Two Dark Reigns

by Kendare Blake

  Pietyr frowns. “Natalia would never say that. Not in this case.”

  Genevieve sweeps into the room, having finished her cursory inspection of the hotel. She glances between them and rolls her eyes at Pietyr.

  “Will you never stop telling her she is wrong, nephew? Will you never stop thinking of what is best for your ‘Kat’ and begin to think about what is best for the reign?”

  “Murdering subjects is never what is best for the reign. Fear is one thing, but not for a queen as unpopular as this. Heaping fear upon dislike breeds hatred. And hatred makes the people likely to bite.”

  Genevieve sighs. “The people will forget. You have been in the game for so little time, Pietyr. It will be years before your advice is of any value.”

  A lump of frustration rises in Katharine’s throat. She knows what comes next. Pietyr’s pale cheeks will gain color. His teeth will grind. He will shout, and Genevieve will shout back, and Katharine will want her head to explode.

  “Genevieve,” she says quickly. “Go and see to the festival grounds.”

  “Yes, Queen Katharine.” She curtsies and leaves, and Pietyr slams the door so fast it nearly catches the seat of her trousers.

  Katharine returns to the window.

  “Kat.”

  “I am perfectly safe this high up.” She looks out. In Rolanth the sun shines and the sea sparkles. The sky is clear. There is no mist hovering on the water without cause, and there are no missing fishers bobbing in the waves.

  Pietyr’s hands slide up her arms. His fingers slip into her hair, and she lets her head fall back against his chest. His touch is a balm: it brings her back into her own body.

  “It was not you with that boy, was it, Kat? It was them. The dead queens.”

  “I do not know.”

  “Yes you do. It is just that you do not want to admit it. Why? Do you think I will think you evil?”

  “No!”

  “Then why?”

  “To protect them!” She squeezes his hands. “As they have protected me. They are a part of me now, Pietyr. And what they give is worth the cost of what they take.”

  “Even the life of a young boy?”

  Katharine closes her eyes. She sees that young man’s face. She sees it in her dreams. But she tries not to think of him while she is awake. The dead queens seem to like it, and that feels so very wrong.

  “That will never happen again,” she says. “Never.”

  “How can you be sure? Can you calm them? Can you keep them from putting you in such danger?”

  “You calm them.” She turns and pulls his mouth to hers. “As you calm me.”

  The day of the Reaping Moon Festival, Katharine is to be dressed by Sara and Bree Westwood. No fewer than six servants enter alongside them, bringing dozens of gowns and several boxes of gloves, several cases of jewels, before bowing and departing to give them privacy. Dressing the queen, particularly for one of the high festivals, is a great honor, though one would not know it by the sour looks on Bree’s and Sara’s faces.

  “Mistresses Westwood.”

  “My queen.” Sara Westwood curtsies deep, her eyes on the floor. “We thank the queen for extending this invitation.”

  Katharine looks with compassion on the stiffness in the woman’s back, and the gray of her hair. It did not used to be so gray. Even as recently as the Queens’ Duel, Sara’s hair was a bright, vibrant brown.

  “I would not think to extend it to anyone else in Rolanth.”

  They have brought the one-handed priestess, Elizabeth, with them, as usual, and the girl busies herself straightening dresses and whispering to Bree. At one point, Bree laughs, and Elizabeth prods her jovially with the stump of her wrist. They are good friends, even without Mirabella to bind them together.

  “I—” Katharine clears her throat softly. “I would wear my own gloves.” She holds her arms up. She has already put a pair on, above her dark linen chemise.

  “As you like, my queen.” Sara nods curtly and shuts each of the glove cases. “Though the ones we have brought are more fashionable.”

  “I am rather particular about them.”

  “Is that why you are standing there in nothing but gloves and your undergarments?” Bree asks. “Or is it because you do not want us to look upon your scars?” She steps close with a pair made of pretty black lace. “Everyone knows that your hands were ruined escaping your fate at the Quickening Ceremony. Take the gloves.” She slaps them into Katharine’s palm.

  Slowly, and feeling their eyes on her every moment, Katharine strips the fabric down her arm. Deep furrows in the skin from poisons being cut in by knife show like inverted veins. Shining pink circles mark the places where old blisters ruptured. And her hands. Her hands are a ruin of rough and patched-together skin, torn and altered from her crawl out of the Breccia Domain.

  The lace will not hide that.

  “Try these, Queen Katharine.” Elizabeth smiles warmly. “They are even lovelier.” More lace, but this time stitched over thin black fabric. With a gentle touch, the priestess helps her into them, stretching them carefully as if it might still cause Katharine pain.

  Bree, who has been watching with a soft expression, hardens when Katharine looks at her.

  “It’s good.” She nods and selects a gown: black silk, fitted through the hip.

  “She will need a dense cloak for the evening,” says Sara. “But the low loose skirt will flare nicely in the winds.”

  “What about this one, then?” Bree holds another in front of Katharine. “A similar cut but thicker material and lined.”

  “So many choices,” Katharine whispers.

  “Yes, well. Some queens are harder to dress than others,” Bree whispers back.

  “Are you . . . angry with me, Bree?”

  Across the room, Sara and Elizabeth continue sorting through shoes and jewels. Perhaps they truly cannot hear.

  “What? You thought I would be sympathetic? Or even a friend? After one moment of civil conversation by a window.” She snorts. “I thought . . . perhaps. Perhaps you were just a lonely girl, and I should give you a chance. But then I remember that not an hour afterward I watched you put a knife into the throat of one of your own people.” She moves away roughly.

  “I was . . . not myself,” Katharine says, keeping her voice low. “I was afraid.”

  “I saw your face. The way you looked. You were not afraid of anything.”

  “I regret it. I would take it back. I truly would, but I cannot say that—”

  “My queen,” says Sara Westwood, and Katharine turns to find a long strand of fat black pearls in her face. “These perhaps. I heard once that you favored them.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she says, and hears the door open and slam shut behind Bree’s rapid exit.

  Bree is not in the carriage when it arrives to take Katharine to the festival. Only Sara Westwood and the priestess Elizabeth will accompany her and Pietyr to the grounds of Moorgate Park in the center of the city, but Katharine makes no comment. It is a fast ride along the river. Perhaps too fast, as twice the horses shy and nearly fall.

  “They are unused to the steep roads,” says Pietyr.

  “It is the winds. Every elemental gift is running high today, and the winds will be wild until dark, when the fires begin.” Sara taps Elizabeth on the shoulder. “Elizabeth, will you trade places with Master Arron, to be nearer to the horses?”

  “Of course.” They trade seats, and the pace of the carriage eases.

  “Elizabeth still has some of the naturalist gift about her,” Sara explains.

  “That is why I so often see you feeding the birds,” says Katharine, and the priestess smiles.

  Outside, Rolanth passes by, decorated with dyed flags hung for the Reaping Moon. Throughout the marketplace, Katharine has seen the flags and banners being sold, dyed in shades of blue and yellow, silver and gold. The more skilled artisans have woven great cloth fish with shining scales in myriad colors, which puff up with the wind when they swallow
it. All across the island, folk celebrate the Reaping Moon for the coming harvest, but in Rolanth, it marks the last of the fish runs and the arrival of winter’s bluster.

  “You must be happy to have your daughter home, Sara.”

  “The capital is Bree’s home now,” Sara replies, as expected. But Katharine sees through her. She is happy. More than happy—she is relieved. To her, Indrid Down is dark and full of poisoners. Full of death.

  The carriage stops, and Katharine’s queensguard assembles to escort her onto the festival grounds. Moorgate Park is hung with streamers and flags and many brightly colored sewn fish. Festival-goers laugh and dance throughout, feasting on smoked herring on skewers and drinking spiced wine.

  “Queen Katharine.” Genevieve comes to her as soon as she sets foot on the white stone path. “There is a pleasant place prepared for you, beside the fountain and the canal, where you may observe the festival.”

  With Pietyr by her side, Katharine takes her place next to Sara and High Priestess Luca. Servants bring her a cup of warmed wine and three fish on skewers, and the musicians move closer and resume their play. Soon enough, dancers flood the paved stones and even spill onto the grass.

  “Pietyr Arron. Will you dance?”

  Katharine’s mouth drops open at the sight of Bree. She has come from nowhere, slipping through the crowd, to stand before Pietyr and the queen with her hand outstretched. Her festival gown is midnight blue and thread of silver. It leaves her arms and shoulders bare, and hugs her breasts like the two have not seen each other in ages.

  Pietyr frowns.

  “The queen has only just arrived.”

  “Go, Pietyr.” Katharine squeezes his hand. “You will truly be the envy of every person in attendance.”

  “As you wish.” He stands and lets Bree lead him onto the floor. For a few steps, he tries to keep up, but though Pietyr is a wonderful dancer, it is clear he is no match for the limber legs looping between his own. Before long, the other dancers take notice, and whistle encouragement to spur Bree on.

  Luca touches Katharine’s hand and speaks from the side of her mouth.

  “She is only doing it to irritate you. It is her way.”

  “I know that. Of course I know that.”

  Bree presses against Pietyr’s chest and slings a thigh up to his hip. His frown begins to soften. He looks at Katharine desperately. Everyone is looking at her. Genevieve with curious intensity. Sara with nerves and a straight back. The people, ready to grin the moment Katharine starts to cry or shout.

  But instead, Katharine laughs.

  “Louder! Play louder! Play faster!” She whistles, and Bree stops in surprise. Then she smirks, bows, and begins again. Poor Pietyr breaks out in a sweat, and the crowd cheers. Poor, poor Pietyr. He has never looked so uncomfortable, stiffly resisting all of Bree’s advances. It seems an age before the song ends, and Bree bows to Katharine with her hands on her hips, admitting defeat.

  Katharine rises and walks through the clapping dancers into Pietyr’s arms.

  “How dare you do that to me.” He spins her around.

  “Did you really not like it?” She twines her leg around his calf. “I was thinking of asking her to teach me.”

  “Teach you . . .” His scowl fails, and he breaks into a smile. “Do you think she would?” They spin together, and he laughs. It is good to see him laugh.

  “Even so close to you, I am cold,” he says as wind ruffles his collar. “Sometimes I envy these elementals, for their resistance to the weather.”

  “Yes,” Katharine mutters. The cold does not bother her as much. Some of the dead queens carried the elemental gift, and what she borrows from them is enough to shield her from it. “The fires will begin soon, and then the winds will quiet, like Sara said—”

  A scream cuts through the music.

  “What is it?” asks Pietyr. He glances quizzically at Genevieve, who may have a better view from the queen’s table.

  But Katharine knows. She and the dead sisters feel it, even before the panic breaks out beside the river. They feel it before the mist rises out of the water and stretches across the ground.

  “Get the people out of here, Pietyr.”

  “It is too late.”

  The panic begins, and Pietyr throws himself across the queen as they are battered by fleeing bodies. High Priestess Luca is on her feet, trying to direct the crowds to the south and west. People fall and are trampled. They are swallowed up by the mist, come to the center of the city via the river. Katharine wonders where they will be found again. Or if they will be found at all.

  “Queen Katharine.” Genevieve takes her by the arm. “We must get you back to the hotel.”

  At the hotel, shut up safely inside with queensguard posted around the building, the members of the Black Council gather in the queen’s room. It takes a while for them all to arrive, and every time the door opens, Katharine sighs with relief. Luca and Bree and Antonin are there. Genevieve and Pietyr were the first to the hotel with her. Renata Hargrove scurries through the door last, shivering in a gray cloak, and after several moments, Katharine begins to panic, worried about Cousin Lucian until she remembers that he remained in Indrid Down, with Paola Vend and the priestess Rho.

  “How many are gone?” Katharine asks. “How many were taken?”

  None can say. Eyes come to rest on Renata, since she was the last to arrive.

  “It is too early to tell, Queen Katharine. Not all have been found. And when I was running . . . it was still happening.”

  But it is over now. Katharine was at the window the moment they reached the top floor, scanning the city for Moorgate Park. She saw the mist, spread out in thick white fingers. Saw it hover over the festival grounds and hesitate at the edges of the city streets. The air was still full of people’s screams, the sound made small by the distance, and somehow even more frightening.

  “It receded,” she says, and Renata shudders. “I watched it from the window. It returned to the river and back out to sea to disappear.”

  “It took them so quickly.” Antonin pours tainted brandy for himself and the other poisoners, and drinks it all down at once, his hand shaking. “And the way their screams cut off . . . like they were being choked.”

  “Some passed through the mist unharmed,” Luca notes. “But others . . .”

  “Others we will find torn to pieces and decomposed. Bobbing in Bardon Harbor when we return to the capital.” Genevieve pours more brandy. She is so rattled that she even pours a cup of untainted wine for Luca.

  “Do you think Lucian and Paola are all right?” Antonin asks. “Is it happening there as well? Or only here?”

  “Rho is there,” Luca says vaguely, as if that makes all the difference.

  Katharine turns to Bree.

  “Bree. Are your mother and Elizabeth safe? Did they get out of the park unharmed?”

  “They did. They were right beside me. I left them to come here, and they went on to seek refuge at the temple.”

  “The temple,” Katharine murmurs. “Good.” No doubt many sought refuge there. Most of the city would flee toward it. Perhaps on the way, they would stop by the hotel with torches and raised fists. They would have a good enough reason.

  She wanders away from the group, back toward the window. The area surrounding the festival grounds is quiet now. Deserted. But the rest of the city seethes with frightened activity.

  She feels Pietyr’s hands on her shoulders.

  “Do you know what this is, Kat? Do you know what it wants?”

  “No, Pietyr.” She shakes her head miserably.

  “Do they?”

  At the mention of the dead queens, she jerks loose and darts a glance of warning between him and the nearby ears of the council.

  “If they do, they have not told me.”

  They have not told her, but they are racing through her blood like spooked fish. They make it impossible to think. Impossible to stand still.

  “What must be done?” She holds her hand
s out to Genevieve. To Luca. She turns to Antonin and Renata and even Bree. But no one answers. Finally, Katharine clenches her fists and shrieks. “What must be done?”

  “We do not know.” Luca scrunches her wizened old shoulders. “You may as well ask the air. Or the Goddess. Nothing like this has happened within our lifetimes. Nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  Katharine stares at the floor. As she dressed that morning, she had not noticed the pattern of the rug beneath her feet. It is a weaving of Queen Illiann, the Blue Queen, standing atop the black basalt cliffs with her arms outstretched and black hair billowing like a cloud. In the sea, the mainland ships wreck against her waves, and between them, the mist rises like a shroud. Katharine glares at it. It is as though she is being mocked by the mist’s very creator.

  “Is this where it happened? Here on Shannon’s Blackway? Was the mist created here?” She turns on Genevieve. “If it was, you should have known, and we should never have come to Rolanth!”

  “Battles were fought up and down the coast,” Genevieve stammers. “But the mist was created at Bardon Harbor. Not here. She is depicted here perhaps because she was an elemental—”

  “And you have learned nothing else? About her. About this?” She gestures to the mist in the weaving, but Genevieve shakes her head. It is all legend. Another ancient secret that the island keeps.

  Katharine frowns. She wills the dead queens to help her, to guide her, but they remain agitated and silent.

  “Get reports,” she says finally. “Find out who is missing. Take accounts from those the mist touched but did not harm. Pietyr, Renata, and”—she searches their faces—“Bree will do this. The people of Rolanth will speak to her and to you, if you are with her.”

  She nods to Antonin. “Antonin, take the queensguard back to the park. Secure it and then disperse soldiers through the city to provide aid.”

  “Yes, Queen Katharine.”

  They go without complaint, relieved to have a task.

  “And what of us?” Genevieve looks between herself and Luca.