Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(75)

Pietyr sighs and gathers up his paper and fading lamp. Perhaps there is no way.

“They said you have been here a long time.”

He turns.

“High Priestess. How do you manage to be so quiet with all those rustling robes?”

“Years of practice. What brings you to our library, Pietyr?”

“I did not know anyone saw me come in. What are you doing here?”

“The temple has been tasked with uncovering the truth of the mist.” She opens her hands and looks around at the shelves. “I came to learn of the progress.”

Pietyr cocks an eyebrow. If there was progress made, there was none to be told of that morning. He had been the only person in the library since he arrived.

“Are you also here on an errand for the queen?” Luca asks.

“No. I am here on behalf of myself.”

“You know you can confide in me, Pietyr. She is as much my queen now as she is yours.”

“That is not true,” he says, and straightens. “That will never be true.”

“All of our fates are tied to hers. You cannot keep her all to yourself. Not anymore.” She raises her arm and folds one side of him in soft, white robes; squeezes his shoulder; and guides him back to the table, where they sit.

Perhaps it is because he is in need of sleep or perhaps it is due to simple frustration, but after a moment, he says, “I am not here on behalf of Katharine. I have been looking into another solution to the mist.” He rubs his throbbing temples. “Examining any possibility. Sometimes I think I have found something useful, and then it falls apart.”

“It has been a long time since I took a deep dive into these old shelves.” Luca nods. “But I well remember how it felt: an aching back, dry eyes. So many words turning circles in my head.”

“Have you ever—” he starts, and hesitates. Old Luca is shrewd. If he tells her what he seeks, all of Katharine’s secrets about the dead queens may be laid bare. But it is true what she said. Her fate, the fate of the Black Council, the very tradition of the island, and their way of life are all tied to Katharine. So let Luca figure it out. Even if she were to know, she could do nothing.

“In all your years in service to the temple,” he says, “have you ever come across an instance of spiritual possession?”

“Spiritual possession? What an odd question.”

“Forgive me.” He waves his hand, casually. “I am exhausted. It was just something I happened upon this morning, and there was so little written about it . . . the entry was so vague. I suppose it piqued my curiosity.”

Luca drums her fingers on the table.

“I have never seen a case of it, only heard reports. None could ever be confirmed, which would explain the incomplete writings. The temple does not generally interfere in such things. The only thing for it is prayer, and usually a merciful execution.”

Pietyr exhales. Merciful execution. That is a dead end, and a bleak one.

“Of course,” the High Priestess goes on, “knowing that, many sufferers do not seek the aid of the temple. They go elsewhere. To those who practice low magic.”

“Low magic is a desecration of the Goddess’s gifts.”

“They are desperate. Who knows? Sometimes it may work. Though the temple could never condone its use.”

Low magic. It is not the answer he hoped for. To practice low magic is a danger even to those who are well versed in it. He knows nearly nothing of what it entails.

“Blast,” he says, looking at his hand and seeing a smear of ink. “Is it everywhere?”

“Just a bit on the cheek and the bridge of your nose.” Luca points and helps him to rub it off.

“What time is it?”

“Not yet midday.”

“Is the queen awake?”

“She was not when I left. Up too late celebrating. She is overjoyed to have the mother of Juillenne Milone locked up in the Volroy cells.” She pats him on the knee and stands. “You had best find someplace to get some sleep. As soon as she rises, she will want to question the prisoner. And then there will be decisions to make.”





THE VOLROY




Katharine sits before her dressing table and rubs soothing oil into her temples and hands. For once, everything is proceeding as she hoped. The visions of the dead oracle Theodora Lermont proved true, and Katharine’s soldiers found Jules’s mother as she rode south through the mountains. She arrived the night before, arms tied behind her back and a sack over her head. Now she sits cozily in the cells below the castle.

“A lovely morning,” Katharine says to her maid Giselle.

“It is, my queen.”

“Only the dark, blue expanse of the sea. No mist, no screams . . . no one running into the Volroy to tell me that more bodies have washed ashore.” She takes a deep breath as Giselle gently brushes her hair. “How long has it been since we had any ill news?”

“Since before the oracle was brought.”

“Yes. Since before the oracle was brought.” Since she has begun to pursue the legion-cursed pretender. The quiet mist must be a sign. She must be doing the right thing.

Katharine reaches for a bottle of perfume and shoves away from the table so quickly that she knocks Giselle down onto the carpet.