The room was silent. Brenn and Ruga looked to Astrid, and only when Astrid felt their burning glares did she speak. “You need to heal. I won’t allow you to overexert yourself with an investigation.”
“What?” Freya asked. “Where are my knives?”
“Freya, no,” said Astrid. “I am having you sent to the priestesses’ temple. They will be able to watch over you and track your healing progress. You’ll be much safer there from any assassination attempts.”
“Only the people in this room know about the plan,” Brenn assured Freya.
“You want to keep me out of trouble, you mean.” Freya’s features cooled from frustration to something calculating. “You’re getting rid of me because you’re scared.”
“Freya—” started Astrid.
“No,” Freya said. “You’ve pushed other people away.” She swallowed, clearly considering her next words before saying them. “You pushed Ruga away.”
“That’s vicious,” Ruga chided. “Astrid is only part of the reason I left Torden. It wasn’t Astrid’s idea to betroth me to an elvish princess. It was yours.”
“You agreed to it, though. Happily,” Freya said.
Astrid pushed down a wave of guilt. “I want you to be safe. I can’t lose you.”
“I’m the one who advised the rest period,” Brenn added. “This is my idea. Nobody else’s. I’ll check on you often. Keep you posted on how everything is going.”
“I cannot find an assassin from inside the temple walls,” Freya protested. “Where is Varin? I need to speak with him.”
“He’s busy with interrogations,” Ruga said. “He has it handled.”
“Does he?” Freya scoffed. “Two weeks, no answers. Hemustmove faster.”
“Please leave us,” Astrid said. Sorrow nearly choked her. “Get out.”
Ruga took Brenn’s arm and escorted her from the room.
“You don’t mean what you said,” Astrid said. It was hopeful more than anything.
“I do. You shut yourself off from people because you think you cannot be close. It was something I admired about you,” Freya said, “until it applied to me.”
Astrid licked her lips. “I am sending you to the temple. Please rest, Freya. If you love me at all, please rest.”
Freya turned away from her. Astrid tried to be understanding. Once, Freya had locked Astrid too in a room for her safety, and it had broken Astrid down. Astrid understood; she had been in the same position. The resistance was not unreasonable.
But Freya’s words still hurt.
“Would you like your dagger back?” Astrid asked.
“No,” Freya said quickly. “Keep it on you at all times.”
Knees aching from where she’d knelt on the floor, Astrid stood. “I will have Ruga draw a bath for you, and then Hrothgar will escort you to the temple. Please, as my subject and my…friend, follow my orders just this once.”
Freya said nothing. Astrid gathered her emotions to face Ruga and Brenn, whose muttering she could hear in the antechamber, and left Freya to sulk.
Ruga and Brenn were quiet when Astrid entered the antechamber. She was grateful, and fairly certain she could not speak without crying. Two weeks, she’d spent worrying, sleepless nights by Ruga, who stayed awake and told Astrid tales of Branwen and Elketh and her new rose garden and the delightful things that now occupied her days. Two weeks of torturous waiting, only for Freya to wake up and cut Astrid with her words.
There was part of Astrid that thought Freya was right. Astrid was protecting Freya by sending her away—protecting her from assassins and political enemies, but also from Astrid herself. And maybe Astrid was guarding her own heart. She’d had time to think about death and love and the roles they played in her life, and she knew they’d been taking higher precedence than a queen should allow. There was little energy to spend on ruling a country when the person she cared for most had nearly died.
Freya was right. And Astrid was a coward.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The queen really meant to send Freya away.
