Mirabella and Elizabeth suppress their smiles. But there is not much light; the moon is waning, and what slice is left is obscured by clouds. So perhaps the priestesses will not see how their sides shake.
“Ride fast,” says Rho. She has taken down her hood, and dark red hair spills over her shoulder. “And quietly. We have heard reports of another bear mauling near Wolf Spring. A man and his boy, disemboweled and necks broken. Your sister does not have control of her familiar. Or she does and is wicked. Either way there is no time to waste.”
Mirabella takes up her reins and whirls Crackle onto the road.
“For the first time, Rho, you and I are in agreement.”
INDRID DOWN
Katharine’s horse’s hooves slide on the cobblestones on the way toward Indrid Down Temple, and she pulls his head up sharply. She loves to ride fast through the capital, through the middle of the streets as people jump out of her way, her black hair and Half Moon’s tail streaming behind like flags. Half Moon is the gamest, most agile horse in Greavesdrake’s stables. Bertrand Roman, the boorish guard that Natalia appointed on Genevieve’s recommendation, cannot hope to keep up.
She reaches the temple and signals to an initiate priestess standing in the shadows, earning her black bracelets by serving at the temple door. The initiate comes forward immediately as Half Moon comes to a hopping stop and Katharine dismounts.
“Shall I take him to the stable, Queen Katharine?”
“No thank you. I won’t be long. Just walk him, and he would not mind some sugar if you have some handy.” She turns away and smiles as she hears Bertrand Roman approaching, huffing and puffing on the back of his black mare.
Katharine does not wait. She walks through the doors, out of the bright heat of Indrid Down June and into the nave, which always smells of smoky incense and wood polish. The exterior of Indrid Down Temple may be as dramatic as the rest of the city, a facade of black marble and spitting gargoyles, but the interior is surprisingly austere: only a scant path of well-worn black mosaic on the floor, wooden benches for the devotees, and bright white light streaming from the upper-level windows.
Katharine waves to Cora, the head priestess, and loosens the collar of her black riding jacket.
“Some cool water for the queen,” Cora calls, and a novice scurries for a pitcher.
“You should not ride so far ahead of your guard,” Cora says, and bows.
“Do not worry about me, Priestess,” Katharine replies. “Natalia has eyes and ears in every corner of the island. If there had been any movement out of Wolf Spring or Rolanth, you can be sure I would be locked up tight.”
Cora smiles nervously. They are all so afraid. As if Mirabella will appear out of nowhere and shake the temple to the ground, or Arsinoe will storm the city astride her bear. As if they would dare.
Katharine walks between the aisles, squeezing the hands of temple visitors in her black-gloved fingers. The temple is nearly full, even at this odd hour. Perhaps it is as Natalia says and the Ascension brings people back to the Goddess. Or perhaps they are there for a glimpse of their Undead Queen.
“We will have a suitor here in the capital soon, is that not so?” Cora asks.
“Yes,” Katharine replies. “Nicolas Martel. Natalia is preparing the banquet to welcome him, to be held at the Highbern Hotel.”
“We will be honored to receive him at the temple. Can you recommend any decoration?”
“Indrid Down Temple is elegant enough as it is,” Katharine says distractedly. “Though Natalia likes poison flowers. Something pretty, but nothing that can be absorbed through the skin.”
Cora nods, and walks with Katharine as they approach the apse and the altar. There, behind a silver chain, lies the Goddess Stone, a great, curved circle of obsidian set into the floor. It shines brightly even in the low light. Looking into its depths feels to Katharine like looking into the blackness of the Breccia Domain.
“It is very beautiful,” Katharine whispers.
“Yes. It is. Very beautiful, and very sacred.”
They say it was taken from the eastern side of Mount Horn. That the mountain opened up one day, like an eye, for them to claim it. Katharine does not know if that is true. But it is a good story.
She reaches down and takes Cora by the wrist. The head priestess’s tattooed black bracelets are old and faded, though Cora cannot be more than forty. She must have come to the temple so young.
“Such devotion,” Katharine says, and rubs the tattoo with her leather-clad thumb.
In the back of the temple, the doors open and close around Bertrand Roman’s clomping boots. Katharine purses her lips.
“A moment alone with her, perhaps,” she says.
“Of course.” The head priestess bows and turns to clear the room. “Everyone, please, quickly,” she says. Clothes rustle and footsteps hurry along the aisles. Katharine is still until the door thuds closed and all is silent.
“You too, Bertrand,” she says, irritated. “Wait for me outside.”
The door opens and closes again.
Katharine smiles and slips quietly beneath the silver chain. She can feel the Goddess Stone watching as she approaches.
“Do you know us?” Katharine whispers to it. “Do we still smell of the rock and the deep, damp earth that you threw us down into?”
She kneels and places her hands on the marble floor. She leans across. The Goddess Stone lays before her curved and black, showing her pale reflection.
“You will not have your way this time,” Katharine says, her lips close enough to the obsidian to kiss it. “We are coming for you.”
Katharine strips off her glove and places her hand against the cold, hard surface. Perhaps it is only her imagination, but she could swear that she feels the Goddess Stone shudder.
WOLF SPRING
Arsinoe, Jules, and Joseph arrive at Luke’s bookshop to find a service of tea and fried fish sandwiches already set out on his oval table on the landing overlooking the main floor. Luke sent his black-and-green rooster, Hank, up the twisting hill road to the Milone house to collect them early that afternoon. Jules still has the bird tucked under her arm (he demanded to be carried back), and drops him to the floor in a puff of feathers.
“What’s all this?” Arsinoe asks. “Why the official rooster summons?”
Before Luke can answer, Joseph nudges her in the ribs and nods toward the dress hanging in the shop window: the gown that Luke is making for Arsinoe to wear at her crowning. A bit of lace has been added to the bodice, and Arsinoe winces. Luke will have to take it off again if he ever wants to see her in it.
“Come,” Luke says. “Sit. Eat.”
The three share a heavy look. Even Camden seems suspicious, her tail swishing nervously against the rug. But they climb the stairs and take their seats, and stuff fish sandwiches into their mouths.
“Mirabella is planning a strike,” Luke says.
Arsinoe feels their eyes upon her and is glad the black mask hides so much of her expression.
“How do you know?” Joseph asks.