Katharine strips off the pretty lace gloves that the Westwoods gave her. She tears the black pearls off over her head and squeezes them between her fingers.
“Genevieve, I need you to send for an oracle.”
“An oracle?”
“Write to Sunpool. Tell them to send their best. Their most gifted. Tell them if they can offer an insight into the mist, they will have a seat on the Black Council as their reward.”
“A council seat?” Genevieve blinks. “Are you sure?”
“Just do it!”
“Right away, Queen Katharine.” She leaves and closes the door softly behind her. Katharine looks at Luca and pours a glass of tainted brandy.
“You must be thrilled. My reign is going so poorly.”
“I would be,” says Luca as Katharine drinks, “if it were going poorly only for you.”
Katharine snorts.
“Well, then. What can the temple do to help?”
“The temple is full of old scholars. We can comb the libraries and the histories, see what we can find.” She steps up beside the queen and knocks their cups together. “And we can pray.”
THE ROAD FROM BASTIAN CITY
By the time Jules, Emilia, and Mathilde leave the village, heading north along the foothills of the Seawatch Mountains, the mood at the inn has changed. After that first night, when they saw Jules guide the knives and saw Camden leap across tables so fiercely, they began to look at her with awe. So much awe that, when they bid farewell to the innkeeper, Jules is almost sure the girl will bow. Though in the end, all she does is a hasty curtsy.
“We’ll spread the word,” the girl says. “And we’ll be ready when you call.” She holds out a parcel, and Camden sniffs the air. “May I?” she asks, and Jules nods. The girl unwraps the fish and lets Camden take it gently between her teeth. “Farewell,” she says.
“Farewell.”
“For now,” says Emilia, and they walk on.
Jules watches Camden up the road, where she has lain down to tear at the fish and purr. “Reminds me of how it was in Wolf Spring. When Arsinoe had her bear. We couldn’t walk into a pub without someone shoving a trout into our arms.”
“Get used to it,” says Emilia. “It is better, is it not? Having them feed your cat instead of spit in your hair for the curse?”
“It is.” The looks on their faces when they saw her use her gifts, her gifts, both of them. Not disgust or even fear. Only hope. All thanks to a silly prophecy and a couple of bards who could carry a fine tune. Still, it felt good. More than that, it had started to feel right.
They pass through three more towns on the road north, and in every village, Emilia and Mathilde find ears willing to listen. They meet in secret, in taverns and country houses. In dark, dusty barns and beside the soft banks of rivers. The people come carrying pitchforks and shovels as though they would be weapons. They see the warrior who has a cougar familiar, and they start to believe.
“What did I tell you?” Emilia says, turning the roasting rabbit on the spit above their campfire as Camden’s mouth waters. “They believe. They want change as badly as we do.”
“But can we win?” Jules turns her own rabbit, a much larger and meatier one than Emilia’s. “With an army of farmers and fishers and all of different gifts? They aren’t soldiers, and they’re as like to fight one another as they are to fight the queensguard.”
“We can win,” says Mathilde. “With enough of the island at our back, we can win.”
In the back of her mind, Jules hears the whisper that the queens are sacred. But she stamps out the thought. Queens are sacred. But these poisoner queens have failed them. They have corrupted the line. Especially Katharine.
“You should go easier on the exaggerations next time, Mathilde,” Emilia says, but across the flames, the seer only grins.
“Why? The crowds love to hear the grand tales. The grander, the better. So what if Jules did not really kill fifty soldiers during the escape from the Volroy cells? So what if her war gift cannot halt one hundred arrows?”
“Nothing as long as they never want a demonstration,” Jules says, and Emilia laughs. “You and the other bards are going to make people think I’m twelve feet tall.”
Mathilde chuckles, and tears a small loaf of bread into four chunks. She tosses them one each, and Jules takes up Camden’s share to press against the side of the rabbit to soak up the juices.
“That is the last of the bread,” Mathilde says. “We will have to go without for a few days. There is nothing between us and the foot of the mountains now.” Nothing, unless they turn south and make for the glen and the Black Cottage. Jules strips off a piece of meat and chews it as she snaps off a quarter haunch for Camden. It is not enough for the cougar. They will have to hunt again before dusk, but with her gift, game is easy to find. This sweet rabbit practically hopped into her arms.
“Up.” Emilia stands and nudges Jules with her foot. “Time to train. You are right about one thing: if we are to carry this off you must truly look like a better warrior than I am.”
Jules pats Camden on the head and tells her to stay near the fire. If the big cat comes along, she will only wind up pinning Emilia to the cold ground.
They find a small clearing in the trees, and Emilia tosses her a sword. Jules has graduated from the bluntness of sparring sticks.
“How much time will we need to train the soldiers?” Jules asks as their blades cross.
“More than we have.”
“But—” Jules parries. “We can’t send farmers against armored queensguard. Not without the right training.”
“We can with the right leader. Now pay attention or I am going to slice off your arm.” They cross blades again. Attack and parry. Nothing fancy. No flair. No heart. “But you are right about one thing. They are farmers. Tradespeople. They are not soldiers, and many of them will die.”
“But why? If we wait—”
“Because people die in war.” Emilia advances in a flurry. “They die for what is right. And if you are to lead them, you’ll have to let go of your naturalist weakness!”
Jules thrusts her palm into Emilia’s belly. Her war gift sends Emilia flying into a tree and knocks the wind right out of her.
“Oh!” Jules runs to her and kneels. “I didn’t mean for you to hit the tree.”
“It’s all right.” Emilia takes Jules’s hand and kisses the knuckles. “I kind of liked it.”
At the edge of the clearing, Camden grunts.
“Cam? I told you to stay with Mathilde.”
The cat grunts again and twitches her tail irritably. When she turns and dashes back the way she came, Jules knows well enough to follow.
At first, it seems that nothing is amiss. Mathilde is seated before the fire, nearly as they left her. It is not until Camden puts a paw up onto Mathilde’s shoulder that they see: the seer is stiff with a vision.
“Mathilde?” Jules approaches cautiously. “Emilia, what do we do?”
“Do not disturb her.” The warrior squats low and quickly moves nearby weapons and rocks. “When she comes out of it, she may jerk. Keep her from running into the flames, and keep her from falling and striking her head.”
She makes it sound worse than it is. When the vision is over, Mathilde simply twitches and blinks. Then a thin rivulet of blood leaks from her nose.
“Here.” Emilia presses a wad of cloth to it.
“Are you all right?” Jules asks.
“I am fine. Did it last for long?”
“Not long. Camden told us to come back, and then it was only a few minutes.”
Mathilde sniffs and reaches out to scratch Camden behind the ears. “Good cat.” She dabs at the blood; it has already stopped.
“What did you see?” asks Emilia.
Mathilde turns to Jules, her eyes large and sorrowful. “I think I saw your mother. I think she is in danger, at the Black Cottage.”
After Mathilde’s vision, Jules and Emilia wasted no time breaking camp and making the
ir way toward the Black Cottage. The travel was slow in the dark, and by sunrise, their legs are too weary to increase the pace by much.
“Perhaps she was wrong,” Emilia says. “Or perhaps the vision wants us to go to the Black Cottage for some other purpose and is trying to lure us there.”
Jules glances at Mathilde, who avoids her eyes. Behind her, Camden swings her tail back and forth, swatting Emilia in the legs. It seems an age that they travel along in silence: another uncomfortable night’s camp in the mountains and another morning of walking, before the smoke from the Black Cottage chimney rises into view.
Jules looks down across the meadow at the dark, pitched roofs, the crossed timbering. The door to the stable is open, and a small flock of chickens meanders around near the stream. Nothing seems out of sorts.
“We may not be welcome here,” Jules warns them. “Old Willa might try to toss us out on our ears.”
“Old Willa.” Emilia grins. “Sounds like I’ll like her.”
They walk on, out of the trees, and a large black crow dives from the branches. It flaps its wings hard in Mathilde’s face and caws loudly into Camden’s.
“Aria!” Jules holds her hand out to her companions, to keep them from harming the bird.
“You know this bird?” Mathilde asks.
“She’s my mother’s.”
They hurry across the grass, already brown from hard frosts, and Jules leaps up the cottage steps, casting an eye toward the crow perched atop the roof’s edge. “Wait here,” she says, and she and Camden go inside alone.
Instantly, Caragh’s brown hound, Juniper, barrels into Camden’s side and licks her face.
Caragh comes to the door, and Jules walks into her arms.
“I hope you don’t mean to lick my face like that.”
“Your cougar doesn’t seem to mind,” Caragh says, and chuckles. She draws back, holds Jules at arm’s length. She studies every inch of her, from the tips of her toes to the ends of her cut brown hair. The tightness of her fingers speaks of how badly she wants to pull Jules close. “What are you doing here?”
“Madrigal,” Jules says quickly. “We saw Aria, and my friend”—she nods to Mathilde—“had a vision. Is she here? Is she safe?”
Caragh nods at Juniper, and the hound stops frantically pawing at Camden. Then she sighs. She is lovely as always, even in an apron and her brown-gold hair tied messily with a piece of twine. But her eyes are heavy.
“Pesky crow,” she says softly. “Always flying off places.”
“She flapped around happily and then tried to peck my eyes out. Just like Madrigal would have done. Where is she?”
A shadow crosses her aunt’s face. “Let’s go and see her. She will want to hear all your news. Juniper will sit with your friends, to make sure that Willa does not chase them off with a pitchfork when she returns from the barn.”
Quietly, Jules follows her aunt past the drawing room and the kitchen, down the long hall to the same room where Arsinoe recovered from the bolt that Katharine shot into her back.
Madrigal is in the bed. That alone is a strange enough sight. Though Madrigal was lazy about many things, she never overslept or lingered under blankets. She wanted too much of the world to lose one minute of daylight. But even more a shock is how small she looks, lessened by the sheer size of her belly, pregnant with a child by Matthew Sandrin. Joseph’s older brother.
“Madrigal. What are you doing here?”
Her mother pushes against her pillows, and Caragh moves past Jules to help, sitting her up and slipping another pillow behind her back. The uncharacteristically sisterly gesture makes Jules go cold.
“I could ask you the same.” Madrigal pats the quilt, and Jules goes closer. “Returned to the island and no word? When did you get back? Where have you been?”
“I actually never left. I’ve been in Bastian City, with the warriors.”
“You could’ve gotten a message to us.” Madrigal pauses at a tapping; Aria the crow is at the window, and Caragh goes to let the bird in. She flies once around the room and lands on the top corner bedpost.
“I didn’t want to make any more trouble for Grandma Cait and Ellis. I figured they had enough on their hands just dealing with my reputation.”
“Liar. You know your grandparents can handle that and more. They’re worried. They’re wondering. The fields are terrible. And Luke. When poor Luke heard the rumors about the Legion Queen, he wept.”
“The rumors have reached you, then?”
“They have reached us. But where is Arsinoe? And Joseph? Billy and the elemental?”
Jules shifts her weight to lean against Camden.
“Arsinoe, Billy, and Mirabella made it to the mainland. I guess that’s where they are now. As for Joseph . . .” She stops, and Madrigal places a hand atop her stomach. “He’s dead. But I think you probably guessed that.”
“He looked very bad when you left us by the river,” says Caragh. “But I hoped. I’m so sorry, Jules.”
“I’m sorry, too,” adds Madrigal. “He was a good boy.”
He was more than that, but Jules clears her throat.
“I’m sorry I made Luke cry. I guess I should have found a way to tell everyone.”
“Oh, Luke cries at the drop of a hat.” Madrigal waves her hand and wipes quickly at her eyes. She is pale, and that crow of hers is never so close by.
“Now what’s wrong? Why are you in bed? I didn’t think the baby would come until winter.”
“He won’t,” says Caragh. “Willa and I are making sure of it.”
Jules glances around the room. It has a strange, stale smell she does not remember and on the corner dresser is a tray of dirty cups and a plate of half-eaten root vegetables and greens.
“Nettle leaf tea,” Caragh explains. “And fanroot. If she eats it every day, it will ease the early contractions.”
“A waste of time. Trying to hold this baby in. He won’t come until he’s ready, and he will be perfectly safe.”
“What do you mean?” Jules asks.
Caragh sighs. She has heard this tale many times before. “Your mother saw a vision in a fire, when she was dabbling with Arsinoe and her low magic.”
“At the bent-over tree, you mean?”
“Yes,” Madrigal interrupts. “I saw a vision in the fire that day, a fire stoked by queensblood, in that sacred space. So I know it is true.” She pauses and looks at Jules, her face a mix of stubbornness and regret. “I saw my son born alive. Strong and red and screaming. And sitting atop my dead gray corpse.”
THE MAINLAND
Mirabella and Arsinoe sit together at a table in a quiet tearoom. It is not the most popular establishment in the city—the biscuits are dry and there are stains on the tablecloth—but at least they have some privacy and do not have to be seated in some dark corner because Arsinoe still refuses to wear dresses.
Since their encounter with Queen Illiann’s shadow in the graveyard, they have had to find places besides the Chatworth house to talk. Billy’s mother has been pushed to her limit, and on any day may try to put them out on the street.
“I want to seek more low magic,” Arsinoe says, but Mirabella shakes her head and rubs the scab on her forearm.
“No more. She wants us to go back to the island. More low magic will only make her stronger.”
“You don’t know that; you’re just afraid. And so am I. But I can’t take much more of these dreams. Every time I close my eyes, I’m someone else. I’m Daphne. And I’m tired.”
“You are curious,” says Mirabella. “I see you, Arsinoe. You are more and more drawn into the dreams. Her bait is working.” The door to the shop opens, and Arsinoe glances toward the entrance. A woman and her two small children have come inside. Two little girls, holding hands and pointing at which biscuits they would like on the display.
“After this is over, I would like to become a teacher,” Mirabella says. “I like children. Though I have had little interaction with them.”
“Why wo
uld you?” Arsinoe asks crossly. “Queens whelp babies, but we don’t raise them.”
“Do not say ‘whelp.’” Mirabella frowns. “You know I hate it when you say ‘whelp.’”
“Whelp, that’s not my problem.” Arsinoe crunches through a biscuit, slouched down so far that crumbs are able to fall directly into her collar. “Though if you become a teacher, what would I do?”
“You could do the same.”
“I’d be a terrible teacher.”
“Only at first.”
Arsinoe studies the children, so well-behaved, their brown hair in ringlets. “I’d rather make clothes or work in a pub. I’m no use in a kitchen, but I can sew, a little. Ellis taught me how. And Luke.”
Mirabella looks down at her hands. “If you do the low magic again, I am afraid of what will happen. I am afraid we will lose all this.”
“All what?”
“Our lives. This future.”
Arsinoe sees the way her sister looks at the children. With a kind of hopeful despair. The way someone looks at something they can never possibly have.
“What if there’s something wrong on the island?” Arsinoe asks.
“Then let them sort it out. As they tried to sort us out. As they would again, the moment we set foot back in that place.”
Arsinoe sighs.
“I have to find a way to stop the dreams,” she whispers. “Or solve them. I have to, or they will drive me mad. But after that,” she reaches across the table and takes Mirabella’s hand. “There will be time. We can have a future here, I promise.”
Mirabella does not respond, and Arsinoe leans back and slides down into her chair.
“You promise,” says Mirabella. “Except that it will never be over. Because the island is not something we can escape.”
That night, Arsinoe fights sleep. For Mirabella and for Billy, she fights the dreams. She has her own life now and if she wants to keep it, Mirabella is right. She has to let go of the island and make the dreams stop.
She turns and peers through the darkness at her sister’s still form. Mirabella makes not a peep when she sleeps. No moans. Certainly no snoring. A queen through and through. And to think, Arsinoe once thought Mirabella would fart cyclones.
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