And Astrid was a queen, anyway, not someone who could be familiar with people the way Freya could. Patting someone on the shoulder could be seen as construing favoritism. Fodder for a rumor mill. People would think they had the chance to get close to her, that she could succumb to undue influence.
Keeping her distance was something Astrid had done her entire reign. She just wished it didn’t necessitate total isolation.
Was Astrid imagining the additional distance grown between herself and Freya? Freya was always busy in advance of big events at Vakker Castle, and they had the consuls to think about now, and the history fair to think about soon, so it was not abnormal for her to be absent. And she never left Astrid completely on her own. Certainly never unprotected. Staff at the castle came and went with time, but Freya was a constant, just as constant as the félag Astrid had built up over her fifty-some years of rule.
Unbidden, Astrid remembered the soft touch of Freya’s fingers on the sensitive skin of her palm, the way an awkwardness had permeated her room when Freya laced up her dress.
As if sensing Astrid’s thoughts, Freya’s gaze flicked to hers and held her there. For one beat—two beats—Astrid couldn’t breathe. Freya lifted her hand slightly, pushing back the fabric of her tunic so Astrid could see the gleam of Freya’s dagger sheathed at her hip. A message Astrid understood implicitly:You have my protection.
Freya let the fabric of her tunic fall back over her hip, and Astrid saw the strip of skin that vanished under it burned into her sight the way flames remain when staring too long at a fire. She continued to stare. Freya’s brow furrowed, and she gave a nod of assurance, a half-bow. Devotion emanated from her, and suddenly the attention was too much.
Astrid slammed down her mead.
“Is everything all right, Your Majesty?” the ambassador asked.
Astrid had not listened to anything he’d said for the last ten minutes, and he had not noticed.
“Yes, of course,” Astrid said, hiding behind her smile. “It’s just that the mead is a bit strong tonight.”
Chapter Five
How could this have happened? Freya had planned so meticulously, sought out every detail, extracted and organized and memorized. She had anticipated the need to keep close watch over the ambassador, but not that King Skarde might send someone else.
She could not fathom a benign reason for the old ambassador’s replacement.
On her way to the dining hall, she tapped Mara on the shoulder and asked her to introduce the topic of the replacement to Guthmar’s attendants during the meal.
In the dining hall, three long tables seated the entire castle: one for the staff, one for the garrison, and one where Astrid, the félag, and Guthmar and his spouses sat.
Freya waited against the wall near the staff table, listening in on the attendants’ conversation. They were unhappy to be here; traveling for a month was rough, and Guthmar was an orc who stopped at every town to see the sights. They told stories of him holding them up at rustic inns, interesting houses with oddly shaped windows, beds of flowers with unusual colors, bustlingmarkets with trinkets he’d peruse for hours. Easily distracted, they said. Not scared of inconveniencing others by taking up their time. But nobody mentioned anything about him being cruel.
In fact, the impression was that Guthmar was foolish. He’d been sent in lieu of the king’s brother, Elgir, who from all rumors was a hostile, unpredictable person. Was the replacement a good indication, then? Had King Skarde intended to intimidate Torden with Elgir, then changed his mind and sent the less frightening Guthmar instead? Or was it meant as an insult? As in,here is this silly man, and this is how much of a threat we think you are?
Freya couldn’t make head nor tail of it.
Was it possible the change was a mere coincidence? Brenn would say nothing was a coincidence and everything was in the hands of the goddess. Their wyrd had been set in stone long before they were born. Freya, of course, did not believe in anything this simple.
The worst part of the switch was that Astrid relied on Freya to handle these matters, and Freya had failed. How disappointed the queen must’ve been. Freya was seldom wrong about anything, seldom caught by surprise. And here they were, completely unaware of a significant change the goddess apparently had not seen fit to share with Brenn.
Freya itched to sneak away and speak to Brenn about this development, but from now on, she wouldn’t be able to leave the queen’s side. The castle staff were discussing the upcoming history fair with the new attendants—something Freya had already prepared for. Only those invited would be allowed through the castle gates, butmorestrangers in the castle while they were already dealing with this ambassador crisis…
Sometimes Freya wished she could split herself in two.
Freya would write to Brenn. She needed her nearby: her guidance and her steady presence were invaluable. From now until Sydlig saw fit to recall their ambassador, Freya would have to use every resource available to her.
“And who’s this?” one of the ambassador’s human attendants asked. Ingirun, Freya thought her name was.
Everyone at the staff table turned to Freya. She waved.
“That’s the queen’s shadow,” a kitchen girl said behind her hand.
“The what? Is that an official position here?”
“She’s Queen Astrid’s attendant,” the kitchen girl clarified. “You won’t see the queen without Freya.”
Subconsciously, Freya’s hand went to her dagger. She felt the hard, comforting ridge of the pommel through the fabric of her tunic. She liked her nickname and what it implied. Astrid was never alone under her watch, never vulnerable. Freya was Astrid’s sword, the whisper in her ear, the shadow at her feet.
“A bit overbearing for a lady’s maid,” Ingirun commented.
