Jessa chucks her new Vatran armor at her. “Put it on. It’ll give you a little more protection until we get to the castle.” The armor would be more usefulinthe castle than out of it, but Astrid doesn’t say that.
“You’ve also got another witch on personal guard duty alongside me, as I can’t watch you night and day. You know Fionn?” She does, but not well. Fionn’s Gift is a useful one; they can read if someone has bad intentions. It’s limited in that the bad intentions may not be aimed toward them or anyone they’re protecting, but they can pinpoint the person who’s feeling that way and be more diligent. Astrid’s not sure how practical it’s going to be in a city where everyone is rooting for her to die.
“Good. Pendant?” Jessa asks, touching her own. Astrid grabs it from the bedside table and slips it over her head. She turns to Jessa: they could pass for sisters, only Astrid’s skin is paler and covered in freckles, her eyes marble-berry blue to Jessa’s rich green, and Jessa is taller. But to the untrained eye, it will be hard to tell the princess from the bodyguard.
Calls from outside let them know they’re at the walls. Astrid shakes out her hands, burying her dread deep inside herself. Finally she’s here, the brutal city of heat and sand, of death and dragons. She thinks of her uncle Aaren, the previous heir to make this journey, and how he must’ve felt as he approached the Stone City alongside his gryphon, knowing he was to confront the dragon heir—now the king of Vatra.
“Astrid?” Jessa interrupts her thoughts. “You ready?”
She clutches her pendant—the Goddess Sqaõi’s constellation. “I’m good.” Deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Jessa’s not buying it, but doesn’t press her. “Right, then. Let’s go knock ’em dead.” Jessa ushers her out of the cabin, Astrid clenching her fists as if she’s about to commence the duel right that second.
Fionn is waiting for them on the deck, studying the watchtowers around the large steel portcullis as it rises to let them through. They come to stand next to Astrid, crossbow in hand.
“Princess Astrid,” they say, voice soft as they salute her, their floppy blond hair bouncing as they nod. Fionn’s familiar, Arboria, chirrups up at her in greeting. Astrid smiles at the beaver, the sun highlighting the red hue of her coarse brown fur.
Her mother stands at the bow, Bjorn tall on his hind legs next to her, balancing expertly despite his size and the swaying boat. They need no guard, not with Bjorn’s familiar Gift—an invisible shield that protects them both from attack—magical or otherwise. Even without Bjorn’s power, her mum has a Gift so incapacitating, few can fight it. The two of them look magnificent silhouetted against the low-hanging sun, and Astrid thinks not for the first time how different things could have been if her mother were the heir.
The boats are waved through by guards clad in cracked leather and bronze-painted steel. The fortifications cast deep shadows as they drive through the gates. Fionn moves nearer to her, while Jessa closes in on her other side.
The queen spins slowly to the Ulvene gathered on the deck. “The princess is the priority, do you understand?”
They bash a fist against their chests in response, even Jessa.
“Eyes on your surroundings at all times. Eyes on the princess at all times. Eyes in the back of your Hel-damned heads because this is what you’ve trained for.”
They beat their chests again, the sound echoing in the passage.
Her mother lowers her voice but it carries clearly. “King Aaren will be the last witch to die on Vatran soil.”
They bash their fists once more in unison, fierce pride etching their features now. The reminder of what happened to Astrid’s uncle has them fired up, but Astrid only feels cold. She’s about to enter a city where everyone wants her dead, where she is fair game until she is blood bound to the prince.
There’s a buzzing emanating from the other side of the walls; not angry but lively. Charged. The fluttering in her stomach becomes a whirlpool. She knows the protections will hold, knows an assassin would be mad to attack them, but then their palace home in Hekselm was supposed to be impenetrable and that didn’t stop her father dying. She reaches into her pocket for her tincture before remembering she’s run out. Goddess, this is the worst time not to have her medication. She’ll have to find the valerian root she needs to brew a new batch, and soon—she can’t risk an episode while she’s here.
When they emerge, Astrid notices the city is more earthen red than gold, the smoggy streets and sandstone dwellings making it look like a sunset. It’s still beautiful, maybe more so with its rusty tones and rough edges.
She dares a glance at the people lining the embankment, unsure what to expect from their reactions. There’s excitement, which makes sense, given the spectacle of their arrival, thecelebrationsthat will take place over the coming weeks. There’s always a lottery for the Masked Ball, or at least, that’s what her mum has told her, so regular citizens can attend. Then there’s the parade, when she and Zryan will have to plaster smiles on their faces and travel through the city, making out they’re absolutely delighted to be sacrificing themselves in the name of an archaic agreement.
But it’s animosity she sees more than anything else. She’s the enemy princess come to kill their prince, after all. She watches them, the people, and after a while she realizes the animosity isn’t wholly aimed at her. No. It’s also directed at the city guards roughly handling them, shoving them back from the river, exchanging jeers and blows. There’s a shout, a woman pushed to the ground and manacled as she yells, “No more monarchy! No more tyranny!”
There’s an edge to the crowd, a bubbling potential, like an oil slick one burning match away from an inferno.
The woman’s protests are abruptly cut off.
Astrid’s skin prickles. The atmosphere is becoming heavier. Thicker. Her ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton balls. She needs to pop them before they implode, needs to relieve this building pressure in her head. Palms pressed against her ears, she looks around to seewhat’s going on but it’s too dark, the sun hidden behind dense black clouds that have swept in from nowhere. Frost crops up like weeds and spreads over the deck, the abnormal chill creeping into her boots. Jessa’s holding her now, her hair whipping about her face. She’s saying something, but Astrid can’t make out what it is.
As quickly as the sound disappeared it explodes back into existence, and as it does, the dark clouds ripple. Astrid can hear screams, but she has no breath left to join in. She’s paralyzed, eyes only for what’s above her. Another mighty boom sounds, and this time not a single person is left standing. Astrid’s knees rattle as they hit the deck.
A force like a hurricane batters her, and she tries to shield her face from the sand and dirt, coughs and splutters as she inhales it. She grabs Jessa’s hand and is about to crawl toward her mum when she notices Gwen looking up at the sky.
Because there, flying through the swirling clouds, is a dragon.
It’s the largest creature she’s ever seen; glacial blue in color, its glittering scales bright against the gloomy sky. Icicles drip from its wings and tail, crashing to the earth below. An Elemental dragon of the Water Dynasty, its dominion is ice. Shrieks sound where the ice falls, but neither the dragon nor its rider seem to care. Instead, the dragon bellows in response, and something akin to a blizzard hits the city.
But then a second dragon, silver as a sword, its belly alight with flashing white electricity, breaks through the cloud cover, and if Astrid hadn’t already been on her knees, she would be now. The beast is a juggernaut; a living, breathing mountain, so monstrous it could have been carved from the mighty Stor Isfjell itself. Its long, muscular tail ends in what looks like a boulder covered in dozens of spikes, and even from here Astrid can see its curved black claws are bigger than she is.
Sqaõi spare me.
