They’re guided to small motorized carriages powered by Vitalas, a form of transport they don’t have in Arturea, not when energy is too precious for such things. Astrid, her mother, and Jessa share a carriage, while Bjorn and Quincy trail it, the Ulvene surrounding the car for the drive to the castle. The king retreats into his own carriage while Zryan, she notes, speaks to a few of the Dreki, making no move to follow. Their first meeting and neither of them said a word.
When they’re safely ensconced inside, Bastet emerges from Astrid’s cloak and curls up in her lap while her mother casts a cooling charm over them. They say nothing for a couple of minutes and Astrid is glad of it, because if she has to speak right now, she might be sick. The carriage jostles them as they travel over the uneven cobbles. Outside are grand white buildings, tall and pristine with balconets, marking the carriage as being in the more affluent area of the city.
“With a king like that,” Jessa eventually says, “I think I’d be a republican, too.”
Her mother makes a small noise in agreement. “The audacity of the man to make out his citizens pose the real threat to us when it’s he who plagues us.”
Astrid sits back. “Bold people. To stand up to the king when they have no hope against the dragons. And the prince…” She swallows, and her mum and Jessa fidget slightly. Astrid knows why—they’re all thinking the same thing. Even among the Ulvene they’ve never seen a man made like that. “Well, you’d have to have a death wish to try anything, wouldn’t you.”
“Sure, the guy’s built like a battering ram and obviously well trained and well disciplined, but”—Jessa holds up a finger at Astrid—“his bulk could also be a disadvantage. You’re fast, Astrid, you’re small—”
Astrid scoffs. “I am not small, Jess, and glad of it.”
“Compared to him you are, and,” she continues, “you have homemade missiles, meaning you don’t have to get near him to kill him.”
DO YOU THINK THE SAME APPLIES TO ME, OH WISE ONE?THAT MY DIMINUTIVE STATURE WILL BE AN ADVANTAGE AGAINST THAT THUNDER LIZARD?
“I’m not gonna bite, pussy cat, because frankly, I think you’re both taking this remarkably well,” Jessa says. “And if I were you, I’d be shit scared.” Astrid takes a shuddering breath. She is shit scared, and the nausea’s reared its head again at the thought of Bastet in that arena. “But Astrid’s smart. If anyone can figure out how to beat that prince and his dragon, then it’s her.”
Astrid snorts. “Sure, because I’ll figure it out when four hundred years’ worth of my ancestors haven’t.”
HOW DID THE LAST WITCH WHO WON DEFEAT A DRAGON?Bastet sounds optimistic, which is not a personality trait of his. Astrid hates to dispel him of it.
“The witch’s opponent didn’t have a dragon in that case, and the dragon heir in question was a Sensor, a weak one—probably why he never went to Isla Draka to attempt to bond a dragon,” Astrid says. “He was mauled to death by the familiar, a particularly brutal wolverine.”
ISEE,says Bastet. THE ONLY THINGIHAVE EVER MANAGED TO MAUL IS A DORMOUSE.
Jessa laughs, but Gwen scolds him, “This is serious.”
ANDIAM SERIOUS AS DEATH WHEN IT COMES TO THE LIFE OF MY SOUL-BONDED. HOW DO YOU THINKIFEEL KNOWINGICAN BE OF NO MEANINGFUL HELP TO HER?
Her mother purses her lips in response, because what can she say? She’s been thinking the exact same thing. Astrid lifts Bastet onto her shoulder, where he burrows into her collar.
“As you said yourself, without you, I’d be miserable.” He preens in response. “When will they hold the welcome feast?” Astrid asks. She’s really hoping it won’t be this evening—she’s feeling far too fragile. She fiddles with the empty tincture bottle in her pocket.
“Tomorrow night. The Blood Binding will be the morning after,” her mum answers.
“I’d feel much better if they were bound before the feast,” Jessa says.
“They won’t try anything there, not so blatantly.”
Astrid and Jessa lock eyes. After what she just witnessed, Astrid isn’t so sure.
The carriage slows and Jessa peers out the window. “We’re here.”
Astrid strains her neck to look past Jessa to The Rok’s battlements, the crenelated structure punctuated by more of those huge stone perches. The carriage is quickly ushered through the gates before driving up a winding gravel path leading to a turning circle directly in front of the burnt-orange castle.
It’s much larger than Fort Isfjell, larger even than the Moon Palace, with countless spires and towers and wide balconies, and it sprawls up the side of the sandstone cliffs, part of it merging with them so it blends with the rock.
Astrid steps out of the carriage, closing her cloak around her with Bastet once again tucked inside. The gardens are vast—lush, even—blooming with life and color she’s not seen for years, not in the permanent winter of the mountains. Deciduous trees, crowns full and green; pink orchids; red and orange hibiscus; and eucalyptus that border the white pebbled path. How have they managed to nurture this pocket of life in this arid city? It’s a treasure trove for a potion brewer.
“That way”—her mum points west to where the grounds wrap around the far side of the castle—“is where the arena is. And it’s where I’d like you to train when you can. Get to know it, get used to it.” Astrid nods. That makes sense—it’s one of the variables she can actually control. “And that way is the coast.” She points east to where the grounds stop at a cliff edge. “It’s a two-hundred-meter drop, and the only way in or out from there is by dragon. I probably don’t need to warn you that it would be wise to avoid it.” Lest someone push Astrid off.
They follow their escort of guards to the main entrance: an obnoxious set of ornately decorated double doors big enough to admit a small dragon. Astrid pauses briefly, takes a deep breath, then steps over the threshold onto a floor of gold-veined black marble, polished so highly that she can see her reflection in it. Cool air relieves her from the oppressive heat, though the relief is short-lived as the realization hits her. The thriving gardens, the cooling system—it makes sense now.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” Jessa points out. “I can hear you.”
Astrid shoots Jessa a look. “Do you know how much Vitalas they must be using? Wasting it on luxuries like air-conditioning when we can’t even get enough ambient magic to keep the Blight at bay.”
