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 weremates!”
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 weremates, 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 whatAstrid 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.”
As she suspected. The relationship dynamic between Zryan and the king is an odd one. She’s pretty sure the king envies him, and that makes her feel sorry for Zryan. She can’t fathom her mother, or her father when he was alive, harboring such resentful emotions toward their own child.
“I’m sorry it’s like that between you and him.”
“Don’t be. It’s easier this way—easier for me to do what I need to do.” He winks at her, and a rush of warmth engulfs her.
“I think it’s true,” she says, eyes fixed on his, “them being mates. I can believe that a witch fell for a dragon once.”
He stares at her, then moves, so quickly he might have Teleported, until he’s in front of her, a hand at her nape and an arm around her back. He presses his forehead to hers.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know sorry will never be enough for what happened to Jessa, but I want you to know how sorry I am.” She blinks, willing the burning sensation at the back of her eyes to retreat. His voice is soft as he whispers his apologies, and it ends the paralysis currently gripping her. She wraps her arms around his middle and leans into him. His fingers flex at her neck, gripping her tighter. Possessively. “Astrid, I thought I’d lost you.”
“Zryan, don’t,” because she can’t bear it. Not with the duel so close, not with what’s going to happen. He hums her name, the reverenceundeniable, and her insides liquefy. She draws back to look at his face. At his blazing silver eyes.
He takes hold of her chin, lifting her mouth to his, then murmurs against her lips, “I can believe that a dragon fell for a witch once, too.”
“It won’t damage the ring, will it?”
Skylar’s hand hovers over Astrid’s clay crucible, the gentlepop, popof the bubbles from the liquid inside permeating the night air.
“No, it’ll be fine. The mixture will only take what it needs from the ring.” Astrid glances at her grimoire, attempting to translate her Gram’s spidery handwriting. She stirs clockwise, twice counterclockwise, then sprinkles in a little juniper and stirs again.
“The essence of Cam,” Skylar whispers.
