The arrows had been daubed in poison, Freya reasoned. She thought back to when the first arrow had grazed her ear, how irrationally she had acted in the aftermath. Perhaps it was not only because of the possibility of losing Astrid. Poison would also have induced this behavior, but the cut had been smaller, and Brenn had taken care of it before it had gone too far.
Poison and arrows, arrows and poison. Why not a poisoned arrow for the king’s brother, too? Why the delay between the assassination of him and the king, when Freya would have taken them out in succession?
She was so, so close to answers. And she was also tired. A bone-deep weariness had settled into her body, no longer fueled by the adrenaline of the new environment. If her body was not at her best, her brain wasn’t, either. She clenched her fist to quell the urge to pound it into the cold, hard dirt.
“You may wake,” Esja said from the front of the group.
Freya’s frustration boiled over. The quiet was the first opportunity she’d had to truly think through everything. She needed to get out of here.
And she needed a drink.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There was little Astrid could do about the assassin on the loose.
Varin had guards investigating the castle, searching rooms, fortifying weak spots. What good was any of it? They were unlikely to find the assassin’s journal, wherein she’d laid out all her plans. A creeping frustration overcame Astrid as she was subjected to meeting after meeting to discuss suspicious finds and motives. None were fruitful.
During the fifth meeting of the day, Astrid looked behind her for Freya’s presence. Of course, Freya was gone. Astrid had looked back, again and again, and Freya was still not there, and it was Astrid’s fault.
The things Freya had said to Astrid had stung in a way only Freya could hurt her. There was a kernel of truth to each one—Astrid had pushed Freya away for as long as they’d known each other. Freya, with her watchful gray eyes, had told Astrid she was interested in a million ways, had showed her love in just as many, and Astrid was the one who’d chosen not to act. Always, she’d been the one holding them back.
An ache started behind Astrid’s eyes.
Varin held up a key for which no one knew the lock and sighed. “I believe some unfortunate historian can no longer enter their dwelling. I don’t know if this warrants a meeting.”
Astrid stood and marched to the exit.
She was aware of the silence that ensued, but she did not care, particularly, how she came off. The guards at the door shuffled after her as she briskly walked out, out, out, into the night air and under the moon.
She stuffed her hands under her armpits. “Help me,” she murmured to the sky. Freya did not believe in the goddess, or perhaps not in her power, but Astrid wasn’t above begging. She kept doing the wrong thing, and at this rate, she’d never get anything right. Nothing ever went as Astrid Karrsdaughter wished.
She needed all the help she could get.
A warm hand curled over Astrid’s shoulder. She avoided looking back—the same gesture she’d repeated all day, undoubtedly noticed by others.
“You must be tired,” Ruga said.
“I am quite sick of not going anywhere with this,” said Astrid.
“And missing Freya?”
Astrid huffed. “She is always there. I am not coping well.”
Ruga stepped in front of Astrid. Her eyebrow quirked, but she said nothing. Astrid was never so straightforward with her emotions. In Ruga’s absence, in allowing herself to have Freya… She’d changed.
“She needed to be put somewhere safe where she could heal. Brenn was right, and so were you to follow through,” Ruga argued.
“She has served others her whole life,” Astrid said. “It is not right of me to force her to do anything.”
“You’re thinking about the things she said before she left,” Ruga said knowingly.
“Have I not pushed her away?” Astrid asked. The ache behind her eyes worsened. The tears would come soon, and she did not want to shed them in front of anyone except Ruga. The guards who’d followed them were not far.
“You have pushed many people away,” Ruga said. “Many more than you needed to.”
“I know.” Astrid had pushed Ruga away, too.
Astrid had thought that, as queen, creating distance commanded respect. Maybe in another time, another world where Ulfur didn’t exist, she would have become queen and been allowed to flourish in a peaceful, golden era of Torden.
