One Dark Throne (Three Dark Crowns #2)(39)

She has to concentrate. More than half of a curse is about intent.

“Does Juillenne know you asked me to help you?” Madrigal asks.

“Yes.”

“And she didn’t try to stop you?”

“For someone who wants me to focus, you sure seem distracted. What will this curse do, anyway?” Arsinoe asks.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is not the same as a rune or a charm,” Madrigal replies. “A curse is a force sent out into the world. And once you set it loose, you can’t call it back. Whatever passes through this smoke today will bear your will, and the Goddess’s will. But it will also wield its own.”

Low magic always wields its own will. Is that why it went out that day into the storm, to cast a net around Joseph and Mirabella? The cuts on her arm throb, and she feels the weight of some price she cannot yet dream of.

Madrigal pours Arsinoe’s blood into the fire. The flames seem to jump at it, lapping it up, eating it without sound or sizzle. She pours it all and feeds it higher with cords soaked from past bloodlettings. Her murmurs are the same as murmurs to her unborn child.

Behind her, the bent-over tree creaks, and Arsinoe stiffens, but that is foolish. It cannot move. It will not wake and pull itself free of its roots.

“Think of them,” Madrigal says.

Arsinoe does. She thinks of a little girl laughing and splashing in the stream. She remembers Mirabella, stern and ready to wade in if she fell.

I love them, she realizes. I love them both.

“Madrigal, stop.”

“Stop?” Madrigal asks, and breaks eye contact with the flames.

The fire rises in a wave and reaches for Madrigal. Arsinoe shouts and leaps to press her to the ground, smothering the flames with the sleeves of her shirt. In an instant, it is out, down to only smoke, but the stench of burned hair and skin is thick.

“Madrigal? Madrigal, can you hear me?”

Arsinoe takes Madrigal’s shaken face between her hands. Her shoulder was burned down deep, blackened, the red of flesh exposed. But Madrigal does not seem to notice.

“My baby,” she murmurs. “My baby . . .”

“What?” Madrigal’s stomach is unharmed, and she did not fall hard. The baby is fine. “Madrigal?” She brushes tears away from Madrigal’s cheeks.

“My baby . . . my baby . . .” Her cries grow and the corners of her mouth twist down. “My baby!”

“Madrigal!” Arsinoe slaps her. Just a little bit, nowhere near as hard as Cait even when Cait is playing, and Madrigal’s eyes jerk left and fix upon her face.

The empty jar of Arsinoe’s blood, coated red, falls from Madrigal’s hand and rolls across the ground. Arsinoe dares a look back at the bent-over tree. It stands in its place, trying to seem innocent.

“What happened?” Arsinoe asks.

“Nothing,” Madrigal says.

“Madrigal, what did you see?”

“I saw nothing!” Madrigal snaps, wiping quickly at her face. “It was not about you! And it wasn’t real.” She stands up, her arms protectively across her belly. It was about the child, Arsinoe knows that much. And whatever it was, it was awful.

Arsinoe looks again at the tree, at the sacred space. Low magic does not do only what one intends, but nor does it speak in falsehoods. The bent-over tree does not lie, and a spike of fear hits Arsinoe in the gut, for Madrigal and her baby, for Jules and the little sister or brother she will love so well.

“You’re right,” Arsinoe soothes her. “It was my fault. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept seeing images of my sisters . . . memories. We can try again—”

“We can’t try again!” Madrigal shakes loose and runs from the clearing. She does not stop when Arsinoe calls after her.

Arsinoe looks down at the ashes of the fire, already cold. She could try again by herself. But somehow she knows that it would do no good. Midsummer is here, and she will have no more advantages than the secrets she has already been given.

“The other queens are coming,” Arsinoe says to the tree. “And it seems that you want them here.”





MIDSUMMER





THE VALLEYWOOD ROAD





Riding near the head of the Indrid Down caravan, Katharine lifts her nose to the breeze and inhales deeply. It is not far to Wolf Spring. She can almost smell the fish market. Theirs is said to be the finest catch on the entire island, and she hopes so, for Natalia has been craving a poison reef fish.

“Will you tell me more about the Midsummer Festival?” Nicolas asks. He and Pietyr ride up on either side of her, so close that Half Moon snorts at the lack of space. “I understand there are to be feasting and lights.”

“Lanterns burned into the harbor,” Pietyr interjects. “And ample opportunity for poisoning. Wolf Spring is notorious for drunkards; there will be confusion and movement. And Arsinoe will not dare use the bear in the midst of so many of her people.” He glares across the saddle at Nicolas, and Katharine has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

“The bear does not frighten me,” she says. “I have brought something special for him.”

At that, Nicolas smiles. Katharine has brought long, sharp pikes, perfect for skewering through the hide of a bear. He looked over them with great approval before they departed from Greavesdrake.