“I picked it up yesterday at the docks. Vatran armor is lighter and cooler, more supple. I actually prefer it.”
“Careful, I could have you for treason,” Gwen says.
“What are you wearing right now, Your Majesty?” Jessa nods at the jerkin the queen has on.
“I take your point.” She laughs.
“Who’s going to be meeting us?” Astrid asks.
“Definitely the king and the prince. I’m not sure about the queen,” her mum says.
“And the brother?”
“Prince Zeb is currently training at one of the army camps. They’re keeping him out of the city for this.”
“Why do you think that is?” Jessa asks, curling her golden whip absently through her fingers.
“Nothing untoward. He’s seventeen. Zryan also went to train with the army around that age. Zeb doesn’t have a dragon yet, so they probably think he’s safer there, too.”
“Well, that’s one less person who might try to kill you before you’re blood bound,” Jessa says, sliding a paper package over the table. “I got you something else, too. This I know you’re really going to love.”
Astrid eyes the package, then the smirk still on Jessa’s face, before ripping it open. Inside is a belt of midnight-blue leather with odd tubular compartments attached. Her mum’s leaning over, brow furrowed. Astrid fiddles with one of the tubes until Jessa tuts and stands up, snatching it off her and slinging it around her own hips.
“I call it the Brewer’s Belt.” She puts her arms out and twirls. “These tubes you see are custom-made to fit your spicy little vials, my friend, so never again will you have to rifle through a bag of crap to find your potions to save your own Hel-damned life.” Astrid laughs but her mum scowls.
“Too soon, Jessa.”
“Sorry, My Queen,” Jessa says, not sounding sorry at all. “Anyway, I think it’s pretty genius myself.” She unfastens the belt and passes it back to Astrid. “The pockets are magically reinforced so if you fall, orif anyone attacks you, the vials won’t break on impact, nor can anyone cut them from the belt.”
Astrid stares at it, turning it over and admiring the buckle. It’s burnished silver and decorated with a winged panther. The sigil of their house.
“Artemia,” Jessa murmurs. “For luck.”
Artemia, the mighty winged black panther, familiar to the first witch king, Nyx, who fought in the Heart Wars half a millennium ago. And the reason she’s in this mess, given it was Nyx who established the duel.
Astrid strokes the buckle once more. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Good. Now if you’re done fondling it, go and stock the thing—we’ll be at the city walls soon.”
Mood lighter, Astrid rises from the table, tucking a couple of venison sausages inside a napkin to take back to her room. The boat rolls beneath her as she zig-zags down the corridor to her cabin. She’s about to unlock the door when Jessa sidles up beside her.
“What are you doing?”
Jessa pulls a face. “I’m coming to your room, obviously. Are you going to open the door or what?”
Astrid blinks stupidly at her, then loudly clears her throat.
“Yes, okay.” She knocks on the door, rattles the key in the lock, then says “Avask,” the unlocking spell that is her forte.
“Did you just knock on your own door?”
“Erm, yes.”Shit. “No idea why I did that.” She hopes he heard her. She peers in—there’s no sign of him—then gestures Jessa inside. Jessa stares at her a moment before finally stepping over the threshold, apparently deciding the level of unhinged Astrid is displaying is the right side of acceptable.
Astrid makes straight for the walnut desk below the porthole. On one side is her Gram’s grimoire, her clay crucible, her ceramic stirrer—which she really needs to clean—and her burner. Strewn across the rest of the desk are various ingredients—aconite, moondust, ginseng, and giant-squid ink, to name a few—as well as some glass vials and a rack.
She begins loading up her belt with various concoctions: a potenthealing remedy; an antidote for most known poisons; and an elixir she dubbed “The Trip,” which causes its victim to hallucinate temporarily. Jessa insisted she be the guinea pig for that one, and afterward told Astrid she could make a fortune on the black market if being heir to the throne didn’t work out.
She slots the final potion in—her trusty Masking Mist, a handy solution that causes anyone looking her way to glance right past her, pretty much rendering her invisible. Astrid pulls the belt tight around her hips.
