“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.”
Mirabella chooses her words with care. Jules Milone is as feisty as Arsinoe, only feisty of a different sort. Less impulsive but more easily offended.
“All prophecy is . . . ambiguous.”
“Ambiguous. Murky. ‘May be a queen again.’” She snorts. “‘May be.’ Can’t they ever say anything for certain?” She pauses to listen for the sound of anyone returning. “It must really stick in your craw. Them referring to me as a queen. Even a queen in title only.”
Mirabella swallows. To be a Fennbirn queen was to be of the line. A queen in the blood. That was what she had always been told, and taught by the temple.
“It bothers me, too, to be honest,” says Jules, reading her silence. “Feels like the High Priestess is going to come and knock me on the back of the head.”
She turns toward some unheard sound, unheard to Mirabella at least, as the mountain cat’s ears perk up as well. Soon enough, though, the footsteps are plain. Six of their party, returning through the trees with Emilia and Mathilde in the lead.
“Well?” Jules asks.
“She has made camp on the eastern edge of the valley, butted up to the cliffs and spilled out onto the beach,” Emilia says. “Scouts are positioned up high, to the north and south as far as the cliffs allow. But we saw no sign of anyone in the western woods. Nor past the west edge of the valley. It is almost like she truly intends to trade. Pity for her.”
The warriors behind Emilia smile. They are armed with swords, throwing knives, and crossbows. Three carry longbows larger than any Mirabella has ever seen. She does not need to ask to know that the others have remained in the woods, ready and waiting to strike.
“There is no perfect place to ambush,” Emilia goes on. “We will have to draw her out of the clearing somehow and into the trees. You will have to play the bait, Jules.”
“I can do that.”
“I know. And I will do it with you.”
“Did you see my mother in the camp?”
“Only the tent where she’s being kept,” Emilia replies. “And Mathilde thought she heard the croaking of a crow.”
“Aria.” Jules glances at Mirabella and explains. “Her familiar.”
“What about me?” Mirabella asks.
“We have found a place for you to the south. Up a tree, if you can manage.”
“I have been up trees before.”
Emilia cocks her eyebrow. “There will be no quick escape from there if something goes wrong.”
“I will not need one.”
“Then go. One hour to take positions before we send a bird to the poisoner to let her know we are here.”
Mirabella looks at Jules. Despite the band of warriors and the strong mountain cat by her side, Jules is afraid. Legion cursed or not, she is outnumbered, and Katharine is a true queen. A fierce queen, to hear the tales told now, who might no longer freeze at the sight of Jules like she did in the arena the day of the duel.
Seeing Mirabella’s look, Jules puts on a brave smile. “It’ll be all right. Go with Mathilde.”
“Take care, Jules. Arsinoe will have my head if I let any harm befall you or Camden.”
“It won’t come to that. We ambush the trade and run, like we planned. You be careful yourself. Arsinoe’ll have my head, too, if you don’t return with us.”
Mirabella nods and goes with Mathilde into the trees. The seer is fast of foot and so silent that she makes Mirabella feel like a herd of goats, snapping twigs and crunching leaves as she moves. Finally, they reach the tree. It is a good tree for climbing, with broad, well-spaced branches.