Chapter 47 Skylar
Skylar had been totally prepared to refuse to attend the Mourning Feast—was, in fact, relishing the idea of using her power against anyone sent to escort her to the gardens.
About ten minutes ago, she changed her mind.
Because, she realized, Astrid would go. Astrid, who had been preparing since birth for the duel, would be expected to uphold tradition.
And she didn’t want Astrid facing it alone.
So here she is. Sitting next to Astrid at the high table, one empty chair between them, underneath a darkening starry sky.
Black and white flowers make up the centerpieces, and dark green ivy weaves down the middle of tables that stretch into the distance of the walled gardens.
Above them are hundreds of floating glass lights, while on the tables, candlelight flickers.
There’s a cellist, playing hauntingly beautiful music near the entrance.
Not an Acoustic, of course—because they’ve taken all of them, haven’t they?
A waiter, carrying a tray of Vatran delicacies, comes over to Skylar, holding out the offering of spiced fruit and cheese.
He’s wearing the Vatran red livery, and the tray he carries is gold.
No doubt they’d wanted her to wear the royal colors this evening, but she’s gone for a halter neck of black with silver glitter, cut high above her midriff, with loose matching pants.
Black, because it suits her, and tiny silver stars, because it made her think of Astrid.
“Can I offer you an appetizer?” the waiter asks, his voice surprisingly high.
She stares up at him. “I’m not all that hungry, thanks.” She is hungry, but she doesn’t think she can eat tonight. And she doesn’t want to create any illusion that she is condoning this tradition, a feast to celebrate something that ought to be abhorred.
The waiter bows, but his tray trembles as he backs away. Afraid of her, like the rest of them.
The tables are filling up—courtiers who have paid a small fortune, no doubt.
The seat in between her and Astrid remains empty, though, as do those on either side of them.
Down the end of Astrid’s side of the table sits Gwen, who keeps glancing over, as if checking that Skylar isn’t going to stab Astrid’s hand with a fork or something.
Bjorn looms behind her, a threatening presence, and Skylar knows Bastet is here, too, somewhere, lurking in the shadows.
Maybe she should have brought Kaida, to play with Bastet one final time—but she’d figured the little dragon was safer with Mjolnir.
She looks at Astrid again, thinking she ought to say something, but Astrid is scanning the gathering guests.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess who she’s looking for.
And Skylar feels almost relieved by the fact that she’s distracted—because wouldn’t having a conversation with her make things harder?
There is plenty they could talk about, of course.
Like the fact that Zryan is a fucking rebel, for instance.
Or she could ask whether the trackers have worked—though what’s the point?
She’s not sure she cares all that much about where the Heart is now.
Every time she thinks of the warrens two nights ago, her mind is focused more on the pulsing shadows that gave her the chance to escape.
The voice in her head—and the familiarity of it.
She thinks she’s realized why it felt familiar. There was a voice like that on the island—smoke curling around her mind. Saying the same thing.
Run.
But if that means what she thinks it does, then that would mean a lunar dragon was there that night.
And Mjolnir assured her that no dragons are missing from the island—unless he’s lying.
But if she can’t trust him, she can’t trust anyone.
Actually, scrap that. She can’t trust anyone anyway—but she does believe him.
Which means it can’t have been a dragon, can it? But if not a dragon, then what? Or who?
She has met someone else, after all, who could command shadows.
You’re not Blooded. So what are you?
She hasn’t told anyone about that encounter—hasn’t had cause to think of it in weeks.
But the memory of his eyes, dark and focused on hers, comes back to her now.
The way his shadows had held her in place, caressing her skin.
His mind, probing hers. But there’s no way he could have been at the warrens, surely? The sheer coincidence of it.
Astrid catches Skylar’s eye and leans across the empty space to say something to her, a slight crease pulling her forehead.
She looks beautiful tonight, in her gown of white.
She always looks beautiful, Skylar supposes, but it’s like there is a soft glow surrounding her, illuminating her pale face in the candlelight.
Though maybe that’s just her conscience, holding a spotlight over Astrid, refusing to let her forget what tomorrow will bring.
Astrid doesn’t get the chance to say whatever is on her mind, though. Because a golden-haired young man with buggish eyes appears in the space between them, placing his hands on the back of the chair in a proprietorial sort of way. Both Astrid and Skylar blink up at him.
He smiles, showing eerily white teeth. His gaze lingers a little too long on Astrid, sweeping up the length of her body, and Skylar finds herself picking up her fork, gripping it a little too tightly.
Astrid catches her eye, and Skylar swears she can see the words she doesn’t say out loud. Maybe let’s avoid stabbing people with forks on our final night, hey?
Skylar only narrows her eyes at the bug man, making no promises.
“This really is a treat,” the man says, pulling out the chair and sitting down.
Skylar can only stare at him. She’d assumed the seat was reserved for one of the royal party.
He looks between Astrid and Skylar. He makes to lift his hand, about to hold it for Skylar to shake, then seems to think better of it, clearing his throat as he drops it in his lap.
Well, being an Exhauster is good for something, then, if it stops creeps like this wanting to touch her.
She supposes he doesn’t know that not touching her wouldn’t save him.
“I’m Sebastien Deveraux,” the man continues, choosing to address Astrid. “Lord Sebastien Deveraux.”
“That’s nice for you,” Skylar says loudly, before Astrid can reply, “but we were saving that seat.” She points with her fork for emphasis, hears a small choking sound from Astrid that might be an attempt to conceal a laugh.
Bug man’s eyebrows pull together in a way that’s almost comical.
“Saving it for me, you mean,” he says. “I paid good money to be here.” He smiles again, full of composure.
“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to sit next to the famed beauty that is the Nachstern witch,” he says to Astrid, “or”—he turns to Skylar—“the Chosen Heir.”
It takes a moment—but Skylar sees Astrid realize at the exact same moment she does.
Paid good money.
He has bought the seat between them. Which means the royals have been selling them. What will they do with the money? Buy more wine?
Fuck, people actually pay for this shit. A story to tell the grandkids—no matter that this is one of their last nights in this world. It’s like the people out on the streets, betting on which heir will win, participating in the ritual of the duel like they support it.
Skylar’s stomach turns. She’d been doing that, too, in a way, hadn’t she?
She’d been getting ready to profit from—steal from—people who flocked to the city to watch.
The difference is, she’d needed the money.
Selling her and Astrid off like this… It’s senseless.
Like they are little more than possessions.
She supposes to the king that’s what they are.
Bug man has once again turned his attention on Astrid. “Forgive me, Princess. You must think us Vatrans very rude, not taking the time to greet you properly.”
Skylar grips her fork all the tighter, metal biting her skin. Astrid only cocks her head, studying him. “I think I have bigger things to worry about than how rude you are.”
“Regardless,” he says, determined, apparently, to shake off the lack of enthusiasm from either of them. He reaches out to take Astrid’s hand, clearly intending to press his lips to it.
Skylar lets her fork clatter to the table. He glances at her, and she places her own hand on his arm. Squeezes tight. “If you touch her,” she hisses, “I will kill you.”
Her blood is pounding in her ears. There is a crackling energy surging within her. She wants to do it. Take this man’s life here, in front of everyone. That would prove a point, wouldn’t it? It would prove that she and Astrid are not for fucking sale.
Astrid leans forward to look at her around the man. Skylar swears that is amusement glinting in her eyes. It’s that which makes Skylar stop, which causes her heart rate to slow just a little.
Astrid’s eyebrows crook up. Defending my honor, Little Dragon?
But before Skylar has the chance to think about whether she really will go through with it, a shadow appears, looming over all three of them. Skylar knows who it is by the way Astrid straightens.
She looks up to see Zryan standing there. His expression is pleasant enough—but Skylar can see the steel behind his gray eyes.
“Sebastien,” he says, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. He leaves it there a beat longer than is necessary. “I believe you’re in my seat.”
Zryan looks pointedly at the hand Skylar still has on bug man’s arm, and she lets go reluctantly.
She takes a cooling breath, noticing the way every single person is looking at the four of them.
Down the end of the table, Gwen is halfway out of her chair, looking unsure whether to intervene.
She’s watching Zryan, waiting apparently for what he will do.