Freya darted between Norga and Sigurd and took Astrid’s hand. She tugged her to the thin space between two shelves and pushed with all her might, knocking an entire shelf of books down to clear a path. Astrid’s eyes were wide, her hands trembling, as she slipped left and right over the sliding pages.
“The king!” someone yelled. “The king’s been shot!”
A second time? The archer was targeting royals.
Freya would not let the archer take Astrid from her.
Freya shoved and shoved at Astrid. Someone slammed into the back of a bookshelf and it began to tilt, threatening to crush them. Astrid dodged; Freya rolled. The top of the shelf scraped the back of her calf, and she bit back a scream. She hobbled away and took half a second to check on Astrid.
They were too exposed. They were going to die.
Astrid hauled Freya up by her hands. “Are you all right?” Astrid wheezed.
Something slammed into Freya from behind, winding her. She jolted forward, crashing into Astrid. Astrid stood steady, held Freya’s shoulders.
Astrid’s midsection was splattered in blood.
Freya reached a tentative hand to Astrid. Where was the wound? Freya’s pulse came quick. She couldn’t find the point of entry, her fingers were slick with hot blood brighter than anything she’d ever seen, and—
“Oh, Freya,” Astrid said. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I’m not losing you,” Freya said. She tasted copper. “I will keep you safe.” Something warm oozed from the side of her mouth. “You are going to be all right.”
She coughed. Over the ringing in her ears, Vera shrieked. An onslaught of armed guards entered the library. A volley of arrows ensued—too many to be shot by one person. Most hit the stone and bounced off pathetically.
Freya’s heart felt weak. She clutched at it and pricked her finger on the sharp tip of the arrow protruding from her chest.
“No,” she said, as if disbelieving would make the arrow disappear. “No, no, no.”
“Help!” Astrid said. “Send for a healer!”
Freya’s legs gave out under her. She clung to the fabric of Astrid’s cloak, sinking to her knees even as Astrid tried to hold her up.
“I’ll get Brenn,” Vera’s clear voice called back.
Astrid sobbed. “She sent her away. She’s not here! Do something, quick!”
Spots filled Freya’s vision. She steadied her breathing. Look normal for Astrid, she told herself. Look like you can make it through this.
I’ve been shot.
The admission was like cold water coming over her. How bitter, to have survived everything she’d endured, only to go out like this. She knew better.
Freya couldn’t feel the tips of her fingers. Astrid’s bellowed orders rang against Freya’s ears like the beating of a drum. Freya’s head tilted back—too far back, against her will—and she caught a blurry glimpse of the mullioned window up high, showing an unobstructed view of a beautiful orange sky with a rising sun.
Someone was lifting her, then, touching her wound. She winced in pain. She winced again when someone broke the arrow in half.
Faces above her. Hedda, hands slicked with blood, a black-feathered fletching between her fingers. Wasn’t she supposed to be resting? Where had she come from? And there was Vera, calm and steady, her cool palm against Freya’s forehead.
Astrid, like her world had ended. Her wet tears fell over Freya.
Freya could not feel her fingers, but she moved them. Brushed them against Astrid’s hand. An attempt to push her away.
“Don’t touch,” she gasped. “Poison.”
And then she said nothing at all.
