To the horse. Now. Freya shoved herself off the table and began to stumble away, but her feet gave out. Her thoughts were slow, her previous clarity gone. “Help?” she called.
“Oi, what’s going on here?” Another voice, from the other side of the room. “Is your friend all right?”
“Yes, I think she’s just had too much to drink,” Ingirun said. She lifted Freya’s face from the floor. “How many did you have, Freya?”
“You poisoned me,” Freya choked out. She curled her tongue in on itself. The flesh felt fuzzy; a bitter taste coated her mouth.
Freya’s ears rang. The only indication a newcomer had arrived was the cold air washing over her clammy face. The air was stabilizing, and she had enough left of herself to look up.
The silhouette of an orc woman stood in the doorway.
Freya reached for the stool next to her head, meaning to swing it around and knock over Ingirun. Her limbs weren’t working like they should. Her gloved fingers glanced off the leg of the stool.
A pair of muddy boots stepped into Freya’s line of sight. She tried to look up, but her vision was poor, darkening around the edges, spots in the middle.
“Help,” Freya croaked.
“I don’t know what’s going on here,” the voice from earlier said, closer, “but I don’t like it. I’m escorting this woman upstairs to recover.”
“Where did the barmaid go?” someone else asked.
Freya tried to grab the leg of the stool again. A boot stomped on her hand. She whimpered.
Arguing broke out over her head. She couldn’t make sense of it. Drool pooled at the corner of her mouth, and she tried to wipe it away, wincing at the crushed bones in her hand. She thrust herself onto her elbows and began to crawl.
Someone grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. Freya tried to resist, but whatever she’d been drugged with was too potent.
Her head slammed into the floor. Darkness overtook her.
Chapter Thirty
Sleep eluded Astrid. She tossed and turned, but guilt ate at her. Freya was trapped in the temple like a caged animal against her will, and Astrid had put her there. She had used her powers as queen to override her beloved bodyguard’s wishes.
Now that Guthmar and his retinue had left, Astrid was sure Freya would be upset that she hadn’t done more to keep them around. She couldn’t see how she could have kept them longer—it wasn’t like she could ask them to stay back from a country whose king had just been murdered.
Other things caused her concern, too. Freya, and how she would react when she was fully healed. The assassin, out there somewhere. Ruga, still in Vakker Castle with an assassin on the loose. Sydlig, politically unstable, ready to make a big change with their king—maybe someone who would ally with Lynby and go to war with Torden.
How hard it would be to make up with Freya. How much she wanted her by her side, warming her bed. How deeply it would hurt when Astrid lost her.
She tossed and turned some more.
Hours later, as sleep just barely began to lay claim to Astrid, a loud yowling brought her to full consciousness. She sat up abruptly in bed, upsetting Fenrir—the source of the noise.
Fenrir stopped yowling, tilted his head, and then yowled again when Astrid did not move.
“Very well,” Astrid said. “I will do something about Freya.”
She’d made a mistake—one of many. Pushing Freya away was futile. They were bound by their wyrd to be together—this, Astrid did believe with all her might. Keeping her distance only delayed the inevitable, and for what?
Astrid pulled a cloak over her nightgown, slid Freya’s dagger into its sheath, and checked the window. Thank the goddess she had a window to look out of again—the moment Freya had gone to the temple, Varin had had Astrid’s things moved back to her old rooms, assured by the many guards on patrol and the thorough sweep of the castle that she was now safe.
Through the window, the night sky was yet dark, and a chill crept through the glass to Astrid’s fingers. She shuddered.
Apologizing would put Astrid’s mind at ease. She needed to let Freya know she didn’t mean to rob her of her agency. Perhaps the temple was treating Freya well, and she would want to stay.
At the very least, Freya deserved a choice.
Hrothgar and Sigurd, standing watch at Astrid’s door, followed her silently to the stables. Two half-asleep orcs sprang into action to bridle her horse. Astrid pinned her cloak closed and accepted Hrothgar’s help onto the horse’s back, and then the three of them were off. Blessedly, no one told her leaving the castle was a bad idea, though it occurred to her Freya or Varin would have. Or Hedda.
