Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  “Thank you,” Katharine says. “To the horses, then.”

  The sight of the parade assembled in the inner ward makes Mirabella’s knees go weak. So many queensguard soldiers. So many silver buckles, on them and on the horses. Flags of blue, white, silver, and black flap softly in the breeze. But there is no sun. The sky is overcast with low gray clouds. So at least she will not have to worry about blinding herself with her own chest.

  “How well you look,” Luca says as she appears at Mirabella’s elbow. “How well you both look.”

  “Are you sure you will not ride with us, High Priestess?” Katharine asks. “I would have the people see a strong showing from the temple.”

  Luca nods to Rho, already mounted on a tall, white mare whose mane and tail have been braided with blue and silver streamers. “One of my priestesses leads your guard. That ought to be strong enough.”

  Mirabella says nothing. It is not her place to weigh in on matters of the crown, and even if it were, she could not have managed a word. How could Arsinoe have thought she could escape? She will be held fast in the center of a sea of bodies. Soldiers, mounted and on foot. The waving elementals whose lives she saved in Bardon Harbor. And half of the Black Council: Genevieve and Antonin, Bree. Paola Vend. Even if she would have run, she would never have made it.

  “Your mount, Mist-breaker.” A soldier approaches, leading an enormous gray horse. An odd gray, and Mirabella wonders whether he has been dyed to resemble the mist. That would be a silly amount of detail, but given the scope of the parade, she is not surprised when she strokes his shoulder and her hand comes away coated in gray powder.

  “I hope that Mist-breaker is the horse’s name,” Mirabella says after she is helped into the saddle, “and not something new that they are calling me. ‘Mirabella Mistbane’ is grand enough.” Katharine rides close on her black stallion, and the gray gelding stomps his feet. “And I hope that he is steady. I should have told you: I am not much of a rider.”

  “That cannot be true,” Katharine says, a little coldly.

  “I am afraid that it is. I spent most of my time in carriages. I can ride and at any pace. But if he shies or startles, I might need you to take hold of his bit.”

  Katharine’s brow knits. She stares at Mirabella quietly before finally nodding. “I will take hold of him if anything happens.”

  At a signal of trumpets, the first soldiers begin to march out, leading the procession out of the Volroy and into the streets of Indrid Down. When they come upon the start of the crowd, Mirabella waves beside Katharine. The cheers of the people are loud in her ears, their reactions to every part of the processional like announcements of who is passing: for the brave elementals they cheer, and for the queensguard they respectfully clap. Gasps and exclamations for the Black Council, which is no doubt due to Bree’s gown. Then the queens arrive, and they explode.

  “See how they love you?” Katharine shouts into her ear. “Are you worthy of it?”

  “I hope so!” Mirabella shouts back.

  “Good. I would hate for them to be disappointed.”

  Mirabella glances at her. It is on odd thing to say. There is an edge to Katharine that Mirabella has not felt since first coming to the capital, and it makes her nervous.

  They make another turn, heading for the marketplace before the parade winds around to end in the square. Mirabella takes a deep breath and continues to wave. She hopes that the smile on her face looks true as her eyes dart over every stack of crates, every slumping canopy, anywhere that Billy and the war-gifted might be crouched down to hide. In moments, something will happen. And she will ask Katharine to take hold of her horse.

  They come upon the market, and the hand upon her reins begins to tremble. At any moment, any second, someone will start to shout. Something will burst or burn. Except that they ride on, and it does not.

  “Are you well, sister?” Katharine asks. “You seem nervous.”

  Mirabella sighs and smiles. “No. I think I am fine.”

  INDRID DOWN

  “Something’s wrong.” After staring for a long time on tiptoe, Jules has climbed up to stand on the haunches of her black gelding, peering toward the city with her hands shaded over her eyes. “Why haven’t they returned?”

  “Maybe they thought it best to wait for the crowds to clear,” Arsinoe says.

  “They must have seen the smoke,” Emilia says. “We sent the signal up as long as we dared.”

  Camden leaps onto the gelding’s back beside Jules, her claws digging into the saddle leather. The horse snorts, and Arsinoe pats his nose fondly. He may have chased her down so Katharine could shoot a bolt into her back, but he was also the one who carried her and Jules to safety afterward.

  Jules looks to the city, then back to Mathilde, as if the seer might have new answers.

  “I should be there. I should have gone with them.”

  “But you are not there, and you are not going.” Emilia slaps at Jules’s ankle. “Get down.”

  After a moment, Jules relents, and slides down the gelding’s flank.

  Down in the capital, tendrils of smoke rise from chimneys, and the hated towers of the Volroy obscure the sky. As she stares at the city, Arsinoe wills Billy and the others to ride out of it, to emerge over the sloping hill.

  “I’ll go,” Arsinoe says. “Jules always has bad feelings about things, and she always thinks she should be there, but this time she’s right. I’m going to get Billy and the others out.”

  “No.” Emilia’s fingers dig into her arm. “Not you. These are my warriors. My friends. You’ve put them in danger as you’ve put Jules in danger, and you are a fool to think you will be any use in rescuing them.”

  “Your warriors,” Arsinoe says. “Don’t you mean the rebellion’s? Don’t you mean the Legion Queen’s?”

  Emilia raises her fist, but Jules takes her hand and pulls it down.

  “Enough of this,” Jules says. “Neither of you is going anywhere. We’ll give them until nightfall.” She looks between Arsinoe and Emilia, clearly more angry at one than the other, but in the end, it is Emilia whose shoulder she touches. “Go back to the others and tell them we’re waiting.”

  Emilia goes, eyes flashing as she passes Arsinoe.

  “They will return,” says Mathilde, and Arsinoe and Jules turn to see the oracle crouched in the crusted snow. She has lit a bundle of herbs and blown it out to scry through the smoke. “They will return,” she says again, in a voice that is not exactly hers but the voice of the visions. “They will. But not all.”

  THE VOLROY

  That evening, Katharine sits with Genevieve in her room, trying to relax with a glass of Natalia’s tainted brandy and Pietyr’s favorite hemlock biscuits.

  “Today was a resounding success. Everyone has said so. Even Cousin Lucian. Turnout was higher than expected, and barely a scrap was left over from the feast. We had not hoped to see the capital so happy again until after the rebellion was over. I cannot wait for word of the alliance to reach Sunpool. The trickle of deserters will strengthen to a stream. Katharine, are you listening?”

  Genevieve prods her in the arm.

  “I was not,” Katharine admits. She takes a bite of the baked hemlock biscuit she has been holding in her fingers and wipes at the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

  “I thought you would be pleased. There were even some children seen, playing near the shore. Having Mirabella here has soothed their fears. Is that not what you wanted?”

  “It is.”

  “But?”

  Katharine stands and worries the biscuit between her fingers until crumbs cascade down the front of her dress. “I was ready to hate her. Even though she came as an ally. You know this.”

  “Yes. I know this.”

  “But she is so steady! She has a . . . certain quality. Almost like Natalia had, and since she has been here, I feel less alone.”

  Genevieve leans back on her elbow. “What of the suitor in the cells? Was he here to rescue her? To con
tact her for information?”

  “I do not know. And even if he was, there is no way to know whether she was involved in the plot.”

  “You want her to be innocent.” Genevieve sets down her pen. She comes to Katharine’s side and cocks her head sympathetically. “You want to trust her for the sake of the triplets.”

  And perhaps, for the love of a sister. But Katharine does not dare say so. Genevieve would scorn her, and the dead queens lie inside, coiled and listening.

  “But can she be trusted?” Genevieve asks. “And if she cannot, is there a better use for her, like the old king-consort said? Killed to quiet the mist.”

  “Those pages you showed me could be the rambling of a drunkard on his deathbed.” Katharine shakes her head. “No. I will keep my word. And I believe that she will keep hers.”

  “Very well. But what will you tell Mirabella about the suitor? He is her friend. She will not be pleased with what you have planned for him.”

  “I know. But she will understand. We are at war. And his family’s crime against us was personal.”

  By the time Mirabella learns about the rebellion prisoners, Billy is already out of the cells. Katharine has ordered him trussed and shackled, and made to serve.

  “Where is he?” she demands when Bree cuts her off in the hall.

  “Mira, it is at Queen Katharine’s pleasure.”

  “Where is he?” she asks louder, and skirts around Bree’s raised hands. Through the open doors of the throne room, she hears snickering and laughter. Shouted commands. Bree grasps her arm as lightning crackles across her knuckles.

  “Mira, it could have been worse.”

  Mirabella pulls free and bursts into the throne room. The sight before her makes her instantly furious. So furious that every torch in the room blazes, hot enough to scorch the walls.

  Katharine lies reclined, her leg slung over the arm of the throne. She eats a pastry off a tray resting upon Billy’s back. He is bent over, his arms tied behind him painfully, elbows used to secure the platter. At his wrists are soft leather manacles. His feet are connected by a short length of chain. And he has been gagged.

  Mirabella storms up the aisle, passing Arrons and members of the Black Council as they laugh and nibble pastries of their own. She reaches into the first lamp she passes and draws the fire into her hand until it is a roiling ball. Then she casts it at the floor before Katharine’s feet.

  Everyone in the room gasps and recoils at the scorched stone. Guards rush to the aisle and cross their spears before her, protecting the queen.

  Mirabella dares not look into Billy’s face. If she sees the way they make him suffer, the last of her restraint will fail.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “What do you mean, sister?” Katharine asks, righting herself to sit up straight.

  “This.” Mirabella gestures to Billy, his brow wet with sweat, his face straining against the cloth gag as he struggles to keep from spilling the tray. “What are you doing to him?”

  “Well, I have not killed him yet.”

  Around the throne room, the Black Council laughs. All but Luca and Rho.

  “Mirabella,” Luca says softly. “This former suitor was arrested along with two war-gifted rebels last night. It is thought they were here to disrupt the parade. Perhaps even to kidnap you.”

  Mirabella’s eyes flicker to Billy’s. Two rebels and the suitor. But not Arsinoe. They do not have Arsinoe.

  She takes a breath. Collects herself. Looks sideways at each of the guards.

  “Get your spears out of my path.”

  The guards obey, in no hurry to be scorch-marked like the floor, and Mirabella walks to Billy. She kneels and pulls the gag from his mouth.

  “Are you all right?”

  “He is fine,” Katharine answers.

  “He is not fine.” Where the gag rested against his skin, angry, red blisters have begun to rise. At his wrists, too, where they touch the leather of his bonds, deep red welts have formed. It has all been tainted with some kind of poison.

  “It is not lethal,” Katharine says.

  “At least not yet,” Genevieve adds.

  “They killed my father,” Billy growls. He fixes his eyes on Rho, across the room. “She killed my father!” He struggles up and charges at her, sending the tray and all its contents crashing to the floor. Rho does not so much as flinch. He barely makes it three strides before the guards are on him, shoving the blunt ends of their spears into his gut and striking him across the shins.

  “Stop it!” Mirabella cries.

  “Where is he?” Billy shouts from on his knees. “Where is my father?”

  “He is here somewhere,” Genevieve says, and chuckles. “Or at least his bones are. Somewhere in the river.”

  Mirabella watches with pity as Billy’s expression crumples. There are so many bruises on his face that he is almost unrecognizable.

  “From what I understand,” Katharine says. “Rho nearly carved him in two. From lung to heart. Perhaps if you ask her nicely, she will take you to the place by the shore where she ordered him dumped.”

  “Perhaps if you dive, you might find him still in the rug we rolled him in,” Genevieve adds. “Or at least what the fish have left behind.”

  “Enough,” says the High Priestess. “He is only a boy. He does not need to be told so cruelly.”

  “You have to let him go,” says Mirabella.

  “The only thing I have to do is question you.” Katharine removes her leg from the arm of the throne and leans forward in it, resting on her elbows. She snaps her fingers to the guards at the rear. “Have the prisoners brought up.”

  “What about Billy? You know he is my friend. You know I cannot support this.”

  “You will support what your Queen Crowned supports,” Antonin Arron hisses, but Mirabella ignores him.

  “Please, Katharine. Release him. Release him into my care, at least.”

  “No. You are far too kind. Honestly, sister, I do not know why you are so upset. None of the poison is lethal, as I said. It will not even leave a scar!”

  “Katharine, you must see,” Mirabella starts. But then she remembers that Katharine was raised a poisoner. Striped with painful poisons since she was a child, over and over, with poisons that did leave a mark. She glances about the room at the Arrons and Paola Vend, who watch Mirabella and cast judgment. They think her foolish. They think she is weak and overreacting. Perhaps she is, when they no doubt encouraged Katharine to order his death.

  “For how long must he serve?” Mirabella says finally.

  Katharine exhales. “Until he is contrite. And until we are satisfied. His father murdered Natalia and paid too light and swift a price. So we must exact our vengeance upon his son.”

  “How is that fair?”

  “How is it not?” Katharine gestures again to the guards, and they haul Billy up by his bound elbows until he shouts from the pain.

  “Don’t expect anything different, Mira,” he says. “Not from this pack of murderers.”

  “The son of a murderer criticizing us!” Lucian Arron scoffs, and spits upon the charred floor. Billy must be careful of what he says. Genevieve looks angry enough to cut his throat, right there, before everyone.

  “Wait.” Rho steps forward from her place on the wall. She seems tired, with dark rings beneath her eyes, and the luster gone from her long, red hair. “Let the boy say to me what he would say.”

  The guards loosen their grip and allow Billy to stand on his own.

  “You do not care for me,” Rho says. “Nor I for you. Not even when we were in Rolanth, when you served as Mirabella’s taster and we were on the same side. But I was the last person to be with your father. So if you would know anything, you may ask.”

  “And that is supposed to make it better? Make us even?”

  “I do not seek to make us even. I do not know who my father was. So there is no ‘even.’”

  Billy glares at her impassive face. Rho might as well be ma
de of stone. Only someone who has known her as long as Mirabella has, or Luca has, could see the markers of weariness, and perhaps of compassion, on her features.

  “What . . . ,” Billy starts, and swallows. “What happened?”

  “I came upon him in one of the rooms in the East Tower. A room Natalia used as a study. She was on the ground, and he was choking her to death.”

  Billy looks away, his expression disgusted. “Go on. Tell me everything.”

  “When he stood up, I put my knife into his ribs. He had not seen me coming. But I was too late, and Natalia was already dead.”

  “Did he . . . say anything?”

  “He wheezed. A little blood came out. I cannot say whether he was trying to speak or to scream.”

  “You,” Billy gasps. “You murdering—”

  “He was a murderer,” Rho interrupts, and her voice booms through the throne room. “Afterward, I had him wrapped in a rug and thrown into the river. No one has found him or at least not that I have heard.”

  “And that’s it.”

  “Yes. That is all.”

  Mirabella bows her head as Billy bares his teeth, as he strains against the guards. He has never been quick to anger. Seeing it transform him so is ugly to behold.

  “I’m going to kill you when I get out of here,” he says.

  “It is easy to make threats when you are in shackles and under the queen’s protection. I killed a murderer, and I do not regret it, though I do regret that you suffer. What you feel is up to you, but your father did not strike me as someone to be mourned heavily.”

  They are silenced by the throne room doors being thrown open and the other two prisoners marched inside. The guards bring them nearly to Mirabella’s feet in the aisle and force them to their knees before the queen.

  “Well?” Katharine asks.

  “Well, what?” asks Mirabella.