“Familiar?” her mum whispers. “You have a familiar and you saidnothing?”
Bastet appraises her mother, his large azure-blue eyes narrowed. DO WE NOT HAVE MORE PRESSING MATTERS TO CONCERN OURSELVES WITH?
Her mum startles. Though Bastet is miniature, his voice is an old, rich baritone, and he speaks as if he’s lived a thousand lifetimes. Acts as cynical, too.
“How long?” Gwen says quietly.
“Since Nýsndjór.” The best day of her life, really. She’d been at rock bottom on the first day of the new year, knowing what it would bring—until Bastet had appeared. The darkest of the shadows in the forest had gathered, collided and forged together, and a breath later a cat as black as the space between stars stood before her. Her very soulchanged for all time as the tether had fixed in place. The first thing he said was: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUR FACE?ARE YOU CRYING?She knew then he was made for her.
“But that was five months ago!” Her mum’s voice is bruising with its accusation, but it’s Jessa who Astrid turns to, afraid of what she might see. Her friend’s face is carved with hurt. “Why wouldn’t you say anything, Astrid?” her mum continues. “Something as important as this, to hide it from—”
“Because if no one knew about him, then no one would be able to hurt him or use him against me. He wouldn’t have to go into that cage with me.” She knows it’s illogical, that when she dies he will die, too, but at least she can spare him the fear, the brutality of facing that monstrous dragon. She and Bastet have argued about it many times, and Bastet has requested a compromise: he’ll remain hidden until the duel, but then they’ll enter the arena together. Die together. Astrid can’t bring herself to agree.
Her mum waves her hand. “This is foolish—why not at least tell me?”
“Because I couldn’t bear your disappointment.”
The queen falls silent, mouth open slightly, any retort she had lost in the truth of Astrid’s words.
NO OFFENSE MEANT TO ME, OF COURSE.
Astrid laughs. “Of course. You’re the greatest thing to ever happen to me, my soul-bonded.” He jumps from Astrid’s arms to sit on the bed.
IT WAS NOT EXACTLY HARD. YOUR LIFE WAS MISERABLE BEFORE ME.A fair assessment, Astrid concedes. Bastet’s focus homes in on the queen. NOW STOP THIS.ASTRID HAS BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH TODAY.YOU HAVE SEEN WHAT SHE MUST FACE.AMIGHTY STORM MADE FLESH.ANIGHTMARE CONJURED INTO BEING.ABEAST THAT SHOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT THE DEEPEST CIRCLES OFHEL FROM WHENCE IT CAME.AMONSTER—
“That is not helping,” Astrid interrupts, and Jessa huffs a reluctant laugh. Bastet glares at her.
“You’re right,” Gwen says to Bastet, surprising Astrid. “This isn’t the time. We need to regroup and get back out there.” Well, she’ll give her mum some credit: she’s taking this better than Astrid expected. She wonders what her mum thinks now of her proclamation that no more witch blood will be spilled in Vatra.
“Bjorn!” her mother shouts, striding to the bedroom door. “GetVeronica here. Now.” A harrumph sounds from the corridor. Astrid catches Jessa’s eye, but she looks equally confused. “Time to go,” Gwen says. “We can talk later. For now, let’s not allow them to win this round, my miracle girl.”
Yes. Back to the game that isn’t a game. Astrid stands, pulling on a new tunic then slipping her armor back on while her mother whispers, “Skura,” cleaning the dust and dirt from her hair and the rest of her clothes.
WEAR YOUR CLOAK.
“She doesn’t need a cloak—it stays uncomfortably warm here, even at night,” Gwen says absently, twisting her platinum arm ring. “And it’s been the warmest it gets.”
Astrid puzzles over her mother’s words. It’s like she’s spent a lot of time in the city, and recently, too, but Astrid knows her mother hasn’t been here for decades. Thirty-one years, to be precise. The last duel, when her Uncle Aaren died and her father had been crowned king. Astrid’s parents had made their union official a few weeks later, but Astrid wouldn’t come along for another seven years. It’s why her mum describes her as a miracle—they thought they couldn’t conceive, that the House of Nachstern witches would die with them—but then, Astrid had surprised them. And now here she is, the last Nachstern witch.
ASTRID WILL WEAR THE CLOAK SOICAN REMAIN CONCEALED WITHIN IT.
“Okay,” Astrid agrees, “but you stay hidden. You’re pretty much defenseless.”
“Is he defenseless?” her mother says. “What is your Gift?”
He bristles. ASASTRID’S HAS NOT YET MANIFESTED, NEITHER HAS MINE.
And there it is, she thinks, as disappointment flits across Gwen’s face. That is what Astrid had expected; what she couldn’t bear to see.
There’s a knock on the door and the queen’s spymaster, Veronica, enters. Her silky brown hair is braided down her back, and she’s already caught the sun. Her ochre eyes scan the room. Bastet is nowhere to be seen.
“You called for me, My Queen?”
“Veronica, good.” She turns back to Astrid and Jessa. “Meet me out on deck in two minutes. Veronica, walk with me.”
Astrid jumps up and peers down the corridor after the queen and the spy, straining to listen, but all she catches is “Where is she?” and “I need you to—” but what she needs her to do Astrid doesn’t hear. Her brows pinch together. They must be talking about Veronica’s familiar, a peregrine falcon called Ceridwen.
“You’re so nosy,” says Jessa.
