Chapter 21 Astrid #2
She wants to ask him why, when he doesn’t have to tell her anything at all.
They are heirs to two countries a hairline fracture away from war.
She is the woman who threatens to bring his kingdom to ruin if she wins this duel, the woman who could throw Vatra into a state of energy poverty if she takes the Heart.
She just can’t work him out, and she definitely doesn’t trust him, but there’s something so…
honorable and honest about him. Even when he’s being an arrogant asshole.
A hush falls, and a man who looks like a reanimated corpse emerges from the shadows at the back of the temple.
He’s surrounded by four of the queen’s Primes and two Dreki, his hands bound in iron gauntlets that are attached with manacles at the wrist, and his ankles are chained, clanking as he shuffles forward.
His skin is waxen, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes deep set, like something is eating him alive.
Or like he hasn’t seen sunlight in months.
Is this a double execution? The man must be deemed very dangerous to require so many guards.
“What did he do?” Astrid whispers.
“Absolutely nothing,” Zryan says. “It’s old bigotry.”
She turns sharply to him. “What do you mean? Why is he being condemned to death?”
“He’s not.” Zryan’s jaw clenches. “He’s the executioner.”
The executioner? But then why is he chained?
Why is he so obviously a prisoner? Before Astrid can question Zryan further, another Dreki removes the hood from the Levitator who tried to kill her.
The Curer has done a poor job of knitting his neck back together where Astrid almost chewed through him, and when the man turns to the side, she sees the angry puckered skin where his eye once was.
“I hope it hurts like Hel,” she says under her breath, and Bastet hisses in agreement.
Zryan inches closer to her. “I know it did, Dimples. Because I took his other eye, and his screams were music to my fucking ears.”
Astrid should be disturbed by what he just said; but, no, she is something quite the opposite. Enemy, she reminds herself for the umpteenth time, but she’s struggling more and more to believe it.
The king addresses the assassin, and Zryan straightens, a hardness taking over him once more.
“You have been accused and found guilty of the attempted murder of Princess Astrid Nachstern and Princess Skylar de Veras.” Astrid hears Skylar tut when the king uses her official title.
“For this you have been condemned to die.” The blind assassin drops his head.
“Your sentence will be carried out here in the house of Arach. May He have mercy on your soul.”
The king practically spits the last part, undermining anything he says about mercy, and steps back next to his mate.
One of the black-cloaked figures holds a palm over the executioner’s gauntlets and they click open, freeing his hands.
He approaches the condemned man, and though the Levitator can’t see, he flicks his head toward the executioner, following the sound of those rattling ankle chains, lips quivering as though he might cry.
The executioner places his fingertips on the assassin’s temples.
The man tries to throw him off, but another of the queen’s Primes steps out of line, holding up his hand, and the prisoner stills, his skin flushing red.
A Blood Wielder. The executioner adjusts his hands on the man the best he can while manacled, and she dreads what he’s going to do.
She hears Skylar’s breathing stumble, hears her gasp something—fear and awe mixed together—and in the next second Astrid sees why.
Translucent tendrils slither from the executioner’s hands and wrap themselves around the assassin’s head and neck; and where they touch, the prisoner’s face discolors, veins blackening, bruises blooming and spreading under his skin, until eventually he begins to spasm, his limbs jerking unnaturally.
He shrieks and Astrid clasps her hands behind her back to avoid covering her ears.
A writhing, viscous substance pours from the assassin, and she realizes it’s his life force—his very essence—and the executioner, to Astrid’s horror, is absorbing it.
“What in the name of Sqa?i is that?” Astrid breathes. Her dad never warned her about Blooded like this.
Skylar’s voice trembles. “An Exhauster. They shouldn’t exist, they were all hunted to extinction decades ago. By the last Vatran king and his ancestors before him…” She trails off, shaking her head.
She’s still staring at the executioner, her face scrunched in disgust, and Astrid doesn’t blame her.
The Exhauster is draining the life from the man, the Levitator’s body withering until he crumples to the floor and the Exhauster has to fall with him to maintain the contact.
She can hear the Exhauster’s rattling breaths, not as if he’s struggling, but as if he’s taking some pleasure from this.
Something weaves through her legs, and she looks down to see Bastet. She stays focused on her familiar until it’s all over, until the man has been officially declared dead and his body removed from the temple.
“Where are they taking it?” she asks no one in particular.
“The dragons,” Zryan answers. “Waste not, want not.”
Well, at least she doesn’t have to witness this meal, not like the last man the king put to death.
The Exhauster is surrounded once more by guards, gauntlets back in place, and he’s escorted to the back of the temple. There must be another entrance.
“Where does he stay? Why do they treat him like that? Did he hurt people?” Astrid asks in quick succession.
“He is kept… segregated,” Zryan answers. “And, no, he’s never been found guilty of anything. The only thing he is guilty of is existing.”
“He must be the only one left,” Skylar says.
Zryan dips his chin. “Let’s hope so. If there are any others, then it’s an immediate death sentence for them.”
“That’s horrendous. Why do you allow that?” Astrid’s asked the question before she can think better of it, but Skylar turns to Zryan, too, as if she’d also like to hear the answer.
Zryan does not seem to like being ganged up on this way. “Trust me, if it was up to me, it wouldn’t be this way. But I have limited influence. Less so, given recent events.” He aims this at Astrid and she lifts her chin higher. He’s still the Vatran prince. Must still have some influence.
“I’ll do it, Little Witch,” Skylar says.
Astrid turns to her, frowning. Does she mean she’ll stop this?
The treatment of the Exhauster? Astrid takes in the slight tremor of Skylar’s hands, how her amber eyes keep darting back to the king.
And then it dawns on her. Skylar’s agreeing to break into the king’s office.
A blast of emotion hits Astrid, an ache piercing her gut, and she knows it isn’t her tether with Bastet—this is Skylar she’s feeling. Through their bond of blood.
“What are you talking about?” Axel cuts in. His eyes bore into Skylar as if daring her to ignore him. She hopes Skylar kicks his ass for what he did.
“The potion I gave her,” Astrid replies, and Skylar pulls it out of her pocket to emphasize the point. “She means she’ll use it.”
“You gave her one of your healing solutions?” Zryan asks.
“You know about her healing solutions?” Axel fumes.
“You should take it if you need it,” Zryan tells Skylar, ignoring Axel. “I’ve seen it work on pretty serious injuries.”
Astrid crouches to stroke Bastet, a plan forming in her mind. “He’s always slinking in the shadows.” She looks meaningfully back up at Skylar; Bastet can act as go-between, as much as he’ll complain about it.
Skylar squints at Astrid and her familiar, purses her lips. Then nods in understanding.
“See you around, Little Witch,” is all she says before stalking off. Axel’s narrowed gaze flits between the two of them as he trails Skylar out of the temple.
Zryan hesitates, watching Astrid with a curious expression on his face, like he knows they’re up to something. Astrid smiles at him. “Goodbye, Prince.” She allows a little bite into her voice.
A slow smirk forms as he heeds the dismissal. “Goodbye, Dimples.” He follows Axel and Skylar outside, but not before glancing back over his shoulder to find Astrid still watching him. His smirk widens. The ass.
Jessa sidles up beside her. “You really are a do-gooder.”
If only she knew. “Just trying to keep us both alive until we have to kill each other.”
Jessa snorts, linking Astrid’s arm as they exit the temple. Outside, Astrid feels like she can breathe again. She didn’t realize how oppressive it was in there. Like Death has lingered.
There’s a yip and Astrid looks down at Quincy, who has his nose in the air, agitated. VERONICA IS COMING. SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED—HER SCENT IS… OFF.
A falcon cries out, then dives, landing in front of them. Bjorn bounds out of the temple to greet the familiar, Gwen running behind him.
STORMS IN THE FLATLANDS, Ceridwen says, voice clear and grave. THOUSANDS DEAD, MORE MISSING. THEY’RE OUT OF POWER AND THE ULVENE ARE OVERWHELMED.
“When?” her mother asks, looking beyond Ceridwen to where Veronica races toward them.
WE JUST GOT WORD BUT, BY THE SOUND OF IT, YESTERDAY. THE DAMAGE IS… WORSE THAN ANYTHING WE’VE SEEN YET.
Oh Gods, no. Her mother looks stricken and whirls on Astrid, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“I know you must go,” Astrid says for her. Flashes of small bodies lying still in the water come unbidden. “Mum, they need you.”
“I don’t want to leave you, Astrid.”
“I know you don’t want to, but you have to.
You can help them.” Her mother is the most powerful witch in Arturea, her casting—whether craft or battle—is unmatched.
And she’s their queen. She shouldn’t be anywhere else but the Flatlands, where they have already suffered so much.
“I have Jessa and Quincy. Fionn and the rest of the Ulvene. And I have Bastet. I’ll be fine. ”
Jessa’s face is as pale as her fox’s fur, and Astrid grips her hand, willing any strength she has to flow through to this woman who has lost so much because of the Blight.
“My queen,” Veronica says, panting slightly as she slows to a stop. “I’ve readied the boat to leave immediately. If we go now, we’ll be there by nightfall tomorrow.” The Flatlands are in the south, it’ll simply take crossing the Asur Sea to get there.
Gwen nods at Veronica, then turns back to Astrid. “I love you, my miracle girl.” She kisses Astrid’s forehead, grasps Jessa’s shoulder, then follows Veronica back toward the castle.
“Thousands dead, Astrid.” Jessa’s voice shakes, as she turns to Astrid. “Thousands. Entire families wiped out.” Like her family was.
Astrid cups Jessa’s cheek. “We’re going back to the castle, and we’re going to get you a sugary tea. You’re going to do as I say for once, not the other way around—do you understand?” Jessa nods mutely. “I’m sorry, Jess.”
Quincy keens, leaning into his witch’s side. Jessa threads her fingers through his fur, and shakes her head. “We failed them. Those poor, poor people.”
Yes, those poor people. Though it’s not Jessa who has failed them.
It’s Astrid. The very people relying on her.
This, this is why she needs to win, needs to find out what’s going on with the Heart, needs to stop whatever the Vatrans are doing to its power.
This is why she needs to do something, anything to help.
For thousands of people, though, her help is too late.
And if Skylar comes back with a dragon from that island?
Then Astrid won’t be able to help anyone at all.
She takes her tincture from her belt and drinks more deeply than usual, as if it might somehow undo this tragedy.
Peering around, she realizes the prince is still by the temple with his parents and the rest of the Vatrans, but he’s watching Gwen’s retreating back.
He catches Astrid’s gaze and cocks his head in question.
But Astrid doesn’t care, disgusted with herself for lusting after the son of the man who has done this, disgusted that she feels sorry for herself when her own people are dying.
She forces herself to harden, breaking eye contact with the prince, and takes Jessa’s arm.
“No more death, Jess.”
Her friend grips her back, takes a deep, steadying breath. “No more death.”
Neither of them needs to add that there will have to be one more death. And it could well be Astrid’s.