Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(52)

“They are unused to the steep roads,” says Pietyr.

“It is the winds. Every elemental gift is running high today, and the winds will be wild until dark, when the fires begin.” Sara taps Elizabeth on the shoulder. “Elizabeth, will you trade places with Master Arron, to be nearer to the horses?”

“Of course.” They trade seats, and the pace of the carriage eases.

“Elizabeth still has some of the naturalist gift about her,” Sara explains.

“That is why I so often see you feeding the birds,” says Katharine, and the priestess smiles.

Outside, Rolanth passes by, decorated with dyed flags hung for the Reaping Moon. Throughout the marketplace, Katharine has seen the flags and banners being sold, dyed in shades of blue and yellow, silver and gold. The more skilled artisans have woven great cloth fish with shining scales in myriad colors, which puff up with the wind when they swallow it. All across the island, folk celebrate the Reaping Moon for the coming harvest, but in Rolanth, it marks the last of the fish runs and the arrival of winter’s bluster.

“You must be happy to have your daughter home, Sara.”

“The capital is Bree’s home now,” Sara replies, as expected. But Katharine sees through her. She is happy. More than happy—she is relieved. To her, Indrid Down is dark and full of poisoners. Full of death.

The carriage stops, and Katharine’s queensguard assembles to escort her onto the festival grounds. Moorgate Park is hung with streamers and flags and many brightly colored sewn fish. Festival-goers laugh and dance throughout, feasting on smoked herring on skewers and drinking spiced wine.

“Queen Katharine.” Genevieve comes to her as soon as she sets foot on the white stone path. “There is a pleasant place prepared for you, beside the fountain and the canal, where you may observe the festival.”

With Pietyr by her side, Katharine takes her place next to Sara and High Priestess Luca. Servants bring her a cup of warmed wine and three fish on skewers, and the musicians move closer and resume their play. Soon enough, dancers flood the paved stones and even spill onto the grass.

“Pietyr Arron. Will you dance?”

Katharine’s mouth drops open at the sight of Bree. She has come from nowhere, slipping through the crowd, to stand before Pietyr and the queen with her hand outstretched. Her festival gown is midnight blue and thread of silver. It leaves her arms and shoulders bare, and hugs her breasts like the two have not seen each other in ages.

Pietyr frowns.

“The queen has only just arrived.”

“Go, Pietyr.” Katharine squeezes his hand. “You will truly be the envy of every person in attendance.”

“As you wish.” He stands and lets Bree lead him onto the floor. For a few steps, he tries to keep up, but though Pietyr is a wonderful dancer, it is clear he is no match for the limber legs looping between his own. Before long, the other dancers take notice, and whistle encouragement to spur Bree on.

Luca touches Katharine’s hand and speaks from the side of her mouth.

“She is only doing it to irritate you. It is her way.”

“I know that. Of course I know that.”

Bree presses against Pietyr’s chest and slings a thigh up to his hip. His frown begins to soften. He looks at Katharine desperately. Everyone is looking at her. Genevieve with curious intensity. Sara with nerves and a straight back. The people, ready to grin the moment Katharine starts to cry or shout.

But instead, Katharine laughs.

“Louder! Play louder! Play faster!” She whistles, and Bree stops in surprise. Then she smirks, bows, and begins again. Poor Pietyr breaks out in a sweat, and the crowd cheers. Poor, poor Pietyr. He has never looked so uncomfortable, stiffly resisting all of Bree’s advances. It seems an age before the song ends, and Bree bows to Katharine with her hands on her hips, admitting defeat.

Katharine rises and walks through the clapping dancers into Pietyr’s arms.

“How dare you do that to me.” He spins her around.

“Did you really not like it?” She twines her leg around his calf. “I was thinking of asking her to teach me.”

“Teach you . . .” His scowl fails, and he breaks into a smile. “Do you think she would?” They spin together, and he laughs. It is good to see him laugh.

“Even so close to you, I am cold,” he says as wind ruffles his collar. “Sometimes I envy these elementals, for their resistance to the weather.”

“Yes,” Katharine mutters. The cold does not bother her as much. Some of the dead queens carried the elemental gift, and what she borrows from them is enough to shield her from it. “The fires will begin soon, and then the winds will quiet, like Sara said—”

A scream cuts through the music.

“What is it?” asks Pietyr. He glances quizzically at Genevieve, who may have a better view from the queen’s table.

But Katharine knows. She and the dead sisters feel it, even before the panic breaks out beside the river. They feel it before the mist rises out of the water and stretches across the ground.

“Get the people out of here, Pietyr.”

“It is too late.”

The panic begins, and Pietyr throws himself across the queen as they are battered by fleeing bodies. High Priestess Luca is on her feet, trying to direct the crowds to the south and west. People fall and are trampled. They are swallowed up by the mist, come to the center of the city via the river. Katharine wonders where they will be found again. Or if they will be found at all.