“She hurt you,” Astrid said, voice cracking. “She wanted you dead.”
Freya touched each of her own wrists, the side of her head, her shoulder. Astrid’s eyes followed every movement, counting the places she had been injured. Unbidden, the dagger pressed deeper against Alvor’s neck.
“Get it over with,” Alvor snapped.
“Why shouldn’t I?” asked Astrid.
“She’s working for someone,” Freya said, flexing her recently healed fingers. “We need to know their agenda. Maybe we can use her as leverage.”
“We can’t keep her alive,” Hedda said. She stepped into the room. “She tried to kill the queen. Shedidkill King Skarde.”
“Hedda has a point,” Astrid said. “We can’t harbor a king-killer, even for answers. Sydlig won’t stand for it.”
“So kill me,” said Alvor.
“She wants to die,” Freya said. “The person who gave her the orders—or who hired her—wants her to die, too. That way, we’ll never know.”
“I don’t have any answers worth giving,” Alvor said from her knees.
“Let me look at her.” Freya put a hand on Astrid’s arm. Her skin was cold. Bare skin to bare skin.
Astrid backed away.
Freya stooped to Alvor’s level and, without warning, grabbed her chin and made her look up. “I know your kind,” she said.
“I bet you do,” Alvor said.
Freya threw down her chin. Alvor let her head hang and didn’t pick it back up, but through her strands of magenta hair, Astrid saw an expression that would haunt her later: a wicked smile.
“My Queen,” said Freya.
“Yes?” Astrid asked, startled.
“Permission to give an order?”
Astrid squinted at Freya. She did not ask permission to do anything, least of all giving orders. In present company, though… Someone who was a killer and an informant in their midst, the félag here…
“Granted,” Astrid said.
“You have been wanting something important to do for a while now. To try to prove yourself here, prove your necessity. Your loyalty.” Freya turned to Hedda. “Here is your chance.”
Hedda looked lost. “Freya…”
“This prisoner isyourresponsibility. Watch her, feed her, and interrogate her. Get some damn answers about what’s going on in the rest of the world.”
Uncomfortable, Astrid shifted. She would not have thought to do this. Hedda might find it even more demeaning than cleaning the floors.
Astrid met Freya’s gaze, and an understanding passed between them—the kind of understanding one could only cultivate through years of trust. To Hedda, Astrid nodded her assent.
Hedda’s eyes fell to Alvor. “What will we do with her? After we have our answers?”
“You already have them,” Alvor said.
“We’ll have to give her over to the Sydlig council,” Astrid said. “Until then, as Freya said, she is yours.”
Hedda looked down at Alvor, hands twitching at her sides. Of all of them, she looked the least like a warrior. She bore the scar over her nose, her hair pulled back out of her face and ready for action, but she wore common clothes where the others wore armor, her blade in its scabbard, undrawn and unused.
“Very well,” said Hedda. “The captive will stay in my charge.”
