Chapter 19 Astrid #2
Astrid studies her. The raised shoulders, the way her eyes keep darting to the door and the windows, how her hands keep pulling at the tight material of the scarlet suit she’s obviously been encouraged to wear.
“The night of the welcome dinner was the first time I learned of your existence,” Astrid admits. She needs Skylar to know this if she’s ever going to bring her around to the idea of working together.
There’s a scoff and Astrid twists toward Skylar, who’s not looking at Astrid—she’s eyeing the platters of food in front of her with loathing, as if they did something to personally offend her.
“You should all be ashamed of yourselves,” Skylar sneers at Astrid. “The brazen waste of food”—she gestures at the electric plates keeping it hot—“of magic, it’s honestly disgraceful.”
Astrid’s mouth falls open. Is she lecturing her, of all people, about wasting magic? “I completely agree, but then I thought this was what you Vatrans were used to while my people struggled and starved.”
“Are you serious? You think this is common around Vatra? People can barely afford to eat, let alone heat their food with Vitalas.”
Astrid frowns. “Wait, you have to pay for Vitalas?”
“Pay for it?” Skylar leans in, placing her arms on the table, and Astrid notices then the silvery lines covering her hands and her lower arms—dozens and dozens of scars. “We have to fucking bleed for it. I didn’t juggle blades for shits and giggles.”
Astrid doesn’t know why she’s so shocked—the king hasn’t exactly proven himself a benevolent leader.
But to profit from something that costs him nothing…
It seems he’s not only holding back magic from Arturea but withholding it from his own people.
Which begs the question: Why? The Heart’s power is infinite; a truly unlimited energy source.
It’s why the Heart is so valuable—whoever has it will never run out of magic. Never run out of energy.
“He is such a prick,” Astrid says.
“What, like you witches don’t do the same, like you don’t have your own hierarchies? Hypocrites.” Skylar turns away, poking at some nondescript fish in a bowl and plonking it on her plate.
“No, we don’t, actually,” Astrid says, helping herself to vegetable tagine.
She doesn’t eat meat; very few witches do.
The thought is abhorrent when you spend your days talking to animals, even if they are technically familiars.
“Electricity, heating, access to any kind of energy like that is seen as a basic human right. People should be able to heat their homes or cook their meals or bathe their children and not worry about the cost of it.”
Skylar is silent, then cocks her head. The sneer is gone. “Perhaps you could have a word with your counterparts, get them to see sense. Or have a little empathy.”
“You are my counterpart,” Astrid replies dryly, and Skylar visibly starts.
Like she forgot that she’s a Vatran royal.
Because she isn’t, not really. And Astrid’s a little disgusted with herself.
Whatever attitude Skylar has, however she behaved at the Blood Binding, or now, it’s nothing compared to what she’s suffered—and Astrid should have been better.
Should be better. She has to duel this woman.
Has to kill her. The least she can do is show her some respect.
She picks up a bottle of claret and pours Skylar a glass, then one for herself, draining half of it before turning back to Skylar, who’s watching her warily—although with less animosity now.
Astrid is about to apologize when she thinks better of it; this woman doesn’t want platitudes or a “sorry,” not when it changes nothing.
“I think I can help you”—Astrid lowers her voice—“with the… thing you’ve been trying to… do.” A spymaster Astrid will never be.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Little Witch.”
Stars, what is it with these siblings and their nicknames for her? She’s not sure what’s worse, “Dimples” or “Little Witch.”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Little Dragon.
” Skylar stiffens, the knife she’s holding now looking less like a dinner utensil and more like a weapon.
Oh, she did not like that. “But if you want to play it that way, then fine, I’ll say this, apropos of nothing: I am a potion genius, as your dear brother has probably told you.
What he doesn’t know, however, is that my vials can break through almost every known magical ward or barrier, and crucially can do so without tripping any alarms.” Skylar barely reacts, but Astrid sees it, the spark of interest as her head turns infinitesimally toward Astrid.
“There is only one method of security I have yet to find a way past, and that is when a ward is tied to a person’s signature, a signature like, as a random example—blood.
” And this is why Astrid needs Skylar’s help. She shares blood with the king.
Skylar is silent for a moment. She takes a bite of her food and chews slowly. Astrid waits.
“You’ve just shared something I could use against you,” Skylar finally says. “I could tell Daddy Despot. I don’t think he’ll be very happy, do you?”
“I know exactly what I’m risking in telling you, and it’s up to you what you choose to do with that information. But let’s just say, we have the same goal. We can help each other.”
Skylar’s eyes narrow and Astrid wonders if she’ll lunge for her, but instead she raises her wine and downs the whole glass.
“I don’t need your help.” But there’s little conviction in her words; she sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. Astrid knows not to push it—she’s planted the idea, and now she’ll have to wait and see what Skylar’s next move is.
Her mother’s voice breaks through the din, raised, a tremor of unrestrained fury cutting through it.
“When were you going to warn us about this?” Her mother’s fingers are clenched into fists on the table.
“Surely, Gwen, you should have realized?” the king drawls. “Or was that part of your plan? Dump the girl at our feet so late in the day, she wouldn’t be able to bond with a dragon?”
“You send her to that island and you risk my daughter’s life, as well as your own heir’s.”
The room fades away, white noise filling Astrid’s ears.
The island. They’re sending Skylar to the island. There’s no way she can survive it.
“When?” Astrid asks, and everyone turns to her.
“We’ve canceled the parade,” the king says. “Our heir will go to Isla Draka instead.”
The parade is a week and a half away. They’re sending Skylar to the island with only three weeks’ training.
Stars above, Astrid is going to die, after all.
Though, surely they wouldn’t send Skylar to the island unless they felt she had a chance of surviving it?
And Mjolnir did protect her. But then, if she does survive, she’ll return with a dragon; and in that case, Astrid is dead anyway.
She glances at Skylar, who is determinedly keeping her eyes fixed on her plate.
The table has gone quiet, waiting to see what will happen next, if the witch queen will erupt as she looks liable to do.
Astrid needs to say something, avert a potential international incident, because her mother seems to be considering murdering the king.
“Good,” Astrid bites out. Her voice doesn’t shake like she expected it to. “I hated the idea of a parade anyway.”
The king looks speechless for once; her mum, too. Astrid glances at Skylar: her mouth is set in a flat line.
“Yeah, I fucking hate parades, too.”
Astrid can’t help herself. She bursts out laughing, and a couple of the nobles do, too, the baroness of Brithan throwing an appreciative smile Skylar’s way and, more shockingly, extending it to Astrid. Astrid tentatively smiles back. Skylar just glares. It makes Astrid want to laugh more.
“Enough, that’s enough.” The king slams his palms down on the table and Astrid’s body stiffens of its own accord.
No, not of its own accord. It’s the king, using his Blooded power—on every single person at the table.
It lasts a second at most, but Astrid reels from the shock of it, the violation.
She hadn’t realized how powerful the king is.
Her mother shifts, looking like she’s about to stand and challenge the king for his impertinence, but Astrid shakes her head. Unbelievably, her mum heeds her.
The guests fall quiet, joy sloughing from their faces. All of them, that is, except Zryan, who is twisting the stem of his wineglass, a small smile playing around his lips, as if his father’s anger amuses him.
Chatter soon resumes, more subdued now, though she and Skylar sit in silence.
Astrid feels another pang of sympathy for Skylar.
She’s the one who has to face the dragons, not Astrid.
Which means Astrid has a week and a half to convince Skylar to trust her, to break into the king’s office with her, and to find what she needs before Skylar goes to Isla Draka.
Because after that it could be too late.
They might both very well be dead.