“Your Majesty.” Brenn curtsied.
“You know where Freya is,” Astrid guessed.
Brenn’s knuckles were white against her staff. “She’s not safe, Queen Astrid.”
Astrid’s mind went blank. “She’s not safe?”
“She’s in danger,” said Brenn. “I don’t know where she is. I saw a poor image of a woman playing the lyre, lined in red and fraying at the edges.”
“The Rosebriar Inn,” Astrid whispered. It made sense that Freya would go there, and the connection to Astrid touched her. But… “What kind of danger is she in, Brenn?”
“I would go immediately,” Brenn said.
“We’re hours away. Will we make it in time?”
“We have to try,” said Brenn.
Astrid lifted her head at the stable girl. The staff rushed forward, helping everyone onto their horses. Astrid, Brenn, Hrothgar, Sigurd.
And Hedda, running from the castle. She wore no armor, unlike Hrothgar and Sigurd. Astrid caught sight of the scar on her face, the flash of short blue hair pulled back, the angry glare in her eyes.
“I’m coming,” Hedda choked, hands on her knees for support. “Please get me a horse.”
“We need to go,” said Brenn.
“You’ll have to catch up,” Astrid said. She was calm—a leader sending her soldiers into battle. This, she knew how to do. This, she would do for Freya.
She had no choice.
Chapter Thirty-One
Head throbbing, hand aching, Freya came to on the floor of a candle-lit room. Dimly, she recognized the layout from her last stay at the Rosebriar Inn. Her first thought was that she needed to warn Astrid the owners could be bought off not to intervene when crime happened before their eyes.
Her second thought was that she was going to die.
She tried to lift her head and swore. No concussion, she didn’t think, at least. Just sore, and whatever poison had been in her drink was clouding her thoughts. Not fatal—not yet.
Her hands were bound behind her back. She shifted her whole body to get a better view of her surroundings.
A figure sat in a chair before the fireplace, her silhouette limned in warm light. The woman’s horns curled around her pink-haired head, unmistakably orcish.
With effort, Freya adjusted herself until she was sitting up. She would not die without looking her killer in the eye.
The figure before the fire rose. She stepped in front of Freya with the same muddy boots as earlier. Defiant, Freya lifted her head and looked into her murderer’s face.
“I should have known,” Freya said.
Alvor smiled. “I quite like you, Freya,” she said. “It’s really not personal.”
“Taking someone’s life is always personal,” Freya countered.
Alvor bent to Freya’s eye level. “I don’t plan to kill you.”
“No?” said Freya. “Could have fooled me.”
Alvor tilted her head. “Walk me through it. Why would I want to?”
“I won’t play games with you. If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”
