Aldric narrows his eyes, and for a second, Skylar swears she sees the illusion slip as he backs away half a step, swears she sees the gray in his hair, the wrinkles etched into his skin. A much older man than the one he always portrays.
“I wouldn’t trust that to hold her much longer,” he says sharply.
The fingers on her arm tighten their grip as another pair of hands forces her mouth open. There is something sweet on her tongue, a sickly honey mixed with an herb she doesn’t recognize. Whatever magic is holding her in place stops. Skylar nearly face-plants at the sudden control over her body again. She coughs and tries to spit out whatever it is they’ve shoved in her mouth, but it’s too late: she can feel the trickle of it down her throat.
Poison.
She wipes at her tongue, coughs again as she tries to make her feet move. But it’s too late.
She falls to the ground on all fours, her knees cracking against the baked clay. A blackness is closing in, her vision blurring. She lets out half a sob, though the sound feels far away, like the world is being ripped from her. She forces her lips to close, stemming it.
The muscles in her arms give way and her head smacks against the ground. Maybe this poison is lethal. Maybe this is what they’re really doing—killing people so they don’t become a threat to the king and his prince. She supposes dimly that it doesn’t matter either way—even if she’s not dead, she’s screwed.
But the last thought she clings to before she goes under completely is that if this is really happening, if she is being taken like the others, then that means she will see Cam again. So maybe that’s not so bad, after all.
9Astrid
Astrid is tapping her foot. Literally tapping it, trying to expel the nervous energy. She’s been dreading the welcome feast, made worse by the fact that she was sequestered in her room all day, and anxiety is getting the better of her. As the Blood Binding isn’t until tomorrow morning, her mum didn’t want her roaming the castle without that protection—understandable in theory, but now her mother isn’t even here to accompany Astrid and the feast has already started.
The room she’s been given is comfortable, with a connecting bathroom and a large balcony through glass double doors, allowing in plenty of light. There’s a four-poster bed opposite, its frame wrapped in white and gold fabric, and a brandy velvet sofa sits next to a writing desk that Astrid has spent most of the day bent over while jotting notes in her grimoire. She looks at her fingertips, stained with ink. Just like Gram’s used to be. Gram, who had gifted her the grimoire and taught her how to brew, delighted to finally have someone to share her passion with. Gwen had never had much patience for potions and subtlety; she was more like her other mother, Astrid’s Grandma Tania—pragmatic, purposeful, with a streak of warmth for the people she cared about.
A part of Astrid wishes Gram and Grandma were still alive so they could be here with her. The other part is glad they’ll never have to watch her die. Unlike her mum.
“Where in the name of Sqaõi is she?”
“What,” Jessa says, “you think I have the authority to question the queen about what she’s doing? I’ve no clue where she is, only that Ceridwen told Arboria that she was going to be late.”
Astrid stands abruptly. “I can’t wait any longer—let’s just go.”
“Exactly what I’ve been saying for the past ten minutes.” Jessa picks up her whip and wraps the tail around her waist. “Don’t scowl at me.”
“I’m not scowling at you.” She is, in fact, scowling at Jessa, but the ire is more for her mother. How could she abandon Astrid and leave her to face this without her? Something slams into Astrid’s chest, and she scrabbles to catch it. Her Brewer’s Belt.
“Put that on. Don’t hesitate to use those potions if anyone tries something—you hear me?”
Astrid nods, buckling the belt around her hips. It matches the blue halter-neck jumpsuit she’s wearing, almost identical to Jessa’s, though Jessa looks better in it. It’s her unfathomably long legs.
IMUST INSISTIACCOMPANY YOU.Bastet jumps down from the desk. IWILL KEEP TO THE SHADOWS.NO ONE WILL SEE ME.
“You can insist all you like—you’re not coming. I love you, but we’re going now and you’re staying here where you’ll be safe.”
“And not a liability,” Jessa adds.
IWILL SHOW YOU LIABILITY, MUTT WRANGLER.
“Quincy is not a dog,” Astrid says quickly at the murderous look on Jessa’s face. “And what Jess says is true. You’re an easy target. I’m sorry. I promise, we won’t stay long.”
Astrid kisses him on his head, ignoring his muttering, and follows Jessa out the door where Quincy, Fionn, and their beaver wait. The group has decided to keep up a ruse of the fox being Astrid’s familiar to put off any enthusiastic Vatrans who might want to kill her.
They pass along a dozen different corridors, then descend the stairs to the main hall and cross to the ballroom entrance. Inside, she can hear music and laughter, the tinkle of glass against glass.
“Are you ready?” Jessa asks.
Is she ready to face the rest of the dragon court? Ready to see Zryan again? He left as quickly as he arrived earlier, not even giving Astrid a chance to respond to his so-called welcome.
“Yes, I’m ready,” she lies.
“Liar,” Jessa says.
