“Every year it gets worse. We’ve no idea why.” Her mum’s hazel eyes slide to Astrid. “And we’re still no closer to discovering why it started in the first place.”
Astrid scoffs. “We know full well why—the Vatrans. The king still won’t help?” Astrid asks her, already knowing the answer. Her mother has attempted every diplomatic avenue to get access to the Heart, to discover what’s wrong with it, but the king rejects her and denies, denies, denies.
“He’s still claiming that it’s impossible for them to tamper with its power. If we had any idea how it works, then I’d know if what he says is true, but…” She sighs.
The witches haven’t had access to the Heart for so many centuries that they’ve lost most of the information they ever had about it. The best hope of stopping the Blight is if Astrid beats the prince and claims guardianship of the Heart. Which is about as likely to happen as her familiar sprouting wings.
“Perhaps, when we’re there, it’ll make a difference,” Astrid says. “You never know—the king and queen might be more amenable in person.”
“The queen maybe, but she has no influence. The king? Never. Trust me, you’ll be best avoiding that man like the Blight,” Gwen says, and Jessa winces. “Sorry, poor choice of words, but I mean it. Keep well away from him, Astrid.”
The widebeam rocks gently as they pass another boat, the crew waving at them when they recognize the queen. They stop so Gwen can chat with them—turns out they’re witchkin from a nearby town who are monitoring the spread of the Blight.
Astrid slips a hand in Jessa’s and gives it a gentle squeeze, her mind whirring. She knows she can’t beat the prince, but, she decides, she can do something. She’s going to use her time in Vatra to find out as much as she can about the Heart, the Blight—anything at all that can help her mother before… Well.
Before she dies.
4Skylar
“Skylar, just get on the bloody stage, will you?” Aldric—appearing dark-haired, dark-skinned today—moves toward where she’s leaning against a stone wall, just offstage from where Amara is doing her signature dance with brightly colored scarves. A dance that looks totally ridiculous, frankly.
Skylar inspects the dirt under her fingernails, not bothering to look at Aldric even as she hears the grind of his teeth. No doubt he’s holding an illusion around them so the gathering crowd can’t see him forcing her to perform. She can see them, though—it’s an even bigger crowd than yesterday, people stopping on their way to the harbor, where the witch party will be arriving later today. The city feels like it’s at bursting point, excitement and impatience and something else, something darker, lacing the air. Skylar doesn’t feel particularly strongly about anywhere they set up camp—a place is just a place, after all—but she doesn’t like it here, and not only because the city has taken Cam from her.
“Skylar, I swear to Arach, if you don’t get out there in the next thirty seconds—”
“You’ll what?” she asks, still not looking at him, even as he moves closer, trying to threaten her with his size.
“I’ll withhold your pay for this month,” he snaps.
She shrugs. She and Cam have been saving, aiming to set up on their own one day—and Aldric sometimes withholds their pay for no good reason, anyway.
“Or,” he continues, and she can hear the anger he’s trying to hold on to, “I’ll let Torin practice a thing or two on you.”
She does look up at that, narrowing her eyes. He would. He’s let Torin have playthings plenty of times—although Torin has always come down on the “helpful” side of the line for Skylar so far.
But she draws back her shoulders. “I’ve told you my deal. You help me get intel on Cam, and I’ll perform. Otherwise…” She looks pointedly over to Amara, as if to say,That’s the best you’re going to get. And people are already starting to get bored of Amara, especially with the promise of the witches’ arrival, and are moving on, away from Izzo’s clever fingers.
Aldric stares at her. She stares back. She feels exhausted—she was out until the early hours of the morning, moving from tavern to tavern, trying to get people to talk. She found out little more than she already knew—yes, conscription is in full force, and some Blooded have been caught as they tried to flee the city, hoping to escape notice in the rural parts of Vatra or to even make it across the border to Arturea.
“Fine,” Aldric spits, giving in first. “Just get out there and I’ll see what I can find out. Okay?”
She salutes. “Okay, boss.”
He’s not going to help you if you wind him up, Lar.
He just agreed to help, didn’t he? Besides, you were always the diplomatic one. I’ll do it my way.
She gets no response from her imagined conversation with Cam, but she can picture the look he’d give her if he were here. She doesn’t care. He can give her that look in person, when she finds him.
Skylar heads to the “stage,” which is just an area Torin cleared by flexing his muscles. Torin has set up the tightrope, something that they’ve only managed to perfect in the last couple of months, given it needs to be fully portable. It was a Sensor in Sarkan who helped them—someone who had worked designing houses in the capital before getting out when rumors of conscription first started. Skylar only found out he was a Sensor in bed—where his heightened touch made for an interesting experience. She wonders if he’s still there, or if they’ve found him, too.
Amara is currently walking on her hands across the tightrope, people’s necks craning to watch. There is a round of applause as Amaraflips off the tightrope, landing neatly on her feet and bowing. There are a couple of catcalls, and Amara blows a kiss in that general direction. She was born for the stage, really—much more so than Skylar.
“And now,” Aldric says, stepping forward with his arms outstretched, his colorful cloak billowing behind him, “Blade will show us how she earned her name.”
Torin jerks his head at Skylar, getting the daggers ready. She takes two of them as she climbs the ladder. Dust coats her tongue, and the stench of other people’s sweat is briefly overpowering. Why would anyone choose to live here?
She hears the buzz of impatient chatter below her as she reaches the top. She steps onto the tightrope, keeping her balance in a way that has always come naturally to her. She throws the two daggers into the air, allowing her senses to take over, telling her exactly when to catch them so she grasps the hilt and not the blade. Torin whistles below her and she nods. He throws another up to her, making it three, then four daggers that she juggles as she walks. There’s a soothing rhythm to it. It’s one of the only things she can do that makes her feel calm, that silences the energy she sometimes feels pounding around her body, urging her to do something reckless.
