Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  “So that’s it, then?” he asks. “You really have turned against us.”

  Mirabella closes her eyes. She wishes she could tell him everything. That there is something wrong with Katharine. That she must discover it and why the mist reaches for her. But if he knew, it would only become more information to torture him for.

  “I can only tell you that I will never be against Arsinoe. And that I am still your friend.”

  He looks at her hopefully through eyes that are nearly swollen shut, from poison or from the kicks of the guards.

  “So you’ll get me out of here? You’ll let me loose?”

  “I wish I could. But I cannot. Not yet. Please understand,” she says when his head hangs. “I wish this was not happening to you. I wish you had not come.”

  “But it is. And I did.” To her surprise, and through all of his bruises, he smiles. “I suppose I missed you.”

  At his unexpected kindness, Mirabella bursts out crying.

  “I would have much preferred meeting you somewhere else, though,” he adds, and her tears change to laughter.

  “I missed you, too.”

  “Did you see Arsinoe?” he asks softly.

  Mirabella peers over her shoulder for listening ears. There are no guards visible, but they must take care so their voices do not carry down the corridor.

  “I have never been so happy to see anyone as I was when she popped out from behind that tapestry.”

  “I can’t believe she did that,” Billy says. “I should’ve known. She can do just about anything.”

  “Whether she ought to or not.” Mirabella takes up the wet cloth and wipes the dried blood from his jaw; she presses it against the swelling on his cheek. “I am sorry about your father. They told me what happened, when I first arrived.”

  He nods.

  “I hated him,” he says. “But I still thought he was immortal. Mira, if I don’t get out of here, will you write to my mother and Jane?”

  “Of course I will.”

  “Their lives will be so changed with both my father and me gone.” Tears slip from the corners of his eyes, and she wipes them away as quickly as they come. “You have to get me out of here, Mira. I don’t belong here.”

  She kisses his cheeks and his clammy forehead. “You will see Arsinoe again. You will see her even before I do. And when you do, you will tell her how much I love her. And how I never betrayed her.”

  “Mira, please!”

  She kisses him again, as hard as she dares. And then she slips away.

  THE VOLROY

  Sometime in the night, a rebel warrior sacks Greavesdrake Manor. Edmund, Natalia’s loyal butler, says the warrior slipped out of the shadows like she was a shadow herself and slipped back into them just as easily. What staff members were not sleeping quickly found themselves tied to chairs or barred inside their rooms. Pietyr’s caretaker she knocked out with a blow to the back of the head. When the poor girl came to, she could not recall a moment of what had happened. But the bed in Katharine’s room was empty. Pietyr Renard was gone.

  “How is this possible?” Katharine asks. “How did she dare?” She sits stunned at the head of her Black Council table. She has summoned them all to the chamber. Even Mirabella. Even old Luca from her quarters in the temple, and now the wise High Priestess sits, just as useless as the rest of her advisers, looking like she was shaken from a very deep sleep.

  Katharine runs her hand over the grooved wood of the table in an effort to remain calm. But she would very much like to remove her glove and dig gouges into the surface until what fingernails she has left are split and bloody. Inside her, the dead queens boil. Pietyr was theirs, they whisper. And no one had the right to take him.

  “Shut your mouth!”

  Everyone startles as Katharine pounds her fist.

  “My queen,” Cousin Lucian ventures meekly, “no one has spoken.”

  “No one has spoken,” Katharine says. “Because no one ever speaks when I need them to.” She takes a deep breath as they blink at her. Renata, Paola, Bree, and Lucian seem afraid. Genevieve and Antonin wearily apprehensive. Of all the people in the room, the only one who conveys any sympathy is Mirabella. Mirabella, who caused this, in a way.

  “Did you know,” Katharine asks, turning to her sister, “that Arsinoe was capable of this? I thought you said she was good-hearted? I thought you said she was not devious.”

  “I never said she was not devious,” Mirabella says, and Katharine does not know whether to listen or throttle her. “Though I doubt that she or anyone would have tried something like this had you not taken Billy captive. And even so, it does not seem like her. It seems too . . .”

  “Tactical,” says Rho. “She has at once tied your hands and brought you to the bargaining table. This was not the idea of the upstart naturalist. This was the war gift. This was the plan of the Legion Queen.”

  “The war gift,” Katharine whispers. “I want the army mustered. Now.”

  “How many soldiers?” Antonin asks.

  “All of them. I want my army ready to march.”

  No one moves to obey. They glance between each other.

  “The journey around the mountain would take us several weeks,” Rho says. “Perhaps longer, in the deep snow of the northern valleys. By the time we reached them, we would be fatigued and cold. Frostbitten and low on supplies where they will be dug in and fortified. We lack the ships to transport that number of soldiers by water, and no one will dare the seas and the mist, anyway.” She gestures to Mirabella. “Not even if we were to strap her to one of the hulls.”

  “And remember,” Genevieve leans forward. “The rebellion will not hurt him. Not as long as we have the suitor. What feels like a loss is actually a stalemate.”

  Katharine grits her teeth.

  “We do not march on Sunpool.”

  “Then,” Luca asks. “Where?”

  “We march on Bastian City.” Katharine shoves her chair back and stands. “On the city of the warriors. We march on them now. So speaks the Queen Crowned!” she shouts, furious that she must add it.

  “Yes, Queen Katharine,” Antonin says.

  “Get out, all of you.” She waves her hand. “Leave me alone with my commander.”

  One by one they rise and hurry from the chamber. Mirabella is the last to go, and when she does, she crosses quietly behind.

  “She will not hurt him,” she says quietly. “I am sure of it, Kat.”

  Katharine closes her eyes. She almost reaches back and squeezes her sister’s hand. Instead, she growls low in her throat.

  “You had better be right.”

  After Mirabella is gone, Rho rises and comes to Katharine’s side. She does not need to be told what is to happen. She accepts the gift of dead queens as if accepting a kiss.

  Katharine allows more of them to flow out of her than she did before. Yet once inside of Rho, they bleed out of her less. They darken her eyes and add bulk to her shoulders. But except for a slight mottling of black veins in her neck, Rho still looks like Rho.

  Until she smiles.

  “You are growing used to this,” Katharine says.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then take my army. Go to Bastian City and raze it to the ground.”

  When Rho walks out of the Black Council chamber, Luca is waiting for her in the hall.

  “She has ordered you to go, and so you must,” Luca says, falling in beside her old friend. “But take care. The warriors may have fewer numbers, but no one knows what the war gift is capable of better than you.”

  “Do not worry, Luca. All will be well.”

  Luca peers at the tall priestess from the corner of her eye. The war gift is upon her already. It changes her stride and the heft of her shoulders. It makes her voice lower and rough. When she tries to look closer, Rho jerks away.

  “Stop and face me,” Luca says. “That is not a request.”

  Reluctantly, Rho obeys and turns toward the High Priestess. What Luca sees in the warrior’s
eyes fills her with horror. But she will not show it.

  “This rebellion has brought out another side of you, Rho. You flourish in it. No queen in the island’s history has ever had a finer commander.”

  “Thank you, Luca.”

  The High Priestess nods.

  “You have climbed far higher in the Queen Crowned’s esteem than anyone could have guessed. And the silver armor does not look as out of place atop your priestess robes as I would have thought.”

  To Luca’s displeasure, Rho’s lips curl in a sneer. “Speak plain.”

  “Very well,” Luca says. Fast as a striking snake, she grasps one of Rho’s wrists and holds it up. “Do you see these black bracelets you wear? They are as permanent as the crown that I placed on her head.” She lets go. “And you must not forget that.”

  Rho lowers her head. She nods. Then she goes, to follow the queen’s orders, her steps far too fast for Luca to ever keep up.

  SUNPOOL

  Arsinoe leaves through the main gate and finds her bear surrounded by townsfolk. While they were away, Caragh used her gift to call him closer, and now he waits outside the walls for easy meals and a few pats from those who are bold enough to try. When the people see her coming, they bow and return to the city, leaving the bear to his queen.

  “Shall we go to the woods, boy?” she asks, but Jules and Camden catch them before they can leave the road.

  “Can we join you?” Jules asks. She has a huge silver fish in her arms and her cougar trotting beside, looking up at the fish with happy, slitted eyes.

  “Fine,” says Arsinoe. They walk in silence out into the snow. When they reach the crest of a far-enough hill, Jules tosses the fish onto the ground and lets the bear and the cougar decide who gets which end.

  Watching the two of them—Camden crouched, tail twitching, and Braddock on all fours with his head bobbing like a bird’s—Arsinoe almost smiles. But it is no good, being back in Sunpool without Mirabella. It is no good with Billy taken hostage.

  “Were you able to get some rest?”

  “Some,” Arsinoe replies.

  “And something to eat?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Are you going to be mad at me for another day?”

  “I’m going to be mad at you for as long as I want,” Arsinoe snaps. “You don’t just get to drag me out of places.”

  “Sometimes I have to. When you’re upset, you don’t always think clearly.”

  “You’re the one with the war-gifted legion curse. But I’m the one who doesn’t think clearly.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Well, what is?” Arsinoe crosses her arms. “I can’t stop thinking about what Katharine is doing to him. I should never have come back here.”

  “I didn’t ask you to.”

  “I know!”

  “But I’m glad you are.” Jules reaches out to tentatively tug on her sleeve. “I’m sorry about Billy. We’ll get him back.”

  “How?” Arsinoe asks. However they manage it, it will not be soon enough.

  Before Jules can answer, a familiar whistle cuts through the air, and Emilia, Mathilde, and the warriors burst up over the hills.

  “They’re back,” Jules says with relief as they hurry to the road. Emilia charges her mount nearly over the top of them before pulling up to rear. Her face is ablaze, dark hair loose and wild for once. Jules puts her hand on the horse’s shoulder.

  “You’re back,” she says breathlessly as the horse quiets. “And no others lost. I was worried you would do something stupid.”

  “Who says she did not?” Mathilde asks, and dismounts to greet Arsinoe, and the bear and the cougar.

  Arsinoe does a fast count of the party. All of the warriors except those who fell in the raid or to Katharine’s poison are present. But there are three bodies wrapped in blankets and slung over the backs of the horses. Two will be Bea and the other poisoned warrior. The third is draped across the front of Emilia’s saddle.

  “If you’re all here, then who is that?” Arsinoe points at the body. She sees Billy in her mind’s eye, lost and poisoned in the dark, falling down beside the road, trying to get back to her.

  “See for yourself,” Emilia says, and slides the body off.

  Jules kneels over it cautiously and draws the blanket back away from the face. “Good Goddess.”

  “What? Who is it?” Arsinoe rushes to her and grasps Jules’s arm. But the body is not Billy. The boy who lies in the snow, wrapped in a blanket, not dead but certainly not conscious, is Pietyr Renard.

  “She takes our boy,” Emilia says, and grins. “So we take hers. I told you I would make it right.”

  GREAVESDRAKE MANOR

  Mirabella takes a deep breath as she arrives at Greavesdrake Manor. At the queen’s request, she took the carriage west from Indrid Down, through the hills to the Arron estate. Though the Arrons are rarely there these days. Not even Genevieve.

  Her eyes drift skyward, up the vast face of red brick to the pitched roof of black. Such grandness. Such solid, monumental weight. As she walks to the front steps, she feels the house watching, every empty window a curtain-lidded eye. She nearly tugs down the hood of her cloak to conceal herself.

  The door opens before she has a chance to knock. A butler in a smart black jacket and gray vest bows hello. There is a green scorpion clipped to his lapel but not a real semi-live one, thank the Goddess.

  “Queen Katharine sent for me.”

  “Of course.” He steps aside, and she walks into the foyer, heels echoing off the marble. “The queen is in her old rooms.”

  Her old rooms, where Pietyr Renard was kept during his long illness. And now the rooms that he was kidnapped from.

  Mirabella stretches her neck to get a better look at the butler’s face. The shadow of a fading bruise mars his cheekbone.

  “It must have been frightening for you when the warriors attacked.”

  “‘Warriors,’” he says. “I saw only one. And yes, she was fearsome.”

  She follows him through the foyer and past several open doors. Greavesdrake is almost too much to take in. Her eyes wander up to the molding on the high ceilings and windows, and the wallpaper of textured velvet. She listens to her footsteps change from the marble floor to dark, polished wood. Every table is set as though ready to be committed to canvas: ornate gold candlesticks and shining trays spread with sinister red jewels. No doubt the jewels are replaced by poison berries when poison berries are in season.

  “What a beautiful place to grow up,” she comments, though she means exactly the opposite. Greavesdrake Manor is opulent and menacing. Much like the poisoners themselves are.

  “I could tell you many stories about the young queen. Perhaps after you are dismissed, I may bring you to the library. It was Queen Katharine’s favorite place to hide. In the stacks. Behind the curtains. We would lose her there for hours, bricked up behind a fortress of books.”

  “A fortress of books,” Mirabella says. She imagines little Katharine stacking volumes to craft a careful, curving tower. And then reading her way out.

  Little Katharine. Gone as Little Mirabella is gone, and how she mourns them. How all women must mourn the loss of those little girls, relegated to shadow as they grow.

  He leads Mirabella up a long set of stairs that overlooks the center gallery and great room, and along the hall before stopping at a set of open doors.

  “The queen is expecting you,” he says, and bows. “I am called Edmund, should you have need of anything.”

  Mirabella nods and steps into the room. It appears untouched. Nothing upended or rifled through. Emilia—for it must have been Emilia—has left no trace.

  She steps farther inside, past fine tables and a chaise of striped silk. The servants have kept the space up nicely. But it still carries a smell. Sour and stale. The smell of a body fallen into disuse. As she reaches the threshold of the bedroom, she sees Katharine standing at the foot of the bed.

  “Katharine?”

  “Yes, ye
s, come in.”

  Katharine seems distracted. Or perhaps merely upset. As Mirabella moves to join her, she cannot help but remember: it was here that Pietyr was discovered after whatever had befallen him. And perhaps whatever that was has left something behind.

  She scans the walls and furniture, not knowing what she is looking for. But that is pointless. Luca said that Pietyr would be able to tell her what is wrong with Katharine. But only if he is conscious. And here.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course,” Mirabella says. “Though I do not know how much help I may be. Do you mean to send me back to the rebellion? Try to convince them to release him?”

  Katharine glances at her like she is a fool. “Of course not.”

  “Then what would you have me do?”

  “What will I do?” Katharine asks. “The queen in me says I should do nothing. That Pietyr has been as good as dead for months, and his body . . . his shell . . . is not worth any risk.”

  “But?”

  “But I would ride there tonight if I could. Take the fastest horse from the stable and gallop through the frozen pass.” She seems exhausted. And smaller, somehow, as if the trappings of the crown have fallen away inside her childhood bedroom. “There were rebels in my city. Warriors, who came here, to the Arron estate, and stole the thing I hold most dear. What sort of Queen Crowned am I, Mirabella, if they would dare that?”

  Mirabella frowns. She looks around the floor, into the shadowy corners, searching for some kind of clue. Nothing—until her gaze catches on a bright, ugly rug.

  It is not truly an ugly rug. Like everything else in Greavesdrake, it is very fine, spun from eggshell-colored silk. But it does not seem to belong. As if it is new. Or was hastily brought in from another room.

  “But he is not lost, Katharine, not yet,” Mirabella says, and discreetly walks behind her. She toes the edge of the silk. What could it be hiding? A trap door? A carved rune? As she draws more of it up with her foot, the wood beneath appears darker. Stained.

  “Mirabella?”