Chapter 42 Astrid
The library is wasted on the Vatrans. No one’s ever in it. She was always in the library at the Moon Palace, mainly with her dad. It was where they both went to think as well as read, and that’s why she’s here now. She needs to think. Needs to scratch that itch inside her skull.
Fionn was surprisingly amenable to her breaking into the library and is keeping watch outside—more surprisingly, they promised not to tell her mother she’s here or that she’s been with the Custodian this afternoon.
Pity will do that to people. Make them more biddable, more patient.
She feels guilty for taking advantage of Fionn’s sympathy, but ultimately she doesn’t have the luxury of sparing people’s feelings, nor does she have the luxury of time.
Too much has happened and there’s too much to do before the duel. Like finding out who killed Jessa.
The wording of the Covenant and the Blood Binding seems clear enough, but there’s a vagueness to the clause pertaining to the murder of one’s own heir.
Personally, she struggles to believe that the Vatran king would risk breaching the magic, risk the Heart with how much they rely on it, by hiring an assassin from outside the court.
But why would the king jeopardize his kingdom like that?
And who else could it be? Not the republican rebels, not when the assassin confessed that whoever had hired him had returned to The Rok—was known to the guards here.
So who was it who killed Jessa? Because none of this makes sense.
She rubs her chest to ease the dull ache that emerges whenever she thinks of Jessa.
She just hopes she can help Skylar’s friend the way she couldn’t help hers.
And, if she’s being honest, she’s agreed to cast the locator spell to help herself as well.
If Cam is at the Heart, then the spell won’t just find him—it’ll tell her the location of the very thing that could be the solution to Arturea’s problems. She’ll be able to give her mother the coordinates before she duels, knowing that if she doesn’t make it out of that cage, at least her queendom has a chance of surviving.
She pushes to her feet from where she’s been sitting cross-legged in front of the tapestry for the past half an hour, knees popping in protest. No matter how long she stares at it, she’s not discerning the truth that’s supposed to be hidden there.
And Nyx’s mate mark is still flummoxing her.
A golden semicircle? As symbols go, it’s pretty underwhelming.
Why didn’t she ever talk to Jessa about this? Why did Astrid keep so much from her?
Astrid homes in on Artemia. She looks so like Bastet.
The same blue-black fur, the same iridescent feathered wings.
The only difference is her eyes—Artemia’s are a rich indigo.
Her mother’s voice cuts through her thoughts.
It means something. And looking at the tapestry, Astrid tries to puzzle it out.
What does it mean? And why her? Why, in all the centuries, has she bonded with a familiar of Artemia’s genus?
Is it because Skylar is the Chosen Heir of the dragons?
Is Astrid meant to stop that legend from becoming a reality?
She steps over the rope cordon and walks to the right-hand side of the tapestry, where the great canyon of Sarkan can be seen in the distance.
The army of black-robed soldiers look like the Primes that roam the castle with the queen, putting the heebie-jeebies up everyone, only on the tapestry there are thousands of them rather than a few.
The land they march on is bleached white, the same as the castle gardens when Skylar was pursuing that assassin.
She strains her neck to look at Aeloria and Cuatra far above her, but she can’t make out details; they’re too high up.
She peers around, spotting a ladder leaning against one of the stacks.
She heads over to it, casts “Lofte,” and levitates it off the railing, cringing at the racket it makes.
She guides it over to the tapestry, resting it along the wall.
Next, she takes a vial and pours a potion along the bottom of the tapestry, just to make sure there aren’t any wards.
She shakes the ladder, ensuring it’s stable—not wholly so, but it’ll do—and then begins to climb.
She stops when she reaches eye level with the golden queen. And frowns.
The queen’s arm, wreathed in swirling cloud and shards of lightning, is raised above her head, and now that Astrid’s closer, she realizes that Aeloria’s not looking at Nyx, certainly not aiming at him as Astrid originally thought—she’s focused on that dark army below them.
And it hits her, why the land being leached of all color reminded her of what Skylar did.
Because that army is a mass of Exhausters.
What. The. Hel. The Exhausters raised an army? But then why battle their own queen? Wouldn’t they have fought Nyx, Arturea? She looks at the queen again, studies her face. And sees it.
Queen Aeloria has a mate mark.
It’s partially obscured by her arm, but it’s there. Astrid leans in closer, squinting, tilting her head to try and make out what it is.
She jolts back in disbelief at what she’s seeing, losing her footing.
She scrabbles for a rung, but the ladder is out of reach, and she’s falling, air whooshing past her.
No scream comes out, she just braces for impact, when a pair of arms pulls her from midair, the person attached to them grunting as they catch her plummeting weight.
Her heart is thumping against her ribs, her ears ringing as adrenaline surges through her.
She pushes her hair out of her face to see who caught her, but she already knows.
Would know him blindfolded and her ears stuffed with cotton wool; the familiar electricity that skitters over her body every time he’s near, the smell of the ocean.
Zryan. His eyes shine like silver coins as he stares at her in his arms.
“Mates,” she blurts out.
His jaw hinges open. She’s never seen him shocked before, and he’s had a lot to be shocked about in recent weeks. He scans her face, his eyes lingering on her forehead.
“They were mates,” she says, pointing at the tapestry. “Aeloria and Nyx were mates!”
Still, Zryan says nothing. Though he does manage to shut his mouth.
He adjusts, shifting her so she sits higher up his chest, and she realizes she’s still lying in his arms, clutching the loose white shirt he’s wearing.
His eyes quickly assess her, then go back to her face.
She fidgets a little and he clears his throat, finally putting her down.
But his hands don’t leave her waist. Her arms drop to his, and she grips his forearms.
“They couldn’t have been,” he finally says.
His voice is hoarse, filled with emotion that he’s struggling to rein in.
She hasn’t spoken to him for days, but it’s felt like years.
Seconds. The guilt, the despair she felt toward him at the Masked Ball, at the cove, has washed away like the tide came in to take it from her. “They were enemies.”
“No,” she says, bringing a palm to his jaw. His whole body relaxes at her touch, and the air that spills from his lips is like a secret he’s been desperate to share. “They’re not enemies.” And neither are we, she wants to say. She doesn’t know what they are.
She lowers her hand and looks back at the tapestry. “Can you see their mate marks? She has Artemia’s wing on her forehead.”
“That explains the ladder.” He raises a brow at it resting against the wall. “A wing could be a dragon’s, though. Why do you think she’s Nyx’s mate?”
“Because of his mark. I only understood in the context of hers what his is. Tell me, what was Aeloria’s informal title?”
“The Golden Queen.” He lets go of her waist and approaches the tapestry.
“Her other one.” She points at the plaque.
“The Dawn,” he murmurs, staring at the golden semicircle on Nyx’s face. It’s a sun—a rising sun. “She was nicknamed The Dawn for bringing light and power to the world.” He spins to face Astrid. “How could they have been mates?”
“I’ve no idea. But it means they never battled, could never have fought over the Heart.
It means the bloody thumbprints on the Covenant aren’t theirs, and they never came up with this Stars-forsaken duel.
They were mates, Zryan; they were forged body and soul, and both of them would have accepted death over anything happening to their mate.
You should know better than anyone what the mating bond means.
The only thing it comes close to is the tethering a witch goes through with her familiar—even a dragon and his rider’s bond isn’t as strong as a mating bond. ”
Zryan is shaking his head, not dismissively.
His brows pinch together as if trying to work this out.
“My mother told me this tapestry was one of a kind—authenticated by our best historians. Told me it’s the only work of art that’s ever held a light up to the truth.
” The truth. This is what Astrid summoned when she cast begging for the truth.
“I always thought she meant the army of Exhausters, but I wonder if she knows.”
It’s likely the queen does know, especially if she prizes this tapestry so highly as to have it studied and authenticated.
And yet she didn’t tell Zryan, didn’t tell him that the history they’ve all been taught could be wrong.
Astrid examines the man in front of her, the openness of his face, and wonders what else his family has kept from him.
“Zryan, do you know where the Heart is?” She’s sure she already knows the answer, but it’s worth asking, especially if the locator spell doesn’t work tonight.
He doesn’t even blink. “Skylar asked me the same thing, you know. Honestly, I wish I could tell you, but only my parents know, and anyone else they’ve told has been bound by a Warder, so can’t speak of it. Not even to me.”