Chapter 7 Astrid
“Drink this.”
Jessa pours a drop of a calming solution into a glass of water and hands it to Astrid, who’s shaking so violently she spills it.
She doesn’t want to die like that. Doesn’t want her body desecrated by a dragon.
The door opens as Gwen enters the cabin, the sound of keening sobs following her.
Her mum’s Gift allows her to trap people in their own worst nightmares—it’s not real, of course; the victim just believes it is—and the people on the embankment will be dealing with the aftershock for hours.
She makes straight for Astrid, embracing her so tightly she feels like a child again.
Finally, Astrid succumbs to her tears. They’re savage and loud, and she’s embarrassed by the retching sound of them, but she can’t stop.
She gulps and chokes on twenty-four years’ worth of fear.
And while she cries for the unknown future of Arturea, cries at the thought of her people suffering more than they already have, she’s crying for herself most of all.
She’s selfish and weak, she’s useless, and right now she despises herself.
Is this how her uncle reacted? His aunt before that?
“We can’t stay in here.” Gwen pulls away. “They’ll be expecting us once they’ve dismounted those, those… abominations.” Her mum shakes her head. “I should’ve known they’d pull something like this. It’s all just a game to them.”
Astrid wants to challenge her mother because, really, it is a game, isn’t it? And they’ve come here six weeks before to participate. So she and Zryan can be wheeled out together as some sort of curiosity.
“We need to clean up,” Jessa says, practical as ever. They’re all coated in dust.
“And your tunic is torn, Astrid. You need to change,” Gwen says.
Astrid didn’t even notice. “Come, let’s get you sorted.
” Her mum slings an arm around Astrid’s waist and guides her down the corridor.
In that instant, she appreciates, more than ever, her mum’s steady presence, Jessa’s ability to remain unruffled.
Because Astrid’s very sense of self is eroding, the fabric of her reality unspooling.
She thought she accepted her fate. Accepted the fact she was going to die.
Turns out, she never accepted anything of the sort.
When they reach Astrid’s room, Jessa opens the door—and Astrid realizes with horror she forgot to lock it. Gwen enters but comes to an abrupt halt.
Because there, on the bed, is a tiny black cat. Hissing with abandon.
“Astrid,” Jessa says after a beat, “why is there a very angry cat in your room?”
Gwen’s arms go slack. She turns to stare at Astrid.
And Astrid finds she doesn’t care. Right now, she doesn’t care what either of them thinks.
She strides over and snatches him up from the bed, clinging to him.
He butts his head against her chin, purring so loudly it rumbles through Astrid, calming her more than the solution Jessa gave her ever could.
“Mum, Jess. Meet Bastet.” She takes a heaving breath. “My familiar.”
Gwen and Jessa say nothing. The rhythm of the lapping water soothes Astrid as she waits. Waits to see what the reaction might be.
“Familiar?” her mum whispers. “You have a familiar and you said nothing?”
Bastet appraises her mother, his large azure-blue eyes narrowed. DO WE NOT HAVE MORE PRESSING MATTERS TO CONCERN OURSELVES WITH?
Her mum startles. Though Bastet is miniature, his voice is an old, rich baritone, and he speaks as if he’s lived a thousand lifetimes. Acts as cynical, too.
“How long?” Gwen says quietly.
“Since Nysndjór.” The best day of her life, really.
She’d been at rock bottom on the first day of the new year, knowing what it would bring—until Bastet had appeared.
The darkest of the shadows in the forest had gathered, collided and forged together, and a breath later a cat as black as the space between stars stood before her.
Her very soul changed for all time as the tether had fixed in place.
The first thing he said was: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?
ARE YOU CRYING? She knew then he was made for her.
“But that was five months ago!” Her mum’s voice is bruising with its accusation, but it’s Jessa who Astrid turns to, afraid of what she might see. Her friend’s face is carved with hurt. “Why wouldn’t you say anything, Astrid?” her mum continues. “Something as important as this, to hide it from—”
“Because if no one knew about him, then no one would be able to hurt him or use him against me. He wouldn’t have to go into that cage with me.
” She knows it’s illogical, that when she dies he will die, too, but at least she can spare him the fear, the brutality of facing that monstrous dragon.
She and Bastet have argued about it many times, and Bastet has requested a compromise: he’ll remain hidden until the duel, but then they’ll enter the arena together.
Die together. Astrid can’t bring herself to agree.
Her mum waves her hand. “This is foolish—why not at least tell me?”
“Because I couldn’t bear your disappointment.”
The queen falls silent, mouth open slightly, any retort she had lost in the truth of Astrid’s words.
NO OFFENSE MEANT TO ME, OF COURSE.
Astrid laughs. “Of course. You’re the greatest thing to ever happen to me, my soul-bonded.” He jumps from Astrid’s arms to sit on the bed.
IT WAS NOT EXACTLY HARD. YOUR LIFE WAS MISERABLE BEFORE ME.
A fair assessment, Astrid concedes. Bastet’s focus homes in on the queen.
NOW STOP THIS. ASTRID HAS BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH TODAY.
YOU HAVE SEEN WHAT SHE MUST FACE. A MIGHTY STORM MADE FLESH.
A NIGHTMARE CONJURED INTO BEING. A BEAST THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT THE DEEPEST CIRCLES OF HEL FROM WHENCE IT CAME. AMONSTER—
“That is not helping,” Astrid interrupts, and Jessa huffs a reluctant laugh. Bastet glares at her.
“You’re right,” Gwen says to Bastet, surprising Astrid.
“This isn’t the time. We need to regroup and get back out there.
” Well, she’ll give her mum some credit: she’s taking this better than Astrid expected.
She wonders what her mum thinks now of her proclamation that no more witch blood will be spilled in Vatra.
“Bjorn!” her mother shouts, striding to the bedroom door. “Get Veronica here. Now.” A harrumph sounds from the corridor. Astrid catches Jessa’s eye, but she looks equally confused. “Time to go,” Gwen says. “We can talk later. For now, let’s not allow them to win this round, my miracle girl.”
Yes. Back to the game that isn’t a game. Astrid stands, pulling on a new tunic then slipping her armor back on while her mother whispers, “Skura,” cleaning the dust and dirt from her hair and the rest of her clothes.
WEAR YOUR CLOAK.
“She doesn’t need a cloak—it stays uncomfortably warm here, even at night,” Gwen says absently, twisting her platinum arm ring. “And it’s been the warmest it gets.”
Astrid puzzles over her mother’s words. It’s like she’s spent a lot of time in the city, and recently, too, but Astrid knows her mother hasn’t been here for decades.
Thirty-one years, to be precise. The last duel, when her Uncle Aaren died and her father had been crowned king.
Astrid’s parents had made their union official a few weeks later, but Astrid wouldn’t come along for another seven years.
It’s why her mum describes her as a miracle—they thought they couldn’t conceive, that the House of Nachstern witches would die with them—but then, Astrid had surprised them.
And now here she is, the last Nachstern witch.
ASTRID WILL WEAR THE CLOAK SO I CAN REMAIN CONCEALED WITHIN IT.
“Okay,” Astrid agrees, “but you stay hidden. You’re pretty much defenseless.”
“Is he defenseless?” her mother says. “What is your Gift?”
He bristles. AS ASTRID’S HAS NOT YET MANIFESTED, NEITHER HAS MINE.
And there it is, she thinks, as disappointment flits across Gwen’s face. That is what Astrid had expected; what she couldn’t bear to see.
There’s a knock on the door and the queen’s spymaster, Veronica, enters. Her silky brown hair is braided down her back, and she’s already caught the sun. Her ochre eyes scan the room. Bastet is nowhere to be seen.
“You called for me, My Queen?”
“Veronica, good.” She turns back to Astrid and Jessa. “Meet me out on deck in two minutes. Veronica, walk with me.”
Astrid jumps up and peers down the corridor after the queen and the spy, straining to listen, but all she catches is “Where is she?” and “I need you to—” but what she needs her to do Astrid doesn’t hear.
Her brows pinch together. They must be talking about Veronica’s familiar, a peregrine falcon called Ceridwen.
“You’re so nosy,” says Jessa.
“Says you who’s right here next to me, also eavesdropping.”
“Good point.” Jessa grabs Astrid’s cloak and tosses it to her. “Right, get your shit together. In every sense.” Astrid throws the cloak around her shoulders and fastens the clasp at her neck. There’s a pouch sewn into the lining of the cloak, and Bastet slips inside.
TRY NOT TO SWEAT. IT WILL BE UNPLEASANT ENOUGH AS IT IS.
“Yes, because that’s something I can control.” She rolls her eyes at Jessa, but Jessa’s face tightens.
“I get why you didn’t tell the queen, but why didn’t you say anything to me?”
She likes this about Jessa. There’s no silent treatment or sulking, no pretending there’s nothing bothering her—she tells it to you straight what’s on her mind.
“I was doing what I thought was best for him. If I was going to tell anyone, it would’ve been you, you know that. You’re like a sister to me. But he’s everything, Jess. And I’m not sorry for protecting him.”
Jessa studies her a moment, then shrugs. “Fair enough. Now let’s go.”