Chapter 12 Skylar
Skylar hates the feeling of Axel standing next to her. His presence is oppressive, and there is nothing remotely kind or reassuring on his harsh, angular face. Not that she needs kindness from any of them—but she suspects there isn’t a trace of sympathy there that she could use to her advantage.
It turns out the Custodian is a person—a thin, short man with a wiry mustache—who has brought in a yellowing scroll, glancing nervously around as he moves to the high table on the dais. Skylar knows what this must be—though her bodyguard is keeping her several paces away from it.
This is the Covenant. The binding contract between Arturea and Vatra, the thing that history teaches them stopped the war over the Heart that had killed hundreds of thousands on both sides.
“Well, Custodian?” the king demands. “Can you shed any light on this predicament?” He hasn’t looked at Skylar since the witches left, presumably to keep their princess safe after the show of dragon power.
The remnants of Tommen have not been cleared away, though none of them seem to glance that way.
Maybe they’re used to this kind of thing.
Maybe the dragons decimate guards all the time.
“Yes, ah…” The Custodian wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead as he unrolls the scroll on the table, then places a quill and bottle of ink next to it.
All three royals look down at it. Skylar notices, for the first time, that there are a few people who seem to be guarding the queen in particular.
They aren’t Dreki—they don’t have the fire brand and are wearing cloaks rather than armor—but they do hold themselves in that way people with power do.
Her personal guard, maybe? Which would make sense, Skylar supposes.
From what she knows of the queen, she has the least useful power—a Discerner, but a weak one, only grade one or two.
“Well,” the Custodian is saying now. “This, ah…” But apparently he has no words. The queen’s face drains of color as she stares at something on the scroll that Skylar can’t see. The king clenches his hands into fists at his sides. Only Zryan’s face remains impassive.
“His name was there.” The queen’s voice is high, on the verge of panicked. “It’s been written there since his naming day.”
Skylar edges forward, but Axel’s grip is a vise around her bicep. “I will break your arm,” he mutters, “if you take one more step.”
She tries to wrench free, but he holds firm. She wants to use the same retort she had with Aldric: I’d like to see you try. But somehow, she’s not really sure she does want to see this man, with the cold eyes and sharp-edged face, try to hurt her.
She looks away instead, feeling the fragment of blade between her wrists.
And with the shift in everyone’s positions, she can see what she couldn’t before.
At the bottom of the Covenant, there are two lines, side by side, spaces above for signatures.
On the right is a scrawl she can barely make out—but from the letters she can see, she thinks she knows what the name says.
Astrid Nachstern. The witch princess.
So that would mean the other line is for Zryan’s name. Only it’s blank.
“This is preposterous,” the king splutters.
“If this girl was my heir, she would be dead by now. The countdown to the duel would have started when the witch turned twenty-three—but it’s clearly Zryan’s birthday that has triggered it.
This girl,” he gestures at Skylar, “is older, yes? If they are implying she is my firstborn. So if she were my heir, the witch would have had to duel by now. And I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone here that if no duel between the heirs took place, they would both be dead.
So the fact the witch princess lives is surely evidence enough that the witches are wrong.
” The king states this all as cold, hard fact—like he’s daring the Covenant itself to contradict him.
The Custodian licks his lips. “The Covenant stipulates that once the younger heir reaches the age of twenty-three, the countdown to the duel begins, yes, but…”
“But what?” The king takes a threatening step toward the Custodian. “If you don’t have use of your tongue, Custodian, maybe we should cut it out?”
The Custodian swallows. “But an heir is only an heir once they are recognized. Until now, Zryan was believed by all—including the Covenant—to be the youngest heir, so it was his twenty-third birthday, as you say, that set things in motion. We don’t understand everything about the magic that binds the Covenant, but I have made it my life’s work—”
“We don’t need to hear about your dedication,” snaps the king. “We need to sort this out.”
The prince seems oddly quiet, given it’s his fate they’re talking about here. His arms are folded, watching the whole thing play out.
“Well, it’s like I said—an heir needs to be recognized.”
The king’s eyes, the color of his ice dragon’s scales, slide to Skylar’s. She feels a curdling in her gut, pressure in her temples building. He knew she was out there alright.
The king hunted down her mother, and Skylar has always thought it was because of what her mother was… But is there a chance it was because of who her mother was? After mating with his one true love—if you buy into that bullshit—did he want to get rid of all his previous lovers?
Or was it actually about Skylar? An heir who was not meant to be born.
The Dreki, chasing her down the alley.
Nowhere left to run, girl.
They’d meant to kill her that night. And given they never came for her again, they must have thought they’d succeeded. And all of this means… Skylar takes a shallow breath. Her mother died because of her.
The king’s daughter.
Heir.
It can’t be true. But the pounding of her blood, the spike in her temperature, means her body is telling her otherwise. Still holding her arm, her bodyguard flicks an odd glance at her. She takes a breath, air rasping against her dry throat. And feels herself calm, just a little.
The king is still watching her with hatred in his eyes. Eyes that are wholly unfamiliar, nothing like hers.
“So what happens now?” the queen asks, breaking the brief silence.
“Well,” the Custodian says, his voice trembling, “now it’s down to whether the Covenant recognizes her as heir.
Mjolnir protecting her is, ah, an indication that she could have royal blood.
And as Prince Zryan’s name is no longer here, it would suggest…
” He trails off, apparently unwilling to finish the sentence.
“In that case,” Zryan says, stepping forward so that all eyes turn to him, “there’s only one way to settle this, isn’t there?
” Everyone watches as he holds out his hand to the Custodian.
“The quill.” The Custodian hesitates, glancing at the king, and Zryan raises his eyebrows, as if daring him to argue. The Custodian hands it over.
“Zryan,” the king begins, “what are you—?”
But Zryan holds up a hand. “If I’m not the heir, then if I go in that cage in six weeks’ time and kill the witch, we’ll forfeit the Heart. And we can’t have that, can we? So let’s be sure we know what we’re dealing with here.”
Skylar can’t help watching, along with the rest of them, as the prince dips the quill in ink, then writes his name in the blank space next to the witch’s.
She feels Axel’s grip tighten further on her arm, resists the urge to wince in pain.
They all watch as Zryan finishes, draws back. As the ink on the parchment disappears.
Zryan throws the quill down casually next to the Covenant. “Well. Looks like I’m no longer the heir.” His voice is even, like he’s not all that concerned. “So clearly someone else is,” he adds pointedly.
All attention moves to Skylar.
Not happening. Her thoughts are spiraling, trying to catch up. But she still has that odd sense of calm, so that the whole thing feels distant, like it’s happening to someone else entirely.
“What’s your name, girl?” barks the king.
She snorts before she can stop herself. “Right. As if I’m going to tell you that.”
There is a gasp of shock—almost comical—from the Custodian.
“I am your king,” he says, and though his voice is quiet, it’s full of venom.
“And I’m not your ‘girl.’ ”
She feels the collective gaze of the guards, as if they are waiting for something to happen. She knows the odds aren’t in her favor right now. Mjolnir has disappeared, and she’s surrounded by enemies. Even with her pin, she hasn’t got a hope in Vaar.
That pounding in her head, coursing around her system. Urging her to do something. Because she doesn’t want her name written there. If it’s her name they need to bind her into this, she won’t give it to them.
She takes another breath.
Stay calm, Lar.
“One way or another,” the king says darkly, “I’m afraid you’re telling us.”
Her body stiffens—but not of its own accord.
For the second time in a matter of hours, she finds herself held in place by magic.
Only this time, it is not a spell. It’s her very bones, tightening inside her.
A Bone Wielder’s magic. And he might not be a Prime, but everyone knows how powerful the king is.
The king stretches out his hand in front of him, turns it. And inside her body, Skylar’s bones strain. She can’t help it, she lets out a gasp of pain.
“I could break every bone in your body right now,” the king says mildly. “Or I could do it one by one, until you talk.”
Skylar bares her teeth at him, bracing herself. She’s used to pain, used to fear. She tells herself she can handle it, whatever he throws at her.
“Well, then she won’t be much good in a fight, will she?” Zryan says dryly.
The king glances at his son, while Skylar’s heart thumps, her palms, still pressed together, damp with sweat. The queen moves to the king, lays her hand on his arm.
“I’ve got a better way than torture, my love.” She gestures to one of the people in her private guard. “Herron? If you could?”