Chapter 17 Astrid
“I’ve been thinking,” Astrid says to her familiar, currently sprawled on the bed.
MIRACULOUS.
She tuts. “Unoriginal, Bastet.” She stops twiddling with her curved blade, embedded in her four-poster—great for target practice—and perches on the bed next to him. “I need to get into the king’s office.”
His tail puffs up. DID I HEAR THAT CORRECTLY? BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WANT TO brEAK INTO KNOWN TYRANT KING ZACHARY’S OFFICE, WHICH WOULD, OF COURSE, BE THE MOST WOODENHEADED THING TO DO.
“Yes, you heard correctly.”
IS IT BECAUSE YOU ARE BLOOD BOUND? YOU THINK YOURSELF INVINCIBLE? IT WILL BE IMPOSSIBLE TO brEAK INTO HIS OFFICE. HE WILL HAVE A MAGICAL IDENTIFICATION SYSTEM, NO DOUBT.
“Oh, he does.” Astrid boops Bastet’s nose and he scowls at her. “Not only are his offices warded and locked, they also require a signature to enter.”
AND HOW DID YOU COME BY THIS INFORMATION?
“Mum had a meeting with him in there. She might have mentioned the ridiculously extensive security measures in passing.”
I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU ARE SMILING, YOU IRKSOME WITCH. A SIGNATURE MEANS ONLY THE KING WILL BE ABLE TO OPEN THAT DOOR. DO YOU PLAN TO BAT YOUR BIG BLUE EYES AT HIM AND ASK NICELY?
“It depends on the signature.” She takes her hair out of its high ponytail. “It might be one that’s not linked to only the king.”
Bastet’s claws protract. I KNEW IT. YOU HAVE LOST YOUR WITS.
“Maybe, but if I’m going to discover what they’re doing to the Heart, or what plans they have with these conscripts, I have to do some-thing.
” She stands, peeling off her clothes as she walks to the bathroom, washing the ink from her hands and brushing her teeth.
She changes into some cotton shorts and a matching white camisole.
“This is not some random idea borne out of boredom,” she continues when she comes back.
“I told you, they’ve removed everything of use from the library.
” Well, maybe not everything, given that her visit was cut short.
She will have to go back at some point. “The logical place to look is the king’s office. ”
WHAT ABOUT THE QUEEN’S ROOMS? YOU WILL BE DINING THERE SOON. WHY NOT SEE IF SHE HAS ANY OF THE MISSING TEXTS?
Ah yes, the dinner with the leaders of Vatra’s other territories. Astrid would rather face down Mjolnir than attend, but it’s yet another tradition in the lead-up to the duel.
“I very much doubt Ottilie has those books and, even if she does, that she’d blatantly have them out on display for us to peruse at our leisure.
” An image of her father’s old office comes to mind, the books that were everywhere but on the shelves.
Her mum couldn’t bear to work in there, she thought it too disorganized, but Astrid found comfort in the clutter. Still does.
She scrapes some food out into a bowl for Bastet. JUST BECAUSE YOU brIBE ME WITH SHRIMP DOES NOT MEAN THIS CONVERSATION IS OVER, he says, going straight to the bowl.
She chuckles, pulling back the sheet on her bed and crawling underneath, the aches of her body catching up with her after the drills Jessa put her through today.
Hel, the entire week. She’s made more progress on her defensive casting, though, so the pain is worth it.
This will all be worth it, she tells herself.
You are not useless. She unstoppers her tincture and takes a sip, then pops it back on the bedside table.
Bastet finishes the food and jumps on the bed, curling up at her feet. She leans over and switches off the lamp, whispering good night to her familiar as she does.
She tosses and turns for a while, but exhausted as she is, sleep won’t come.
She can’t believe she’s been here nine days already, that the duel is less than five weeks away.
The time is slipping away, and she’s been so busy with training day in, day out, she’s had no opportunity to speak with Skylar privately.
She’s seen the Vatran heir in the dining hall on occasion, glowering at Axel mostly, or sometimes at Zryan, though she’s never seen Skylar there by herself.
But at least Astrid had time to plan how she’ll get into the king’s office. She just needs the dragon heir’s help.
A light breeze finds its way in through the open windows, and she kicks off the sheets to savor every lick of it.
The creamy perfume of frangipani permeates the room, the hint of sea salt mingling with the flowers’ scent.
She can hear the ocean from here; both moons being at their fullest means the tides are particularly tumultuous tonight.
She focuses on the sound of distant waves crashing against the cliffs, the light drumming of the cicadas outside, and a sound she can’t quite place—something on the balcony, like sand falling in an hourglass.
She hears it again, louder now. It’s not sand falling, but the brush of fabric against stone. A slight scuff of a boot. A footstep.
The breath catches in her lungs.
There’s someone on her balcony.
Astrid’s heart bangs against her ribs. The footsteps sound again, inside her room now, and her stomach drops. Because there are two sets of footsteps. Two people in her room. She’s sweating, and not from the heat. She levels her breathing, maintaining a facade of sleep, straining to listen.
She hears metal against leather: a knife pulled from its sheath.
She rolls to the other side of the bed as the blade plunges into the mattress. She falls to the floor with a thump, scrambling on all fours toward the bedroom door. A knife comes flying across the room, just missing her head, and embeds itself in the doorjamb. She jolts back. Shit, shitting, shit.
“Fionn!” she shouts, but there’s no response. Can’t they hear her? They’re meant to be guarding her room, standing right outside the door.
One of the men jumps in front of her, blocking the exit.
She stumbles away, backing against the wall.
She spares a glance for the second man, backlit in the moonslight.
His sword is raised and he’s looking around the floor.
For Bastet. He must have jumped off the bed.
Stay hidden, she silently begs. Stay safe.
The shorter man steps toward her, sliding another knife from his belt.
She sweeps a hand over her body, whispering, “Dever,” and prays to Sqa?i the spell works.
The magic lurches, stopping and starting as it tries to snap into place, and she wills it, begs it, not to let her down, to work when it really matters.
But there’s no pop—only the sound of her own frustrated yell as he lunges for her.
She dodges, feeling the whisper of his blade as it skims past her throat.
Then she spins, bringing an elbow up into the back of his skull.
Grunting, he swings his arm around in an arc, but she ducks beneath it and aims a fist at his kidney, and another, and another.
She needs a weapon, she thinks, frantically scanning the room.
It costs her.
The movement registers a beat too late and she goes down hard as he tackles her in the side. She gasps as he falls on top of her, the little she can see of his face through the mask alight with malice, dagger raised above his head.
Bastet launches from beneath the bed, his claws slicing the man’s face, and the assassin screeches, letting her go. Bastet drops back to the floor. And Astrid doesn’t waste a second before shoving the assassin off her.
RUN, ASTRID, THE DOOR! But again her exit is blocked, the taller man already there, and she’d never in a thousand lifetimes leave Bastet here alone. She might live if he dies, but she wouldn’t want to. Couldn’t bear it.
She jumps onto the bed, the height giving her a small advantage, and whispers her shield spell once more. Releasing a breath, she forces herself to focus, to embrace the fact that she needs this magic, that it—that she—won’t hurt Bastet. Not like she hurt her dad.
The shorter assassin is distracted, grunting as Bastet darts between his legs. Her familiar crouches, readying to attack again, but the second assassin is behind him.
“Bastet, don’t!” The brute who’d been guarding the door kicks Bastet so hard he’s propelled across the room. There’s a sickening crunch as he hits the wall, crumpling in a heap. He does not stir. Terror unlike anything she has ever known surges up in her at the sight of him unmoving on the floor.
“Bastet!” she screams. Her voice doesn’t sound like her own. She scrambles over the bed, but a hand snaps out for her and she trips as she avoids it, a pop sounding as she falls to her knees. The shorter man leaps at her and she throws her arms above her head, bracing for the blow.
Nothing comes. No strike. No pain. Only a faint vibration. She drops her arms and realizes—the shield. It worked. The assassin is beating against it, his mouth twisted as he hammers his fist to no avail. There’s no time to marvel, not when her familiar is prone on the ground.
“Bastet, talk to me.” She’d know if he was dead, she reassures herself. She’d feel it. The loss of him. And right now, if anything, she can feel that tether stronger than ever. “Bastet, can you hear me?”
ASTRID, Bastet rasps. GO. The plea in his tone splinters something in her.
He’s never sounded like that, so defeated or scared.
And she can’t cope with it. She’s going to kill these pieces of shit.
A howl of rage bursts out of her, and she throws the assassin off her, propelling herself across the bed and pulling the claw from the post. She spins, hurling it at the man who hurt Bastet.
The blade lodges in his eye and he bellows, clutching at his face as blood gushes from the wound.
She feels a grim sense of satisfaction before something smashes against her head.
She collapses with a scream, her shield failing her, head ringing with the impact.