Chapter 15 Astrid
The punch to the gut knocks the air out of Astrid.
She doubles over, gasping, and thanks the Stars no one’s around to see her getting her ass kicked by Jessa.
They’re on a training ground behind the stables, the nickering of horses occasionally punctuating Astrid’s grunts of pain.
The gravel has made a mess of her knees where she’s found herself on them multiple times.
They wanted to train in the arena, as Gwen had suggested, but the Vatrans denied them access and surrounded the entrance with Dreki.
But Astrid doesn’t mind either way. Wherever she trains, she’ll be picking grit out of her scabs.
“For Sqa?i’s sake, Astrid, if I had a dagger, you’d be dead.
First of all, this”—she gestures at Astrid trying to draw breath—“is why we’re working on battle casting—because it will save your Hel-damned life.
Even a simple defensive spell could make a difference.
Second of all, why the Hel didn’t you block me?
If you can’t cast, at least fucking remember your training.
Third, why are you not back in your stance?
Are you a Hel-damned rookie? No. Are you the heir of Arturea?
Yes.” Jessa claps her hands. “Get. Your. Shit. Together.”
Now they’re in Vatra, Jessa’s lost the empathetic, look inside yourself and be patient approach to training and instead gone for a tough-love, I’ll kick that power out of you method.
She’s determined to overcome Astrid’s block—and so is Astrid—but Astrid is exhausted, her magic depleted after five hours of this, and she’s about ready to pass out.
It’s so hot, too, which isn’t helping. They’ve stripped down to shorts and sports bras, not that it’s brought them much relief.
“I. Am. Trying,” Astrid grits out, wiping the back of her neck. “It’s not that easy, Jess. I can’t just… switch it on. And I can win this duel without having to cast.”
“Of course you can, but that’s not the point.
If you’re to be queen, you’ve got to be able to cast—in all scenarios,” Jessa adds, obviously not wanting to hear Astrid talk about how great she is at a litany of other spells.
“And it’s going to help you in that arena.
She might not be much of an opponent, but the Vatran heir is not to be underestimated.
She’s handy with a dagger and obviously has some training. ”
At the Blood Binding yesterday, Astrid noticed the lean muscle, the fluidity with which Skylar moved, but that wasn’t what had given her pause.
No. It was the fact that Astrid had felt something in Skylar, a deep pain, as soon as they were linked.
It had knocked her off-kilter. That, and the images that had bombarded her.
They keep popping unbidden into her mind: a dark-haired woman singing softly, the words unfamiliar and hazy; that same woman screaming to run.
Dreki closing in down a narrow, hot alley.
Someone calling her Sugarplum. A young man, smiling, with light brown eyes and sandy hair.
She shakes them off, not wanting to know anything more about the woman she has to kill.
“You can do this, Astrid. Just start with a simple shield like Dever—we don’t need to go big.”
We don’t need to try Forsvare—the strongest defensive spell a witch can cast—is what she means, but Jessa’s right: Astrid’s going to be queen and she needs to be able to battle cast. Apparently the Stars haven’t forgiven her yet for the life she took.
Or perhaps it’s because she hasn’t forgiven herself.
Before, trying to learn again had felt futile, given nothing she did would be enough to beat Zryan.
But things are different now. She’s not dueling to die but to live; she’s not casting to survive, she’s doing it so she can rule and rule well.
No one else is going to be hurt because of her.
What happened to her dad, it wasn’t her fault. She can do this.
She sweeps a palm over her body and whispers, “Dever,” pouring everything she has into that one word.
Her body begins to shimmer and she holds her breath, waiting, until she hears a popping sound—the shield snapping into place.
She pulls herself a little straighter, unable to stop the smile that forms. That’s the most progress she’s made in a long time.
Astrid dances on her toes. “Okay, let’s go, Sadist.”
“Did you just call me Sadist?”
“It’s what Bastet calls you.”
Jessa stands with her hands on her hips. “I like it.”
“I knew you would—”
Jessa strikes, quick as a viper, with a roundhouse kick to Astrid’s stomach. She flinches, but the blow is deflected.
“That’s what I’m talking about. Good.” Jessa cracks her knuckles, a sly smirk on her face. “Now attack me. And I mean properly. If it’s half-assed, I’ll float you naked through the Stone City. So cast, Astrid.”
I can do this.
The spells run through her head, ripe for the plucking; and Astrid grasps at them, trying to hold them in her mind, attempting to shape them with her mouth, but the words don’t form.
Instead, images of her father, dead, blood foaming at his mouth, jumble with the letters and sounds and magic she needs.
It was her fault. Her breathing is shallower, the taste of bile lingering at the back of her throat, her hands and her legs tingling.
She can’t do this. Useless, useless, useless. She’s going to be queen, and she can’t do this. The image of Bastet soars into her head, and it’s his dead face she’s seeing.
Jessa swipes at her. “Do it, Astrid. Attack me.”
She can’t cast. But she can fight.
Before Jessa can land another hit, Astrid pulls a vial from her belt and smashes it against her defensive shields.
The air around Jessa fizzes as the destabilizing solution gets to work; and before Jessa realizes what’s happening, Astrid is spraying another vial across her face.
The dazing draught takes hold and Jessa sways, stumbles.
Astrid feints left before aiming a right hook at her jaw, knocking her to the ground.
Jessa lands on her back, hitting the dirt with a whomp.
Before Jessa can block her, Astrid pins her, drawing a claw and placing the dagger at her throat. Jessa blinks up at her in shock.
“Casting isn’t everything, you know.” Astrid grins at Jessa.
One second she’s smiling down at her friend, the next she’s being thrown through the air, crashing against a rack of weaponry. Her shield absorbs most of the impact, then fails completely, and she falls to her knees, winded. Again.
Jessa strolls over to her, shit-eating grin on her face. “Casting is everything. That shield just stopped me shattering your spine. Now get up. Let’s call it a day. I’m sweating like a pig on a spit.”
Astrid takes the offered hand, barely mustering a laugh. “You smell like a pig on a spit.”
“Quincy will be pleased at least.” Jessa slaps Astrid on the back. “Don’t look so crestfallen. Take the win, okay? That shield was strong. It’s progress.”
“If you say so.” Astrid sounds sulky, she knows, but the heat, the aches, that image of her father, the adjustment to whatever this link is to Skylar—it’s all weighing heavily on her and she just wants to sleep.
It’s been a weird couple of days since the Blood Binding.
She snorts. As if her entire life hasn’t been weird when the duel has been her fate.
“What are you snorting at?” Jessa asks. She passes Astrid a bottle of water as they leave the training ground, greeting Fionn, Arboria, and Quincy, who have been standing guard at the entrance. Bastet, against his own wishes, remained in her room, given the Vatrans still don’t know about him.
“Thinking how nice it is to be able to wander the grounds of the castle without the fear of someone trying to kill me.”
“You might be blood bound, but you can’t be complacent, do you hear me? You don’t go anywhere without a guard, your vials, or your pendant.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jessa shoots her a look that tells Astrid she sees right through her.
Astrid hopes the flush she feels creeping along her chest isn’t obvious; she hasn’t told Jessa about her midnight foray to the library—she’d kill Astrid herself if she knew—and, yes, it was stupid, colossally so, given she found nothing of use there and bumped into the prince.
At least the trip to the gardens was worth it.
Astrid has been able to brew a new batch of her tincture.
She takes a sip now, just to level herself.
It’ll be a couple of days before it starts to work in earnest, but it’s still helping, despite the side effects it brings. She could live without the nausea.
They find her mum waiting for them just outside the main doors to the castle, Bjorn prostrate next to her as he suffers in the heat. Quincy whines in sympathy.
“What are you doing down here? I thought you’d be at dinner,” Astrid asks, kissing her mum on the cheek.
“Postponed. The king had to deal with something urgent.”
“How did it go today?” The queen has spent the day in “diplomatic discussions.”
Her mum purses her lips. “The denials are still coming thick and fast, but the queen at least has suggested they will ‘conduct an investigation’ to see if the Heart is somehow linked to the Blight. As if they don’t already know what’s going on, but then, perhaps she doesn’t.
He’s not exactly a progressive, Zachary. ”
“Any news from back home?” Astrid says.
Gwen scrubs at her face. “Torrential rainfall in the Flatlands. We’ve got the Ulvene moving in to help with evacuations because the whole area is a massive flood risk, but we’re talking thousands of people.”
Jessa tenses beside her. Astrid feels so powerless, even knowing she’s doing what she can to make this right. “I’m so sorry,” she says. What else can she say?