“No,” she agrees. “But maybe Exhausters are all different. Not all Sensors or Illusionists work the same way, do they? It was a lot that night, though,” she admits. “It was… more.”
They are quiet for a while, Kaida’s impatient growls filling the silence. Then he murmurs into the dark, “Thank you for saving her.”
She was saving herself, too, technically, but neither of them say that—because it’s like he knows that she would have done it anyway. It doesn’t necessarily make sense, but as it turns out, she doesn’t want Astrid to die.
Neither of them say the rest, though perhaps the silence says it for them. Because soon Skylar won’t be able to save her. Soon, it will only be each other they need saving from.
40Astrid
Jessa’s death is different from her dad’s.
His death was described as heroic, honorable, tragic. He took the arrow meant for his daughter and saved the future of their queendom. It was a terrible sacrifice, yes, but palatable. To everyone but Astrid anyway.
Jessa’s death, however, is quiet. Futile. Senseless. It’s this that Astrid can’t grapple with, no matter how much she has tried over the past few days: the fact that Jessa died for someone who is going to die anyway. A part of Astrid wants to make sure that Jessa’s death was not in vain, that she’ll win this duel, claim guardianship of the Heart, and save Arturea. But that would mean killing Skylar, and at this point, she is one of the very few people Astrid can stand to be around. More than that, Skylar has become someone Astrid cares about and has been the only person in this castle—apart from Fionn—to care for Astrid while her mum has been away. What a cruel trick for fate to play.
The sun begins to peek over the horizon, but the heat is already oppressive as she stands waiting at the Royal Docks. Astrid watches mutely, tears streaming down her cheeks, as the shroud-covered bodies of Jessa and Quincy are lifted from the carriage and placed into the boat that will guide their spirits to the Goddess in Valla: a realm where the fallen witchkin, witches, and familiars go to spend the rest of their immortal lives. It takes three Ulven to carry the fox.
In his giant panther form, Bastet is a welcome shield from the hundreds of onlookers who have gathered along the docks to witness a traditional Arturean sailing. Astrid rests her hand on his flank to steady herself. She still hasn’t processed it. How her little kitten transformedinto a winged panther. She’s wondered if her Gift triggered the change, but then, her Gift flows from him—this form of his must have always been in there, waiting. But for what? For Astrid’s soul to splinter when Jessa died? It is her soul, after all, that feeds Bastet’s Gift, just as his soul feeds hers.
“Little Witch.” Skylar stands on her other side. She’s wearing a royal-blue suit, for Arturea, her silver pin holding her red-gold hair atop her head. “How are you holding up?”
Astrid can only nod. She wants her mum, more than she ever has, needs her here so badly to share this burden. But her mum still isn’t back from the Flatlands, despite Zryan’s assurances that she’s on her way—or so Skylar has told Astrid. They’ve waited three days for Gwen, but in the end they couldn’t hold off the sailing any longer. It wasn’t fair to Jessa.
As if any of this is fair.
An Ulven places Jessa’s golden whip on her breast, then steps off the boat, beating a fist against his chest. He unties the knot, releasing the boat from the dock, and pushes it out on the water. Whether the tide takes it, or magic is helping, she doesn’t know, but the sailing is steady. Calm. A good sign.
“Pass me the bow,” Astrid says to Fionn, once the boat is far enough away. They nod at another guard, who hands over a longbow, its yew polished to a high shine, and a single arrow, the base of the iron point wrapped with oil-soaked cloth. The fumes make Astrid’s eyes water. She takes the thick silver ring from the tip of the bow and places it on the crook of her left index finger, then runs her finger along the bowstring, lining up the groove in the ring with the flax.
“Light it,” she says to no one in particular. Fionn reaches for a torch, but Skylar steps in.
“Kaida can do the honors.”
Kaida’s reptilian eyes narrow on Bastet, the little dragon unsure of him since his change, but then she growls and spits at the arrowhead, until a few sparks catch. The arrow lights with awhoomphand Astrid doesn’t hesitate: she lifts, aims, then pulls, arms shaking with the strain. Exhales. She looses the arrow, tracks its flight until it strikes the centerof the boat. The flames erupt, endless and immediate all at once. Her tears have stopped now. She feels hollowed out, a husk, just like the assassin who killed Jessa.
“We’re going to find whoever did this,” Skylar says, as if reading her thoughts.
“Yes,” says Astrid noncommittally, focus solely on the flames.
“We know something we didn’t before: that it’s definitely someone at the castle.”
Astrid presses her lips together. Bites down so hard her teeth hurt. It’s taking everything she’s got not to claw and mar her own skin. To feel anything but this grief.
“I know what it’s like, you know,” Skylar says then, so only Astrid can hear. “To lose a friend.”
Astrid can’t look at her, but she takes Skylar’s hand, that same strange feeling when they broke into the king’s office buzzing between them again. The desolation is like a hole she’s slowly being sucked into, and Skylar understands how it feels. She’s the only one who understands how any of this feels.
“I want to find them and I want to make them hurt,” Astrid chokes out. “I want them to die before I die.” She doesn’t need to be coy about it to Skylar: they both know that she’s too powerful. That Skylar is going to win the duel.
Skylar doesn’t balk. “And I’m going to help you. But first we have to figure out who’s doing this to us, and I have a theory.”
“You think you might know who it is?”
“Not here.” Skylar looks around at the crowd of Vatran courtiers, the Dreki and Ulvene surrounding them. The king and queen of Vatra didn’t bother to turn up, not that she’d expected them to, but Zryan did come. He’s on Mjolnir, the dragon casting half the crowd in shadow from where he sits upon a high stone perch. Astrid looks up at the prince to find his gaze already on hers. She quickly looks away, torn. She’s glad he’s kept out of the way today, so as not to crowd her emotions, but, Goddess, it hurts to look at him—she wishes he’d just Teleport down, wrap his arms around her, and disappear her into nothing. Permanently.
Something out of the corner of her eye snags her attention. A widebeam making port at the other side of the docks. And at the prow stands a giant golden bear.
Astrid’s legs are moving before her brain can catch up. She sprints for the boat, the pounding of her footsteps on stone ringing in her ears. Bjorn roars when he sees Astrid, and then her mother is there on the deck, her mother is opening her arms, and Astrid flings herself at her, not caring that she’s in public, that everyone is watching. She sags to her knees and her mum collapses with her, holding her, pulling her in close and kissing her head. Silent sobs rack Astrid.
