Chapter 14 Skylar #2
On the other side of the platform are the Vatran royals—the king looking at her with open dislike, the prince with his hands clasped behind his back.
Behind the queen stand the same cloaked figures from yesterday, supporting Skylar’s theory that they must be her personal guard, the Dreki not good enough, clearly.
She wonders if they’re forced to wear those cloaks or if they do it by choice—not exactly comfortable attire in the heat.
All the royals are in their finery, which explains the dress they’ve given her—one she’s only put on because her clothes from yesterday were torn beyond repair.
The Artureans are in various shades of blue, and the Vatrans wear the royal red—the color of blood.
Her dress is a lighter shade, like they are acknowledging that she’s not really one of them.
“You’re late,” the king says coldly.
Fuck you, she thinks as she meets that gaze with a hard stare of her own.
“The princess needed a little convincing to join us,” Axel says smoothly. She just about holds in the growl at that word. “Princess.” It implies a life of luxury, of squandering resources while the people below you suffer.
Zryan glances at Axel, who inclines his head, some sort of silent conversation playing out between them.
Skylar doesn’t pay much attention, though.
Because she’s just noticed something, sitting on what looks like a sundial, right in the middle of the platform.
She stares at it. She’s never seen one before, but she’s seen pictures—so she knows. That’s a dragon egg.
Its golden-bronze scales glow in the sunlight, the ruby-red tip seeming to shimmer. It’s probably at least half the size of her, and it seems alive, like it might erupt into flame at any moment. It is the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. She wants to touch it. She wants to know if it burns.
All eyes are on her, she realizes. The watching crowd—nobles, no doubt invited to this as some kind of show—and all the royals.
She feels the pressure of Axel’s hand on her back, trying to steer her into position.
She steps onto the platform, in front of a small pile of wood—and faces the navy-haired witch for the first time.
Astrid. The woman she’s going to have to try to kill.
Her pale, freckled face is somber, though her shoulders are squared.
Her eyes are the color of her dress—a deep, endless blue.
She is stunning—enemy or not, Skylar will give her that.
And looks every part the princess that she is.
For a second their gazes meet, and Skylar wonders what is going on in her mind.
She wonders what it would be like to be the one to shut those eyes for good.
She wonders if she’ll get close, or if the witch will kill her before she can even try.
Between them, the dragon egg pulses, and Skylar can’t help looking back at it, breaking eye contact.
She thinks she knows the story. It is one of Cuatra’s eggs—the last fire dragon—gifted to the royals or taken by them, depending on who you believe.
There is some bullshit legend about it hatching for a “Chosen Heir.” If there’s even a grain of truth in the origin story, then this, right in front of her, is the last remaining fire dragon in existence.
She notices that Astrid’s attention is drawn to the egg as well.
Can she feel it, too, the power pulsing from it?
“Now that all parties are present,” the king says, “our nominated Joiner will guide us through the ceremony.”
Skylar is wondering what in Vaar a Joiner is when Zryan steps between them.
It takes Skylar a second to realize that he is the Joiner.
Everyone in the crowd fixes their attention on him, like they can’t help but do so.
At Astrid’s side, her mother, a navy-haired woman, the fox, the bear, and ten or so guards stiffen. If he notices, Zryan doesn’t react.
For a brief moment, Skylar wonders what he must be feeling, standing on the other side of this. Binding, rather than being bound. Then he speaks.
“We are gathered today to witness the Blood Binding between the heir of Vatra and the heir of Arturea in this year of 502 EC.” He speaks in Vatran, though she supposes the Artureans must be able to understand.
“In six weeks’ time, the heirs will duel to the death for control of the Heart.
For protection between now and then, the mortality of the two heirs will be linked, so that what happens to one, happens to both.
” Skylar tries to keep her feelings from showing on her face. But it doesn’t sound great, does it?
“Once bound by blood,” Zryan continues, “any attempt on one heir’s life shall be an attempt on both. The killing of either heir by a member of a royal household or court shall be considered a violation of the terms of the Covenant, and the culpable party shall forfeit the Heart.”
He seems to take a moment to let that sink in. Then, “Who comes to stake their claim as the de Veras heir and champion of Vatra?”
There is a ripple of silence as the crowd waits. She knows what she’s supposed to do—Axel told her on the way down. This is the only thing she’s required to say throughout the whole ceremony.
Cam, she tells herself. This is for Cam.
She lifts her chin. “I do.”
“And who comes to stake their claim as the Nachstern heir and champion of Arturea?”
“I do.” The witch’s words ring out, clear and confident. And why wouldn’t she be confident? She’s gone from an outside chance to a sure thing.
“If you’ll kneel.” Zryan gestures to the stone. Astrid gets to her knees, gracefully, her head now in line with her fox familiar.
Zryan looks down at Astrid, and something unreadable flickers across his face, like he finds the sight of her kneeling there disturbing somehow.
Then he looks at Skylar, waiting. But there’s no way she is going to kneel for them.
They may be forcing her to fight, they may have dragged her into this, but she will. Not. Kneel.
There is a warning growl from Bruma, an icy wind tinging the air. Astrid doesn’t seem to notice it.
“Kneel,” Zryan repeats, his voice a command now.
She folds her arms. “No.”
There is a rustling through the crowd. Behind the queen, her guards shift.
But just as Skylar is going to open her mouth, tell them they best get on with it, she hears a sickening crack, coming from within her.
Pain floods her as her knees buckle, the bones in her legs no longer listening to her.
Her hands fly out, palms scraping against stone.
A hiss of pain and anger escapes her as she glares up at the king, who is not looking at her, but gesturing for Zryan to continue.
Zryan spares a brief glance for his father, then begins softly chanting in a language she only partly recognizes, the sounds strange and hypnotic. She wonders if it might be Old Vatran.
The three dragons roll their thick necks, like they recognize something in the chant, and around the clearing some of the crowd join in, like a prayer to Arach himself.
One of the queen’s cloaked guards steps up to the stone platform and lifts his hand.
The pile of wood in front of Astrid and Skylar sparks to life.
A Flame Thrower. And if he can create fire like that, then he’s got to be a Prime.
Skylar eyes the queen’s guards, wondering what powers the rest of them possess.
Zryan sets a cast-iron bowl on top of the fire, flames sparking against it. The witch queen approaches, takes out a vial, and unstoppers it, pouring some kind of potion into the bowl. Skylar hears the mutter of something that can only be a spell, and tenses automatically.
“The flesh of a familiar and the scale of a dragon willingly offered,” Zryan says, speaking once again in modern Vatran.
At the words, Astrid’s head jerks in panic, and she looks around the clearing, searching for something.
Skylar follows the direction of her gaze and is sure, for a second, that she sees something small and dark, moving through the shadows. Interesting.
“The blood of the heirs, freely given,” Zryan continues.
Another cloaked figure steps toward them. Sharp pain slices across Skylar’s palm and she lifts her other hand to grip it, as blood wells there. She sucks in a sharp breath. Freely given, her ass.
Astrid extends her hand over the bowl calmly, like Blood Wielders frequently take her blood, and after a second Skylar does the same. She doesn’t want the king to use his power on her again. Their blood fizzes as it hits the hot iron.
Then Skylar feels it. Something other flooding into her, making it impossible to breathe.
She collapses, as images tumble through her mind.
An older man on the edge of a stream, laughing in the sunlight as a girl splashes him.
Bright azure eyes, peering out of shadows.
White and snow and cold so deep it cuts bone marrow, a cold Skylar has never experienced.
She takes another breath, feels it burn the back of her throat as she tries to fight this feeling, this connection that she does not want.
She blinks, and the scene comes back into focus.
Astrid is there, still on her knees, sweat beading the top of her lip.
Her mother and the navy-haired woman each step forward, helping Astrid up.
Zryan holds out a hand for Skylar, but she ignores him, pushing herself to her feet.
Her palm still stings—a matching scar to the other hand, where she’d caught the knife just two days ago.
She watches as Astrid straightens—though now Astrid won’t meet her gaze.
“Can’t look at me, Little Witch? Not even when you’re the one who got me into this?
” Astrid does look at her then, slowly. “Although, thinking about it, you didn’t come and get me yourself, did you?
Prefer others to do your dirty work, do you? ”
Astrid’s hand moves to a belt as Skylar edges closer. Vials.
Before either of them can do anything, Zryan steps between them. “I can’t allow you to hurt each other.” The king, however, hasn’t intervened. He’s watching her, she notices. Waiting to see what she’ll do.
Skylar snorts. “Allow us? You’re literally going to force us in a matter of weeks. Bet you’ll get your kicks from watching, won’t you?”
Zryan’s eyes harden. “Think what you like, but remember I didn’t choose this.” His voice is low. “I have been preparing to kill for my kingdom my whole life.”
“Yes.” It’s Astrid who speaks, her voice soft but not weak as she turns the force of her blue gaze on Zryan. “You were planning to kill for your country. And I was preparing to die for mine. That’s the difference between us, I suppose.”
Astrid holds her head high, not dropping the eye contact and, okay, fair play, Skylar can’t help admiring her just a little for having the balls.
The king and queen step forward as one—and Skylar notices that the crowd is still here, waiting for something.
“If you’ll excuse us,” the king says to the witches, voice barely passing for civil. “We have Vatran business to complete.” He puts his hand on Skylar’s shoulder and her whole body recoils. She moves away, but the feeling lingers.
At a nod from their queen, the witches turn to leave, the fox by Astrid’s side, guards surrounding her.
“I thought that was it?” Skylar asks, not really sure who to direct the question to, so settling on midair.
“There is a tradition,” Ottilie says, her voice holding that lyrical edge of all the posh nobles. “Each generation, the new heir must lay a hand on the dragon egg. To see if you are the Chosen Heir, the one who will finally reunite the lands with dragon fire.”
It sounds stupid and Skylar wants to scoff but can’t quite bring herself to. Because like the egg can sense Ottilie’s words, it seems to shimmer even more brightly, bronze scales fracturing the sunlight.
“You would have done this when you turned sixteen,” Ottilie continues, “had circumstances been… different.” Her voice falters, the only sign she gives that she’s unhappy about how things have played out.
“What if I don’t want to touch it?” Skylar asks. She does. More than anything. But she doesn’t want to do it here, in front of them.
The queen frowns, while Axel gives Skylar a knowing look, like he can taste her lie. The king’s eyes are cold and assessing, and she wonders if he’ll manipulate the bones in her hand, force it atop the egg.
She stalks to the sundial. All three dragons are watching her. An ice cloud huffs from Bruma’s nostrils, though it quickly evaporates in the heat.
She lifts her hand, then hesitates. “What do I do? Just… touch it?” The king inclines his head.
“If it is meant for you,” says the queen, “it will hatch.” The way she says it makes Skylar imagine a dragon springing from the egg, with a ta-da! She gets an irrational urge to laugh, and bites it down.
She stretches her fingers out, swears she feels the air between her and the egg heat. She hears a low rumble behind her, one that can only be Mjolnir. The sound isn’t a warning, she knows. It’s encouragement.
She lays her hand on the egg—and even the breeze around them stills.
Skylar can see Simone—now back in human form—watching with such intensity, she’s surprised it doesn’t make her pass out. Skylar’s own heart is thumping, the blood in her fingertips pulsing, like it’s straining to reach through her skin.
But nothing happens. There is no crack, no bursting into flame. No sense of power flooding through her.
She draws her hand back, hates that it trembles. “Well. That was dramatic,” she mutters.
There’s a cough of what might be laughter behind her, and she turns to glare at the prince. Dick.
“I assume that’s all?” Skylar says. She doesn’t wait for anyone to answer before she moves this time.
She thinks she hears someone say her name behind her, but she can’t be sure, because there is the sound of the ground trembling as the three dragons move, then the beat of wings on the air.
There’s a flash of light from Ziva, then an angry rumble of thunder filling the sky.
Like Mjolnir is pissed at something and doesn’t care who knows about it.
She keeps moving until she’s far enough away from them to breathe, to think through the fog still clouding her mind.
She can’t quite get her head around what just happened. The fact that she is now bound to the witch. That this is it, no going back.
Six weeks, to learn how to kill a witch. Six weeks, to find Cam.