Two Dark Reigns

by Kendare Blake

  Camden rests her head on Arsinoe’s knee to be pet.

  “Am I wrong?” Jules asks. “You’re a queen, as much as you’d like to deny it. Is it wrong, what we’re doing? To overthrow her?”

  Arsinoe looks down at the cougar. She has always been a familiar fit for a queen. Jules has always been strong enough. An image flashes in her mind of the nightmare Daphne imparted: Jules on a battlefield and Camden’s fur red with blood. She clenches her teeth and swallows hard.

  Is that why I’m here? To stop this? To help her?

  “All these people are coming together because of you, Jules. So I don’t think I can tell you what to do anymore. No matter how much I would like to.” She scratches Camden between the ears. “And you’re going to rule after it’s over?”

  “No. I mean, not really. They’re calling me the Legion Queen, but that’s just the start of something new. Something better, for all of us that we can decide together.” She looks at Arsinoe hopefully. “Unless . . . ?”

  “No,” Arsinoe says simply. “Not me. Not Mira.”

  Jules nods. “And . . . you don’t believe the prophecy?”

  “The one that says you’ll be the island’s queen or the island’s doom? I don’t know, Jules. But between the two, I know which one we should try for.”

  Emilia locates Mirabella and Billy and brings them to the castle, so quickly and with so much ducking into bushes that Mirabella feels like some kind of a spy.

  “We would not have needed to hide in the shrubs if you had allowed me to put a sack over your head,” says Emilia, watching Mirabella pluck thorns from her sleeve.

  “No one is putting sacks over our heads,” Mirabella hisses.

  “Whatever you say, Queen Mirabella.”

  “Where is Arsinoe? You haven’t done anything to her?” Billy asks.

  “Of course not. My own queen wouldn’t allow it.”

  When they return to the castle gate, Mirabella tries to look up at the tall, white tower overgrown with half-dead vines. But Emilia pushes her head down and shoves her inside the moment the gate is open.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “To your sister.” The warrior prods them through the keep and to a small set of winding stairs. They go up and up and around and around until Mirabella thinks she will be sick. Finally, they reach an open door and find Arsinoe inside.

  “There you are!” Arsinoe grasps Mirabella’s shoulder and then slips her fingers into Billy’s hair. “Did you find supplies?”

  “Some decent clothes for mountaineering,” says Billy. “But that’s about it.”

  “Good. You are reunited.” Emilia salutes them from the door. “Rest well. We will decide what to do with you later.”

  “Are we prisoners here?” Mirabella asks as the key turns in the lock.

  “Not really,” says Arsinoe. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen Jules, and she’s still Jules. Warriors are probably always like this.”

  “What’s happening?” Billy asks. “All through the marketplaces people were talking about Jules Milone, the Legion Queen, and her rebellion.”

  “And about Katharine,” Mirabella says.

  “And about the mist,” says Arsinoe. “No doubt you heard that in the marketplaces, too. The mist, rising and swallowing people whole. Spitting them back out in the sea to wash up later on.”

  Mirabella and Billy trade a glance. They had heard that. Mirabella had hoped it was not true.

  “It’s all starting to make sense now, isn’t it?” Arsinoe says, pacing slowly across the small space.

  “It is?” Billy asks.

  “The mist rises, and we see the shadow of the queen who created it,” Mirabella whispers. “But why is it rising? It is our guardian. Our shield.”

  “Maybe it’s failing,” says Arsinoe. “Maybe that’s why I’ve been dreaming in her time. Daphne’s time and the Blue Queen’s.”

  “To find out how it was made,” Mirabella says.

  “Or how it could be unmade.” Arsinoe turns to them. “I knew we weren’t coming home to rule. Though if I’m being honest, I wasn’t certain. But now I know.”

  “Know what?” Billy asks.

  “I think I’m here to stop the mist.”

  THE VOLROY

  High in her rooms in the West Tower, Katharine locks herself away with a glass of wine full of floating poison berries. It has been days since she dispatched a messenger to seek out the rebels and convey her message, and that morning, the mist rose again. The infernal mist, bobbing on the water just past the northern outcropping of rocks of Bardon Harbor. She takes a large swallow of wine and curls her lip. She can go only so fast. The mist must be patient, and neither she nor the dead sisters appreciate having it loom over her shoulder. Since it appeared again, she has not looked outside nor taken any visitors. Her mood has turned from gray to black, and the change is not caused only by the mist.

  The idea of sparing Jules Milone—of granting her mercy or even making peace—sticks inside Katharine’s throat. To rise against the line of queens should not be tolerated.

  The leaders of the rebellion should be flayed in the square. We should take their skin in slow strips.

  Katharine puts down the poisoned wine. Flaying is not the work of a poisoner. Flaying is the work of a war queen. Or queens who have been dead too long to know better.

  Her door opens, and her maid announces Pietyr and the priestess of the council, Rho Murtra.

  “Rho.” Katharine nods a greeting as the taller woman bows. “How strange to see you here.”

  “When you did not come to the council chamber, I tired of waiting.”

  Ignoring her, she holds her hand out to Pietyr, who comes and kisses her on the mouth.

  “Pietyr. Have you found me a low magic practitioner to unravel the Milone woman’s blood-binding?”

  “Not yet, Kat. None will come forward.”

  She knew that none would. She knew that, as usual, none would volunteer to help her.

  “Queen Katharine,” says Rho. “I have a report on the naturalist’s rebellion, if that interests you.”

  “Of course.”

  “They are falling back through the mountains.”

  “How many?”

  “Impossible to get an accurate count. They are coming from everywhere: ten from one village, a dozen from another. Streaming across the north country like ants. Unfortunately, none seems to have a direct line to Jules Milone.”

  Katharine folds her arms.

  “I would settle this uprising as quickly as possible. How long before she receives my message? How long before I can expect a response?”

  “Any messenger she sends back will have to go through mountainous country, in winter weather.” Rho sucks her cheek. “A response rider will take more than a week, even if she changes horses.”

  “How then is she able to communicate so well to so many small bands of rebels?” Pietyr asks as his hand slips around Katharine’s waist.

  “We think they have naturalists in their ranks,” Rho replies, eyeing his arm about the queen. “They send birds and all manner of beasts with their orders. And with the naturalist gift, birds fly swift and direct.”

  “If only we had one who could be relied upon,” Pietyr whispers, his lips brushing against the queen’s ear.

  “Stop trying to irritate my war adviser.” Katharine turns and bites him, and he chuckles and moves away.

  “My queen, perhaps we do have a naturalist who could be relied upon.” Rho calls to the maid. “Send for Bree Westwood.”

  It does not take long for Bree to arrive, and when she does, her eyes dart between Rho and the queen.

  “What is going on?”

  “The queen requires a naturalist to ferry messages between her and the rebel uprising. Can you think of anyone?”

  “A naturalist?”

  “Someone who can use a bird. And be discreet.”

  “Would she do it?” Katharine asks, realizing who they mean.

  Bree presses her lip
s together.

  “If it is not dangerous for the bird, then I am sure Elizabeth would gladly be of service to the crown.”

  “It should not be dangerous at all!” says Katharine. “Only a summons to a meeting, on neutral ground, for a prisoner exchange. We are trying to avoid a war, not start one.”

  “Very well. I will speak with her immediately.”

  Bree finds Elizabeth in the kitchens, helping a few of the servants to prepare the evening’s meal, using a clever attachment on her left-side stump to chop vegetables. As soon as she sees Bree, her ruddy face lights up. She quickly excuses herself, detaching the blade and wiping her hand on a cloth.

  “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Did the Black Council disband early?”

  “Come with me.” Bree leads Elizabeth down the corridor until they step outside, skirting the side of the castle and the drains for kitchen and rain runoff. “The queen did not feel like attending the council today. Her mind is on the rebellion in the north. Where is Pepper?”

  Elizabeth stills and they listen. Soon, they hear him loudly drilling into some unlucky nearby tree.

  “I love that sound.”

  “Really?”

  “It soothes me. You’ve no idea how often I would like to drill my nose into a tree in winter, especially here in the bleak, closed-off capital.”

  “Elizabeth,” Bree begins, and looks up into the branches. “Can you use Pepper to send letters?”

  “I suppose so. I’ve never tried. I send him to fetch things for me sometimes: tools or even wild ingredients for one recipe or another.”

  “How far can he go?”

  “He’s a very good flier.”

  “I mean, how far can he go and still . . . hear you?”

  “Far, I would imagine.” Elizabeth’s brow knits, finally realizing this is not an idle line of questioning. “If our bond was breakable, I think it would’ve broken when I sent him away to take the bracelets. It must’ve been stretched taut. But he came back when I called.”

  “The queen wants him to find the rebel camp. She wants him to find Jules Milone and deliver a message to her. Can he do that?”

  “He doesn’t know Jules Milone.”

  “But could he find the camp?”

  “It would . . .” Elizabeth pauses, her eyes on the trees. Perhaps sensing that he is being discussed, Pepper has come closer and clings to the trunk directly in front of them, his tufted head cocked.

  “Would it be dangerous?” Bree asks. “Would the rebels be likely to hurt him?”

  “You know as well as I do that it would depend on who he found.”

  “Could you send another bird, then?”

  Elizabeth shakes her head. “My gift is not that strong. I have only used it with Pepper. I am out of practice.” She looks so sad and frightened that Bree takes her by the shoulders.

  “You do not have to do this. I can simply tell the queen that it is impossible.”

  “Do you want me to do it?”

  “I do not want a war.” Bree exhales. “And I think . . . I think that Katharine is sincere in her offer to trade Jules Milone for her mother. Whether or not she will really spare her life afterward is anyone’s guess.”

  Elizabeth holds out her arms and the woodpecker hops off his tree and swoops into them. He is a watchful, silent bird, very good at hiding. Perhaps he will be all right.

  “Tell the queen to write her message. I’ll tie it close against his leg.” She strokes his back, and he pecks her robes affectionately. “Then I’ll feed him a good meal and send him off.”

  When Pietyr descends into the cells beneath the Volroy, the guards there barely acknowledge him. They are not the best of the queen’s army, but they do not need to be. So few prisoners rank high enough to warrant being tossed down below. Only murderers. Traitorous queens. Rebels. Or a rebel’s mother.

  Pietyr stops outside the bars of Madrigal Milone’s cell. She is unbound and seated on the bench beside the wall. Her crow perches on her knee, eating from the palm of her hand what he assumes is the last of Madrigal’s meager breakfast.

  “Hello, Mistress Milone.”

  “Hello, Master Arron. You ought to do something about the food here. It’s upsetting the stomach of my bird, and she’s quite hardy.”

  Pietyr smiles. “I will see what I can do.”

  “And what can I do for you? You can’t be here on account of my pretty face, dragged here like I was with a sack over my head.” She touches the ends of her hair hanging limply down her arms in strings.

  Pietyr steps as close to the bars as he dares. He listens for any passing guards and hears none.

  “I came to ask you about low magic.”

  Madrigal rolls her eyes.

  “I told you, there’s no way to kill me without unbinding the legion curse.”

  “I think you are lying. I do not think you are the kind of person who would weave the kind of spell where the only way out is through your death.”

  “I didn’t say it was the only way,” she says, and laughs. A pretty sound in the dark space. “I could work my own unbinding whenever I like. Perhaps I will when you let me out of here, just so your Katharine can really see what she’s up against!”

  Pietyr crosses his arms. Something about Madrigal Milone is immediately unlikable. Perhaps it is the recklessness in her lovely eyes. Or perhaps it is the fear in them. He wants to turn around and leave her to rot, and he would, if he had any other choice.

  “I need something from you, Madrigal Milone. And if you are wise enough to give it to me, I will give you something in return.”

  “What could you possibly have that I would want?”

  “How about a fighting chance? Katharine intends to march you out before your daughter’s rebel army. She intends to trade you for her. And I can tell by the look in your eyes that you know it is a trade your daughter will accept.

  “If you can tell me what I need to know, I will give you a chance to avoid the trade. To flee.”

  “How?”

  “I will be the one to deliver you. I can cut your bindings when Juillenne is close enough to see. And you can run.”

  “That’s not much of a chance.”

  “It is the best I can give.”

  Madrigal gets up and walks to him. She wraps her hands around the bars and considers, staring at her feet. Her crow flies onto her shoulder and starts to peck and worry at her hair, but she does not move. So strange, the naturalists are, to have a bird beak clicking and twisting like that and not even seem to notice.

  “If Jules does trade for me, what will Katharine do with her?”

  “She will be merciful. She will spend the rest of her days down here. And if she outlives the reign, perhaps one day she will be released.”

  “Do you believe that?” Madrigal asks. “Do you trust her?”

  “What matters is that you trust me. Tell me what you know about spiritual possession.”

  “Spiritual possession?”

  “Yes,” Pietyr snaps. “How would you use low magic to separate a dead spirit from a living body?”

  Her eyes flash, piqued by sudden curiosity. “You’ll have to tell me exactly what’s happened. Or I’ll be of no help.”

  Pietyr grinds his teeth. Hinting at Katharine’s secret to another member of the Black Council is one thing. But to confide in a naturalist traitor?

  “Never,” he mutters, and walks away. Madrigal follows him along the bars.

  “It’s the queen, isn’t it? That’s why she’s so strong. Why her gift seems so varied. She’s borrowing it from the dead.”

  He stops and turns. He knows the look in his eyes must tell her she is right. But instead of laughing or shouting it to the rooftop, Madrigal’s mouth drops open in awe.

  “Whose idea was that? Natalia Arron’s? That woman was clever indeed—”

  “It was no one’s idea. It was an accident!” His hands shoot through the bars to hold her fast. “The night of the Quickening Ceremony, Katharine fell down into
the Breccia Domain. We all thought her dead. But she came back. Only she did not come back alone.”

  Madrigal’s eyes cloud a moment. Then she gasps.

  “The Breccia! You mean—”

  “That is precisely what I mean.”

  “How many?”

  Pietyr hangs his head, remembering Katharine falling. Remembering pushing her.

  “As many as could get their dead hooks in, I suppose.”

  “Two legion queens,” Madrigal says thoughtfully. “Maybe the oracle was wrong. Maybe my Jules is not the island’s ruin after all.”

  Pietyr glares at her. “Tell me: can they be gotten out?”

  “I’m not sure.” Madrigal turns around to pace slowly. “This is queensblood we are talking about. Queens and queensblood. Does she know you’re planning this?”

  “Yes. She knows. She wants them out, too.”

  “Hmph,” she snorts, unconvinced even though he looked her straight in the eye. “If you say so.”

  She walks to the wall and crouches, pressing her hands against the cold, damp stone of the floor. “The queens were down there, trapped, all this time.” She chuckles. “No wonder they put forth such a charge to get her on the throne.”

  “Do you know how to do it or not?”

  Madrigal swivels to face him. “You’ll have to put them back where you found them.”

  “Back into the Breccia Domain?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that? Katharine will never go back there.”

  “I thought you said she wanted this?”

  “She does,” he says. “But she does not always know it.”

  Madrigal crosses her arms. She mutters something about sacred spaces, a bent tree, how her spellcraft would be more focused were she not beneath the accursed Volroy.

  “You’ll have to make a Breccia Domain, then. A circle of stones from there should work. Put the dead ones back into the stones and then dump the stones back into the crevasse. The stones must touch, from end to end. And do not leave that circle until you are sure they have all been gotten out.”