Emilia sheaths her sword. Jules unwraps an oatcake that Willa baked and tears a chunk for Emilia. “If he bites my hand, I am going to—”
“You’re going to what?”
“Run away, I suppose.” She holds out the cake, and Braddock takes it. Then he takes the rest from Jules and snuffles around in her pockets before raising his head, and bobbing it in the direction of the trees behind them.
“He’s looking for Arsinoe.” Jules pats his shoulder. She uses her gift to soothe him, and soon enough he and Camden are playing happily in the stream.
“There,” says Emilia. “Now you have seen to the bear, and your new baby brother, and your mother is well. And now we can go.”
Jules turns and watches Braddock as he drinks from the stream, as he splashes and kicks pebbles. She is sorry to say goodbye to him, but he is happy there. And safe. Days must pass when he does not wonder at all where Arsinoe is. It will be a long time, Jules thinks, before I have those days.
She and Emilia return to the Black Cottage and find Caragh sitting on the porch with the baby in her arms.
“Back so soon,” Caragh says. “How is Braddock?”
“Well,” says Jules.
“Large,” says Emilia. She holds her hands out for Fenn, and Caragh gently gives him over. “Where is his mother?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“Gone to tell Matthew he has a son. To bring him back here so that they can take Fenn home together. She borrowed my brown mare and left is what I mean.”
Jules turns toward the bridle path, the one that passes through the Greenwood and winds down toward Wolf Spring. “It’s only been a week since the birth.”
“And no easy birth at that. But you know Madrigal. She’s up and around, nearly fast as a queen. And restless already.”
Emilia shifts the baby in her arms.
“What about this little lad’s feeding?”
“Willa knows how to manage with goat’s milk. She won’t be gone long.”
“She’s not . . . leaving us again?” Jules asks.
“Not this time.” Caragh stands and takes the baby back. “This time I think she will stay.”
GREAVESDRAKE MANOR
Queen Katharine is wandering the west grounds of Greavesdrake Manor when Bree arrives in the shadow of the great house. Or where the house’s shadow would be if there were enough sun to cast one.
“Queen Katharine.” Bree curtsies. “Why have you called me here and not the Volroy?”
“I like it here,” Katharine replies. “There are fewer eyes and ears. Now that Natalia is gone and I am gone, Greavesdrake stands hollow, with only the barest staff to tend its upkeep.”
“It is Genevieve’s house now, is it not?”
“Yes. And Antonin’s. Even Pietyr’s, in a way, if he would seek to claim a piece.” She gazes up at the red brick, the black roof. She looks out at the alder trees and the long green swath of grass where she and her king-consort Nicolas had once practiced archery.
“I suppose it does not feel the same without her,” says Bree. “Some people leave too much space behind when they are gone.”
They stand in silence a moment, and Katharine shivers against a cold wind.
“Such a chill day. There was a spattering of snowflakes earlier. Did you see any in town?”
Bree shakes her head.
“I would almost wish that my sister were here,” says Katharine, “if only so she could clear these gray clouds away.”
Bree chuckles. “She was strong. The strongest I have ever seen. But she still couldn’t change the seasons.”
Katharine blows into her hands. Elemental Bree could stand outside all day, but the queen will soon need to go inside. Of all the gifts she borrows from the dead sisters, the elemental gift seems to be the weakest. Perhaps even they are loyal to the wonder of Mirabella. Or perhaps there were simply fewer elementals who lost.
“Katharine,” says Bree, dropping for the first time the formal address. “What do you wish of me?”
Katharine sighs and leads the way around the paved path back to the front of the house.
“The oracle will be brought to me any day now. I would know how the council seats from Rolanth feel about that.”
“I do not speak for the High Priestess. And I would not speak for Rho. But I think they would say they think it wise. You must know all you can if the rumors of the uprising are true.”
“And if they are, whose side will you take?” Katharine asks quickly.
“After the Ascension, there is only one side,” Bree replies, unrattled. “The queen’s side.”
“I thought you would blame me for what happened in Rolanth. Would you take the queen’s side, even against the mist? Against the Goddess?”
“Who is to say who is more of the Goddess? The line of the queens is her line, and it was the queens who gave us the mist. So . . .” She stops and shakes her head. “These are questions for a priestess. Where is Elizabeth when I need her?”
“I must admit I thought you might bring her along. You two are never far apart. But I will not hold you to these oaths, Bree Westwood. I know that whatever comes of this rebellion, the High Priestess will decide the allegiance of Rolanth.”
“Rolanth is not Luca’s lapdog. Nor is it mine. But for my part, I think you have grown into the crown very well. Better than I thought. It has been difficult, but I can’t imagine Mira—any queen doing better.”
They round the house, and Katharine signals for Bree’s horse.
“Is that all, my queen?”
“That is all.”
Bree glances up at the dark walls and windows. “Why are you really here instead of at the Volroy?”
“Just why I said. And also to retrieve something I will need for the oracle when she arrives.”
Bree turns and is helped into the saddle by a groom. Her horse snorts and dances in place.
“When she does arrive, you should question her before the whole council. The people will no doubt hear of it, and they like to know that the High Priestess has the ear of the crown.”
“I will consider it.”
Bree lifts a rein to wheel her horse back to the city. “There are plenty of poisons in the Volroy, are there not?”
Katharine smiles.
“Not like these.”
Not long after Bree leaves, Genevieve and Pietyr arrive, nearly at the same time though not together—Genevieve in a coach from the Volroy and Pietyr on horseback, coming to scour the Greavesdrake library for insights into the dead queens. Still, when Edmund, Natalia’s good and loyal butler, tells them that the queen is upstairs, both make their way to Natalia’s old study.
“Pietyr, Genevieve.” Katharine turns to greet them but only partway. Her arms remain inside the open doors of one of Natalia’s cabinets. “Is there news? Has the oracle been brought?”
“Not yet.” Genevieve comes into the room and runs her hand over Natalia’s favorite wingback chair.
“I do not know what is keeping them. The captain of the queensguard sent word that they arrested her nearly a week ago.”
“The weather in the mountains is bound to slow their progress.”
“You do not come in here often, do you, Genevieve?”
“No. Not often.”
“I can tell.” Katharine wrinkles her nose. “It smells musty. Perhaps Edmund could open the windows for an hour or so per day.”
Neither Genevieve nor Pietyr comment. They are so silent that Katharine turns around, thinking they have gone. But there they are. Standing beside Natalia’s old chair as if they are staring at her ghost seated in it.
“I wish she were here,” says Katharine.
“So do I.” Genevieve squeezes the leather. “I asked Rho Murtra what it was like to find that mainlander standing over her body. I asked what it felt like to kill him for it. Made her describe it to me in every detail. And still it was not enough.”
Her fingers dig deeper in
to the leather. “Leave it to the war priestess to carve him up. When poison was what he deserved. Someday, I will cross the sea and find his entire family. Poison them with something from the room here. Watch every last one of them kick and bleed from the eyes. His wife. His siblings. His children. And especially the suitor Billy Chatworth.”
“That would be a worthy errand,” Pietyr says quietly.
“Someday,” says Katharine. “But not today. Today, I would have you help me find a proper poison to loosen the oracle’s tongue.” She points to the cabinets she has not looked through yet, and the Arrons set to work.
“I do not know what you hope to learn.” Genevieve’s finger softly rattles a row of bottles. “I have met only two oracles before, but both had gifts so weak, they could hardly be called gifts at all. A few correct predictions, a hazy vision, all garbled with doublespeak.” She chews on her cheek. “If only there were a poison to sharpen one’s gift.”
Katharine laughs, her head so far into a particularly deep shelf that the sound echoes. “If there had been such a poison, I would have nowhere near as many scars.”
“Kat,” Pietyr whispers, so suddenly close that she startles and hits her head. He is always so silent. She should make him start wearing more of that cologne she likes, so she can tell when he is coming.
“I am starting to find passages on the queens. So many different texts, it is difficult to keep track of them all, and I am only taking the volumes I most need to avoid suspicion.”
Katharine carefully extricates herself from the cabinet and looks into his excited eyes. Over his shoulder, Genevieve is not listening, occupied with an open book of poison notes in one hand and a bottle of yellow powder in another.
“There are passages about the dead sisters?”
“Not many. I did not really start to gain ground until I looked past them, into cases of spiritual possession.”
“Spiritual possession!” she hisses, and pulls him down low.
“That is, in essence, what they are.”
“They are more than that, Pietyr. They are queens.”
“Yes, but separating them from you may work in much the same way—”
She squares her shoulders and returns to her cabinet.
“I cannot entertain this right now.”
“But I thought we agreed—”
“Yes, but . . . not now, Pietyr! With a rebellion rising under Jules Milone? I cannot let them go right when I might need them.” When he starts to argue further, she reaches up and takes his face in her hands. “Not now. Not yet.” Then she looks away before he can begin to doubt.
“Very well, my love.” He steps away, voice terse. “Another day. Today, however, you should be wearing an apron. And better gloves than these. Borrowed gifts or no, some of the poisons in this room could still mean your death.”
“This reminds me,” Genevieve calls from across the study. “We should have the poison room at the Volroy restocked. Even some of these here in Natalia’s private collection are better than what the castle has on hand.”
“Not a terrible idea.” Pietyr pulls one of Natalia’s journals from her desk. “Though there are more pressing things to deal with just now.”
“Yes, yes, nephew. Like raising more soldiers for the royal army. But Rho Murtra is seeing to that. And a poisoner should never settle for substandard poisons. Most of the restocking we could pull from the inventory here at Greavesdrake. Our poison room has always been better anyway.”
Katharine touches the bottles affectionately. Most of the labels were written in Natalia’s own hand. Some contain Natalia’s own special concoctions.
“I should have a cabinet made specifically for Natalia’s creations. With silver fastenings and a glass door. The last poisons of a great poisoner.”
She and Genevieve smile at each other. Pietyr turns and taps a page from the notebook.
“It says here that Natalia once crafted a poison that induced an agreeable delirium.”
“That might work.” Katharine turns to the shelves as Pietyr comes to scan them. He plucks it from near the top: a tall purple bottle. “Is it preserved?”
“If it was not, she would not have kept it.”
“Does the delirium outpace the agreeable portion?” Genevieve asks. “What do the notes say?”
“She designed it specifically for interrogation.” He gives the murky liquid a gentle shake and removes the stopper to sniff. “Sharply herbal and very alcoholic. With a fungal note, right at the end.”
“There is so little of it left,” says Katharine.
“But I think she would want you to use it. She would want them used for you and for some important purpose.” He looks back down at Natalia’s notes. “I would say we could try to duplicate the recipe, but that is risky. We have only one chance to administer it.”
“Why? It does not result in immunity?”
“No,” he says. “It results in death.”
The next morning, Katharine, Pietyr, and Genevieve ride back to the Volroy together after a night spent at Greavesdrake. It was refreshing, to have a whole evening in quiet, with familiar, discreet servants and warm cups of Edmund’s mangrove tea. A whole night with Pietyr in her old bedroom.
The carriage crests the hill, and Katharine looks upon the massive twin spires. Once, it was a true fortress, the capital not much more than the palace and what could fit inside the border wall. Now Indrid Down stretches far inland, north, west, and east to the harbor. What remains of the wall is barely visible at this distance, so low and worn down and overgrown with moss. Its stone torn out long ago and used to build up other things.
When they arrive through the large open gates, Katharine knows that the oracle has arrived. It is the only reason she can think of for Rho to meet the carriage.
“They have brought the oracle,” Katharine says as she steps out.
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“Two hours, perhaps,” Rho answers. “Her journey was long, so Luca ordered her housed in the East Tower with a hot meal and a bath.”
Genevieve snorts. “Not to the cells, then?”
“It is Theodora Lermont,” Rho says by way of explanation. “An elder. Respected by all in Sunpool. They say that visions bubble forth from her like water in a brook.”
“Like water in a brook.” Genevieve frowns. “This will all turn out to be a very great waste of time.”
“It will be all right, Genevieve,” says Katharine, and takes Pietyr’s arm. “I would not have her put in the cells anyway. Give her a chance to be loyal. Summon her to the throne room.”
She walks with Pietyr through the castle, the weight of the poison a comfort in her pocket.
“Let them doubt,” Pietyr says softly. “The oracles know things about the island that even the temple does not. Bringing her here was a wise decision.”
Katharine nods. “I hope so, Pietyr.”
When they enter the throne room, they are alone except for the servants who tend and clean. But it does not take long for the Black Council to relocate from the chamber, and soon all are seated at their long table to her right. Bree catches her eye, pleased she has decided to question the oracle before them all. Cousin Lucian, on the other hand, clears his throat.
“Has the oracle been sent for? Should we not meet first? To discuss what to ask?”
“We will meet after. To discuss what is said.” Katharine motions with her chin. It is perhaps a less respectful gesture than he is accustomed to, for his eyes narrow. But Katharine does not care. Her mind is on the oracle, and besides, he is not her cousin.
Theodora Lermont, of the famed Lermont family of oracles, enters the throne room in a gown of pale yellows and grays. She is older, not as old as the High Priestess, but still older than Natalia. She is very spry, and the bath and meal have served her well. One would never guess she had just been dragged all the way across the island at a fevered pace.
“Theodora Lermont,” Katharine says after the seer has bowed
deeply. “You are most welcome at the Volroy. I hope that your journey was not arduous?”
“It was long, Queen Katharine. But not arduous.” She turns to face the Black Council and nods a greeting to the High Priestess. “Luca. I am glad to see you are well. It’s been many years.”
“It has.” Luca chuckles. “And not all of those years have been kind.”
Katharine smiles passively at their exchange. She does not like the seer’s eyes. There is an emptiness there, or perhaps a resolve.
“Do you know why I asked you here?”
The seer smiles. “I am afraid, my queen, that that is not how the sight gift works.”
Katharine laughs politely, along with most of her council. Theodora Lermont has no tell, but Katharine knows she is lying.
“Then tell me, seer, how does it work? What use can you be to your queen?”
“I can cast the bones.” Theodora reaches into the folds of her gray skirt and produces a small leather pouch affixed to her belt. Inside will be knuckle bones, and the bones of a bird, feathers, and stones carved with runes. “See your fortune. Tell your future.”
“It is hard to be respectful of the sight gift when it comes dressed as a charlatan and with a bag of child’s toys,” says Genevieve, and Theodora’s eyes glitter with outrage.
“But respect it we will.” Katharine shushes Genevieve with a finger. “Respect it, we do. I would be honored if you would cast the bones for me. But later. Knowing my future is useful, but it is not why you are here. What do you know of the naturalist girl called Juillenne Milone?”
The oracle lowers her eyes, and Katharine glances at Pietyr, who nods subtly.
“Everyone has heard of the legion-cursed naturalist,” replies Theodora. “After she attacked you in the Wolf Spring forest, word spread quickly. And after she appeared in the midst of the duel, her fame continued to grow.”
“And now?”
“Now she gathers people to her cause.”
“So it is truly Jules Milone?”
Theodora shakes her head.
“That, my queen, I have not seen.”
“But you have seen that her cause is my crown.” The seer looks up at her gravely, and Katharine leans forward, that the woman may have a better view of the black band tattooed into her forehead. “How can that be? How can she seek to replace me with herself, when she is not a queen? Not of the bloodline of the Goddess?”
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