Three Dark Crowns (Three Dark Crowns #1) - Kendare Blake Page 0,50
dawn has started to pink in the east. It must have been later than she thought, when the dream woke her. Already, fires and lamps burn in the city as early tradespeople and smiths prepare for the day. She tugs the white cloak down to conceal her face.
She takes the main road into Rolanth. It might be wiser to keep to the secondary passages, but that is the way she knows by coach, and a slightly greater risk of being seen is better than becoming lost.
When the road turns toward the locks and the city center, Mirabella holds her breath at the sound of people. Ahead on the sidewalk, a woman beats dust from a rug and calls a morning greeting to a neighbor emptying a bucket into the gutter. Mirabella keeps her head low, but Elizabeth was right. The woman does no more than nod before stepping out of her way. If anyone wonders what a priestess is doing in the city at such an hour, none of them stop her to ask.
As she leaves Rolanth, she looks back once, across the rooftops and the softly smoking chimneys, her city in the growing light. Beyond that, settled back in the tall evergreens, Sara and the rest of Westwood House will be waking. In the temple, Luca is probably already having tea.
It is difficult to leave them, but getting out was easier than she thought it would be, all things considered.
WOLF SPRING
Beside the fire, beneath the bent-over tree, Arsinoe’s head spins. Madrigal has cut deep into her arm this time, to let enough blood to soak three lengths of cord. The cord will keep the blood until they have need of it. And for low magic strong enough to kill another queen, they will need all that Arsinoe can spare.
They have not discussed yet what that magic will be. A curse, perhaps. Or an unlucky charm. It does not matter. All Arsinoe knows is that she grows stronger every day.
“That’s enough,” Madrigal says. She lowers the cords carefully into a glass jar. “These will not keep forever. We should put them to use right after Beltane.”
Madrigal slides the jar into a sack of black cloth and slings the strap across her body. “Here,” she says, and presses a cup of something to Arsinoe’s lips. “Cider. Take some.”
“Did you bring any nuts?” Arsinoe asks. “Bread? Anything to eat?”
She holds the cup shakily and sips. The sides of the cup are sticky and smeared with Madrigal’s fingerprints in Arsinoe’s blood.
“Jules is right,” Madrigal mutters. “You are mostly stomach.”
She hands the queen a small packet: cheese and a dozen naturalist-ripened blackberries.
“Thank you,” says Arsinoe. Her arm throbs and stings as Madrigal cleans and binds it, but it is a good sting. In fact, Arsinoe has not felt this hopeful in her entire life.
“I never would have guessed,” Arsinoe says, “that you would be the one to help me. With anything.”
Madrigal scrunches up her nose. On her, even that is pretty.
“Yes,” Madrigal says. “I know.”
She sits back, and wraps herself in a warm fur, sulking for never being appreciated. But no one can blame Cait and Ellis. Since she was a girl, Madrigal has preferred comfort to work. Caragh used to tell of a time when Madrigal made flowers grow in a swirling pattern, only to pluck them to put in her hair. And this all while cucumbers were dying in the garden.
“Where is my Juillenne today?” Madrigal asks.
“Saying farewell to Joseph. He sails northwest up the coast for Trignor.”
Madrigal stares into the fire. “Lucky Jules,” she says, “to have a boy like that. I didn’t think she had it in her, what with those funny eyes of hers. And looking like her father the way she does.”
“I don’t. Not really. I remember the fires of Beltane. And thinking how wonderful it would be if I conceived a baby on that sacred night. How strong she would be. How much she would love me.” She snorts. “I don’t remember who her father was. But she does not look a thing like me, so she must look like him.”
“Do you think he knows?” Arsinoe asks.
“Knows what?”
“That he has a daughter and that she is the strongest naturalist on the island.”
Madrigal shrugs. It is not likely. And if he did, it would not matter. Beltane Begots are sacred in the eyes of the temple. And much like the queens, in the eyes of the temple, they