Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(55)

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 their 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.