One Dark Throne

by Kendare Blake

  The gathered people barely react. No raucous celebration by the poisoners. No relief from the elementals. They will save their prayers and toasts for later when they are alone. As for the naturalists, they are an iron lot to begin with and have braced themselves for this news since Arsinoe was born.

  “No. No!” Billy elbows his way toward Mirabella, who is being held up by Bree Westwood and one of the priestesses. She looks at Billy regretfully. She cannot even meet Joseph’s eyes.

  “Mira, you’re lying!” Billy shouts. “I don’t believe it. I won’t believe it until I see her!”

  Matthew reaches for Billy’s arm, but he twists loose. Joseph takes him by the shoulders, and Billy grabs him back, shaking so hard that they almost fall.

  “What’s the matter with them? Why aren’t they doing anything?” He turns to the Milones and screams into their grim, silent faces. “What’s wrong with you? Go in there and find her!”

  “Easy, Billy,” Joseph says into his ear. “It might not be true. It can’t be. Jules and Camden had her scent.”

  Joseph’s heart thuds at his own words. If Jules and Camden were killed, he will lose his mind.

  “I’m going in there,” Billy says, and pulls free.

  “Billy.” Mirabella holds up her hands. “You will not find her. She is gone.”

  “She’s not gone!”

  “No. I mean that her . . .” Her eyes shift to Joseph. “Jules tried to save her. And afterward . . . she took Arsinoe away.”

  Joseph’s eyes fill. Madrigal grasps her stomach and falls to her knees.

  I am sorry, Mirabella mouths.

  “I know,” Joseph whispers. “I know.”

  The crowd straightens at the sounds of hoofbeats and rustling leaves. The Arrons step to the fore with their ever loyal Black Council. So far, they have wisely kept to the edges, but their queen is returning. And a queen returning in victory is to be honored, regardless of where that victory took place.

  Margaret Beaulin rides out of the trees first. She slows her horse and trots directly to Natalia Arron, so close that Natalia must move her head to the side to avoid the horse’s tired blowing.

  “It is done.”

  “They could still be wrong,” Billy says, and Joseph keeps an arm across his foster brother’s chest as Natalia questions every rider, even the gold-haired suitor. And then Queen Katharine emerges, riding tandem behind the Arron boy.

  “She took my horse,” Katharine fumes. “She stole Half Moon!”

  “Who?” Cait Milone demands. “Arsinoe?”

  Katharine looks positively furious, but when she sees who is asking, her face calms, and she lowers her eyes respectfully.

  “Queen Arsinoe, my sister, is dead, Mistress Milone. I shot her with a poisoned bolt from my crossbow. The ‘she’ who I speak of is your granddaughter, Juillenne. She stole my horse and fled with the body.”

  “If that is so,” Cait says, her voice strained, “then she acted out of grief and will soon return to her senses.”

  “I am sure you are right, Cait,” says Natalia. “But the queen’s body must be returned. Queen Arsinoe is deserving of her burial rites.”

  Joseph’s eyes narrow as Katharine covers her face, perhaps to hide a sneer. When she lowers her hands, her face is solemn.

  “But there is more,” she says. “When the Milone girl attacked me, it was not with her familiar. It was with the war gift.”

  Silence. Then shouts of disbelief. Katharine’s voice rises above the noise.

  “Think what you will, Wolf Spring. But I have seen it. Juillenne Milone is legion cursed.”

  THE NORTHEAST WOODS

  Jules slows the horse when they come to the banks of the River Calder. The night air is chilled, and the water rushes by black in the moonlight. Arsinoe lies across the pommel of her saddle. Dead? Jules refuses to think so, but is too afraid to check. She calls Camden and holds the horse steady as the cat jumps onto its hindquarters to ford the river.

  “I’ll say one thing for the poisoners,” Jules says. “They breed fine horses. This fellow is faster than any of the saddle horses in Wolf Spring by half. And stronger.” He has carried Camden’s considerable weight for at least a third of the distance, and Jules has not even used her gift to press him.

  “Arsinoe? Can you hear me?”

  There is no response. Jules grits her teeth as the horse hops the last few steps onto the opposite bank, jostling Arsinoe in the saddle. Arsinoe has not spoken since they fled from Katharine. She has not even moaned. But Jules will keep going. She will keep running as long as she feels warmth in Arsinoe’s body.

  “Please, Arsinoe. Don’t be dead.”

  The bolt sticks out from Arsinoe’s back and presses against Jules’s leg whenever the horse moves. Something has to be done about it. Every time it shifts it does more damage. She lifts Arsinoe’s shoulder gently to look.

  “Don’t touch it,” Arsinoe gasps, and Jules is so startled she almost screams. “Don’t touch the bolt. You don’t know what she used on it.”

  Jules leans down and covers Arsinoe’s head with kisses. She is alive. She is even feisty.

  “So I’ll wrap my hand first,” Jules says, grinning over tears of relief. “It has to come out.”

  “No.” Arsinoe grimaces, her teeth white in the moonlight. “Just let it stay.”

  Jules slides her arm around Arsinoe’s neck. She is no healer, and no one will help an injured queen now that the Ascension has started. She can only think of one place and one person. But the journey seems so far.

  “It’s all right, Jules,” Arsinoe whispers.

  She looks down at Arsinoe’s pale face. She is weak, but the bleeding has slowed.

  Camden slides off the back of the horse, and they pick up their pace again, heading ever farther north.

  WOLF SPRING TEMPLE

  “Mira, take some warm cider.” Elizabeth puts a cup into her hands, but Mirabella barely looks at it. “Even at Midsummer, the nights grow so cool here beside the sea.”

  “Is that from the barrels outside? She cannot have that, you little fool!” One of the Rolanth priestesses grabs the cup so roughly that cider sloshes over the edge. “That has not been inspected.”

  “Do not call her a little fool,” Bree says, seething. “And if the queen cannot have that cider, then go and warm her some that she can have.”

  The priestess scowls, but she leaves to do as she is told. After she turns her back, Bree mimes a kicking motion into her backside. She turns to Elizabeth.

  “You should leave this order if they treat you this way.”

  “I’m an initiate, Bree. We exist to be kicked around.”

  “You are one of the queen’s best friends.”

  “The Goddess doesn’t give preferential treatment. Neither do her priestesses.”

  Bree blows a stray lock of hair away from her face and mutters under her breath. Mirabella thinks she catches the word “malarkey.”

  Elizabeth and Bree have not left her side since the Queens’ Hunt. They steady her as the rest of their party flutters about like worried birds, confused and ineffectual, running into one another. Luca is at the Milone house with the members of the Black Council, discussing punishments for Jules. She assaulted one queen, and absconded with the body of another. But her most grievous offense lies with what she is: legion cursed.

  Mirabella closes her eyes. Poor Jules. Poor Joseph. There should be no punishment. There should be commendation. Honor. She did what Mirabella was too afraid to do. Mirabella could have tossed Katharine just as easily with a gust of wind. She could have felled her and her horse together with a bolt of lightning.

  The door of the temple opens and the High Priestess walks inside. Sara steps up to greet her and takes her by the hands.

  “Luca,” she says. “Have they found Queen Arsinoe’s body?”

  “No, and they are not likely to,” Luca replies. “The Milone girl knows these forests, and now that night has fallen, there is little chance of picking up h
er trail before morning. By then, she will be too far ahead of us.”

  “What is the punishment?” Mirabella calls out, and the room quiets. It is obvious from her tone that she does not think there should be one.

  “There is no punishment for taking the body, Mira,” Luca says gently. “The Council is satisfied well enough with a dead queen. And they do not wish to anger the people of Wolf Spring by executing one of their favorite daughters.” She raises her eyebrows and cocks her head. “I was frankly impressed. Surprised but impressed. However, there is still the question of the legion curse. When Juillienne Milone returns, she will need to go to the capital for questioning.”

  “‘Favorite daughters,’” a Rolanth priestess scoffs. “Wolf Spring will turn her out on her ear, now that they know she is legion cursed. They may execute her themselves.” Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room. The priestesses from Rolanth and Wolf Spring glare, one side daring the other to say any different.

  “Luca, you know that is a lie,” Mirabella says. “They will not question her. They will lock her up and put her to death as soon as the crown is decided.”

  “That may be,” says Luca. “Goddess knows, it is dangerous for one so strong to bear the curse. If she were to go mad . . . but it is their decision.” She looks at Mirabella calmly. “Unless you are queen. Then it would be up to your Council.”

  Mirabella could save Jules. Of course. She must save her, for Arsinoe’s sake.

  The door opens again, and Rho stalks inside.

  “Some of the Arron party went back into the woods with a large litter and a wagon,” she says. “Ropes. Lanterns.”

  “For what?” Mirabella asks.

  “A victory rug, I am thinking. They were after the body of Arsinoe’s bear.”

  “How terrible.” Elizabeth shrinks at the thought. “To defile a familiar that way. A queen’s familiar!”

  “Katharine is wicked,” Mirabella whispers. “I am so sorry, Arsinoe, that I did not take care of her a long time ago.”

  THE SEAWATCH MOUNTAINS

  The horse has finally begun to drag his hooves. Jules pats his froth-covered neck.

  “Good, brave boy,” she says. She pushed him hard, only easing the pace when they came to the rocky paths in the foothills of the mountains.

  In her arms, Arsinoe begins to cough. Her whole body convulses and stiffens like a plank, threatening to tip all the way off the saddle.

  “Arsinoe, be still!”

  Jules stops the horse and dismounts, her legs aching so badly that they barely work. She curses the poisoners under her breath, but truthfully the pain might be just from so many hours in the saddle.

  “Camden, help me.”

  She eases Arsinoe down, and Camden slides underneath her, helping to soften the landing. She purrs and licks worriedly at the queen’s clammy cheek.

  Arsinoe shouts when the crossbow bolt sticking out of her back bends against the earth, and Jules quickly rolls her onto her side.

  In the pale light of the moon and stars, Arsinoe looks dead already.

  “I hear a stream nearby,” Jules says with forced cheer. “Though weak as I am now, I couldn’t convince a fish to splash me in the face, let alone convince one to let us eat it.”

  “No fish,” Arsinoe murmurs. “Water.”

  Jules leads the horse toward the sound of the stream and she and Camden bend with him to drink. In the horse’s saddlebags, she finds a silver flask and dumps out whatever poison Katharine had stored inside, tipping it into the rushing current to dissipate. She rinses it three times and fills it with cold, clear water.

  “Here.” Jules kneels and tugs Arsinoe’s head into her lap, pressing the flask to her lips. Arsinoe can only manage a mouthful before she starts to cough again, and when she is through, dark blood is dotted across her chin.

  “You shouldn’t have done this, Jules. You’ll get into trouble.”

  “Since when have we cared about trouble?” Jules studies Arsinoe’s scarred face fondly and traces the lines of the cuts with her thumb.

  “She took . . . my mask.”

  “I’ll get it back,” Jules promises. “I’ll get it back, and her head besides.”

  “No.” Arsinoe starts to cough again. More blood coats her chin. “Not your job. Let . . . Mirabella . . .”

  “You shouldn’t have had to try to run,” Jules says. “You shouldn’t have been on your own. I’m so sorry! I am never there when you need me.”

  “You’re always there.”

  “Not today. I was with Joseph and we fell asleep! I was supposed to be with you and I was with him! Asleep!”

  Arsinoe grins.

  “Finally.”

  Jules wipes her face. “He is not more important than you! He’s faithless. Untrustworthy. Not worth this!”

  “Well, who is?” Arsinoe quips. “But he is better than you think. It was my fault, Jules. What happened between him and Mirabella.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I did a spell. It went wrong. It was early on, before I knew what low magic could do. But I never wanted it to hurt you.” She coughs again, her fingers hooked like claws. When she quiets, a sheen of sweat coats her forehead.

  “I can’t breathe,” she says. “Jules. I can’t breathe.” Her eyes slip shut.

  “Arsinoe?” Jules leans over her and shakes her gently. “Arsinoe, no!”

  Panicked, she looks into the trees for someone, anyone to shout to. Camden pads close. She nuzzles Arsinoe’s face, and the queen’s head falls loosely away.

  “Let’s go. Camden, let’s go!”

  Jules heaves Arsinoe’s body up and calls for the horse to kneel. They are so tired. But Arsinoe is dying. So they have to ride.

  THE INN OF THE CROOKED TAIL CAT

  The poisoners only make it as far as Highgate before they stop to celebrate. Under the direction of Genevieve and Cousin Lucian from the Council, they take over the entirety of the first inn that they find: the Inn of the Crooked Tail Cat. Despite its dubious name, the inn is clean and well-kept, the kitchen stocked with enough fine pots and knives to prepare an impromptu poisoner’s feast. All afternoon and into the evening, Queen Katharine’s party toasts her and listens to the story of the hunt told over and over again.

  They even drag the bear inside, tied down in the back of a wagon. Poisoned and unconscious.

  “What will happen to him now?” Nicolas asks, looking at the bear. “What happens to a familiar after its naturalist is dead?”

  Katharine leans back in her chair and studies the great brown with a cocked head. It is still large and intimidating, even strapped into a wagon with its tongue out between its teeth. There is something so satisfying about seeing it at her mercy, its shining brown coat cut through and bleeding from blades and arrows coated with her poisons.

  “It would go back to the woods, I suppose.”

  “But in Wolf Spring, I learned that familiars are granted unnatural long life,” Nicolas goes on. “Will it still? Or without the link to its naturalist, will it age and die as any other bear?”

  Pietyr, seated beside Katharine, finishes his cup of May wine and slams it down on the table. “These are questions best posed to a naturalist,” he says. “Perhaps you would like to go back and ask them. Then they could take you on to Rolanth. You should be beginning your suit of Queen Mirabella soon, yes?”

  Nicolas smiles and shrugs.

  “Soon,” he says. “Unless my queen will kill her first.” He dips his head and kisses Katharine’s gloved hand, then gets up from the table. He approaches the bear, and Katharine watches as he dumps his cup of wine over its head.

  “You cannot really like him,” Pietyr snaps.

  “Why not? There is plenty about him to like. I have never seen his eyes on anyone but me, for example. And I have not found daisies in his hair, put there by lusty priestesses.”

  “I have not had another girl since you, Kat,” Pietyr says quietly. “You have ruined me for them.” His eyes turn bac
k to Nicolas, who is laughing and clinking cups with giftless Renata Hargrove from the Council. “He does not love you like I do. He cannot.”

  “And how do you know, Pietyr?” Katharine asks, leaning so close that he must feel her breath against his ear. “What must he do to prove that he does? Must he throw me down into the Breccia Domain?”

  Pietyr stiffens, and Katharine sits back and happily tosses a handful of poison berries into her mouth.

  “You eat too much. You will be sick tonight.”

  “Sick, perhaps,” she says, and eats another handful. “But I will not die. I have been poisoned and poisoned again since I was a child, Pietyr. I know what I am doing. You must relax and try to enjoy yourself.”

  He settles into his chair, and crosses his arms, the only dismal spot in the room. The music from the country musicians is not refined, and the inn is plain and without a single chandelier. But the poisoners, so elated by the victory in Wolf Spring, do not seem to mind. Even Natalia dances, her back straight, smiling softly in the arms of her younger brother Antonin.

  “Play louder!” Genevieve orders. “So if the elemental’s coaches pass by they will hear it!”

  Everyone raises a cheer, and the musicians play harder. Katharine wishes that Mirabella could hear all this. See all this. But though coaches from Rolanth may pass by carrying priestesses, Mirabella will not be with them. The elemental queen and her Westwoods traveled to Wolf Spring by sea, where they can control the currents and shifting winds, and, of course, where they were sure not to run into any poisoners.

  Margaret Beaulin approaches the table and bows. Then she leans against it, so drunk that her left eye has begun to wander in its socket.

  “An inspired move, bringing the bear inside,” she says. “The only thing better would be if it were Arsinoe’s body lying strapped in the wagon.”

  Katharine’s eyes narrow.

  “A vanquished queen is deserving of her burial rites, Margaret,” she growls in a different voice. “She is worthy of the people’s love and affection.”