Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(82)

“And about Katharine,” Mirabella says.

“And about the mist,” says Arsinoe. “No doubt you heard that in the marketplaces, too. The mist, rising and swallowing people whole. Spitting them back out in the sea to wash up later on.”

Mirabella and Billy trade a glance. They had heard that. Mirabella had hoped it was not true.

“It’s all starting to make sense now, isn’t it?” Arsinoe says, pacing slowly across the small space.

“It is?” Billy asks.

“The mist rises, and we see the shadow of the queen who created it,” Mirabella whispers. “But why is it rising? It is our guardian. Our shield.”

“Maybe it’s failing,” says Arsinoe. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been dreaming in her time. Daphne’s time and the Blue Queen’s.”

“To find out how it was made,” Mirabella says.

“Or how it could be unmade.” Arsinoe turns to them. “I knew we weren’t coming home to rule. Though if I’m being honest, I wasn’t certain. But now I know.”

“Know what?” Billy asks.

“I think I’m here to stop the mist.”





THE VOLROY





High in her rooms in the West Tower, Katharine locks herself away with a glass of wine full of floating poison berries. It has been days since she dispatched a messenger to seek out the rebels and convey her message, and that morning, the mist rose again. The infernal mist, bobbing on the water just past the northern outcropping of rocks of Bardon Harbor. She takes a large swallow of wine and curls her lip. She can go only so fast. The mist must be patient, and neither she nor the dead sisters appreciate having it loom over her shoulder. Since it appeared again, she has not looked outside nor taken any visitors. Her mood has turned from gray to black, and the change is not caused only by the mist.

The idea of sparing Jules Milone—of granting her mercy or even making peace—sticks inside Katharine’s throat. To rise against the line of queens should not be tolerated.

The leaders of the rebellion should be flayed in the square. We should take their skin in slow strips.

Katharine puts down the poisoned wine. Flaying is not the work of a poisoner. Flaying is the work of a war queen. Or queens who have been dead too long to know better.

Her door opens, and her maid announces Pietyr and the priestess of the council, Rho Murtra.

“Rho.” Katharine nods a greeting as the taller woman bows. “How strange to see you here.”

“When you did not come to the council chamber, I tired of waiting.”

Ignoring her, she holds her hand out to Pietyr, who comes and kisses her on the mouth.

“Pietyr. Have you found me a low magic practitioner to unravel the Milone woman’s blood-binding?”

“Not yet, Kat. None will come forward.”

She knew that none would. She knew that, as usual, none would volunteer to help her.

“Queen Katharine,” says Rho. “I have a report on the naturalist’s rebellion, if that interests you.”

“Of course.”

“They are falling back through the mountains.”

“How many?”

“Impossible to get an accurate count. They are coming from everywhere: ten from one village, a dozen from another. Streaming across the north country like ants. Unfortunately, none seems to have a direct line to Jules Milone.”

Katharine folds her arms.

“I would settle this uprising as quickly as possible. How long before she receives my message? How long before I can expect a response?”

“Any messenger she sends back will have to go through mountainous country, in winter weather.” Rho sucks her cheek. “A response rider will take more than a week, even if she changes horses.”

“How then is she able to communicate so well to so many small bands of rebels?” Pietyr asks as his hand slips around Katharine’s waist.

“We think they have naturalists in their ranks,” Rho replies, eyeing his arm about the queen. “They send birds and all manner of beasts with their orders. And with the naturalist gift, birds fly swift and direct.”

“If only we had one who could be relied upon,” Pietyr whispers, his lips brushing against the queen’s ear.

“Stop trying to irritate my war adviser.” Katharine turns and bites him, and he chuckles and moves away.

“My queen, perhaps we do have a naturalist who could be relied upon.” Rho calls to the maid. “Send for Bree Westwood.”

It does not take long for Bree to arrive, and when she does, her eyes dart between Rho and the queen.

“What is going on?”

“The queen requires a naturalist to ferry messages between her and the rebel uprising. Can you think of anyone?”

“A naturalist?”

“Someone who can use a bird. And be discreet.”

“Would she do it?” Katharine asks, realizing who they mean.

Bree presses her lips together.

“If it is not dangerous for the bird, then I am sure Elizabeth would gladly be of service to the crown.”

“It should not be dangerous at all!” says Katharine. “Only a summons to a meeting, on neutral ground, for a prisoner exchange. We are trying to avoid a war, not start one.”