Two Dark Reigns (Three Dark Crowns #3)(93)

“What are you going to do?” he asks. “Gut me?”

“Of course not. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what lies at the top of that mountain. But I do know that it’s all for the hope of something else. A future somewhere, with you. And I’m sorry I can’t say that when I’m not holding you at knifepoint. All right?”

“All right,” he says, and grins. His grin changes to a grimace as she uses the knife to cut into her palm. “And now you’re slicing your hand open.”

“I’m calling Braddock, like Jules suggested.” She walks to the nearest tree and smears her blood against the bark.

“Will that even work, after all this time?”

Arsinoe smiles. She was not sure whether it would either. But the moment her blood touches the tree she feels him. Somewhere not too far away, she feels him lift his big brown head and sniff the air.





INNISFUIL VALLEY




Pietyr creeps away to the Breccia Domain toward evening, when the sun is fading to a winter orange but while there is still plenty of light to see by. And even then, he steps carefully, wary of the treacherous pit. The heart of the island, it is called, but it truly is more like a mouth. A fissure in the earth made of mouths and eyes and ears to hear him coming.

The Breccia Domain lies before him in the clearing, looking innocent, but he is not fooled.

“You had your chance to eat me the last time we met,” he says, tying a rope around his waist. “This time, I will eat my fill of you instead.” He winds the rope around the sturdiest tree he can find and then around another for good measure.

The tools tucked into his belt should serve him well enough: a trowel and hammer, a handheld pick, and a sack to carry the rocks. Madrigal did not say how large the stones should be nor how large a circle he would require. She was not much of a low magic teacher.

He braces his feet against the edge and takes a deep breath. With his head above ground, he still smells clean air and fresh snow. As usual, there is no birdsong. No sound of any kind except his nervous breathing and thumping heartbeat. He wraps his anchor rope around his arm three times, and the Breccia seems to yawn open to receive him.

“Not this time, you wicked pit.”

Pietyr stands over the edge, secured to the trees, and swings his hammer against the stones.

It takes longer than he hoped. So long that he loses the sun and must labor in the dark. His shoulders shaking, he finally dislodges a final piece of rock and drops it into his sack. He does not have enough. But it is all he is capable of.

After securing the stones in his tent, he slips through the camp, past soldiers’ cookfires, to find the tent where Madrigal is kept.

“I need to speak to the prisoner,” he says. The guard nods and steps just outside. “Give us some space.”

“Yes, Master Arron.”

“His name isn’t Arron, though, is it?” Madrigal sings from inside. “It’s Renard.”

Pietyr ducks into the tent and scowls at her in the lamplight. “The Arron in me is what counts. I need you to tell me the rest of the spell.”

She holds up her hands, still bound.

“I do not care,” he snaps. “You have my word; I will try when the time comes. But in case something goes wrong, I need to know the rest. I could get only a few stones. Not enough for a full circle. Not one touching end to end. So what do I do?”

“Get more?” Madrigal raises her eyebrows, then sighs. “Very well. Close the circle with something else. Start staining rope with your blood. Set the stones inside the rope and it should do.”

“Then what?”

“Get the queen inside the circle. Carve this rune”—she traces it lightly in the earth—“into your hand—”

“I will never remember that.”

“Fine. Give me a knife.” She cocks her head, exasperated, when he hesitates. “Just a small one.”

He hands one to her.

“Now give me your palm.”

He gasps as she slices into it, making curving cuts that fill with red.

“There. Just reopen those scabs when the time is right. Press the blood to her skin. Carve the same mark into her. And return every last ghost into the stones.”

“I do not want to cut her.”

“You don’t have a choice. Queensblood is the key. It makes all the difference. Believe me.”





THE WESTERN WOODS




Mirabella and Jules wait together deep in the woods that border Innisfuil Valley to the west. The warriors, and even Mathilde, have gone ahead, disappearing into the bare winter trees on foot to scout and spy on Katharine’s army. Leaving them to do nothing but wait and listen to the horses munch grain in their feed bags.

“They should be back by now,” Jules says from atop Katharine’s black gelding.

“There is a lot of ground between here and the valley. It takes time to cover on foot. Even more when one is trying to tread quietly.”

“How would you know?” Jules asks.

“I would not.” Mirabella shrugs. “I was only trying to make you feel better.”

“No doubt you think them all fools, following me here. Calling me a queen on the basis of faith and a prophecy murky as a mud puddle.”