The tent flap opens again; it is Mathilde, come to rouse them.
“Katharine’s army is moving.”
“Did you see it in a vision?” asks Jules.
“I saw it with my eyes,” Mathilde replies.
“Raise the call,” Emilia orders. “Form the lines. We will join you at the front.”
Mathilde disappears behind the falling tent flap. The sound of the low horns and the responding rush of movement send a chill down Arsinoe’s back.
Jules stands and stretches alongside her cougar as Emilia gathers their weapons. Both are already in their armor. Camden will wear armor, too, specially crafted to fit her. Arsinoe wants to throw herself across the cat’s lean, furry body at the thought of the arrows and wielded blades.
“Do you think I should have brought Braddock?”
“I think a great brown bear is worth a regiment of cavalry,” Emilia says. “He would have taken down dozens of queensguard, and drawn their fire. And I think he is your pet, and your friend. And you did the right thing by leaving him.”
Arsinoe blinks at her in surprise.
“Focus.” She slaps Arsinoe’s shoulder as she helps her into light silver armor. “Your whole mind must be in the fight if you are to survive it.”
“My whole mind is on Katharine,” says Arsinoe. “On where she is and where I’ll be.”
“She may start the battle at the head. But do not be surprised if they keep her to the back. It may be difficult to reach her.”
“I don’t care.” She feels the armor tightening, the buckles secured. Part of her wants to shrug it off. It will only slow her down.
Jules slips knives into her boots and belt. She straps a sword across her chest. Watching her, Arsinoe cannot help thinking how she and Katharine are both so small, yet both so fearsome. When she faces Arsinoe, Jules’s blue and green eyes blaze.
Emilia checks a blade and sheaths it hard. “I have to see to the soldiers. I will find you at the horses.”
After she goes, Jules takes up Camden’s armor.
“How in the world am I supposed to get her into this?” she asks, and Camden whaps her tail against the ground. “Arsinoe, will you hold her?”
“Oh no.” Arsinoe steps back. “She’s your familiar; you armor her.”
Jules chuckles. “I helped you with your bear.”
“That was forever ago. My bear’s not here now. And besides, I actually need to go after Emilia. I need to talk to her about something.”
“Emilia? What could you and she have to talk about?”
Arsinoe shrugs and steps through the tent flap. “Something. Just something.”
Outside, the camp has come alive, everyone moving and in a hurry. From the high ground of Jules’s tent, everything is visible, and the rebels appear as a multicolored swarm, disorganized, arguing amongst themselves, but generally moving in the direction of the capital. By contrast, what little bit of Katharine’s army is within view is all uniform black and silver, even most of the horses. And they move together like a school of fish.
For a few moments, Arsinoe wanders, unsure which way Emilia went. But then she hears a familiar shout. Emilia is just down the ridge, scolding a group of soldiers around a burned-down cookfire.
When Arsinoe reaches them, the soldiers scatter, seemingly more eager to face the entire queensguard than to stay and face Emilia.
“Is that wise?” Arsinoe asks. “Yelling at them like that so close to a fight?”
“The coming battle is the only reason I did not have them whipped.” Emilia holds up a spit bearing what appears to be the well-eaten remains of a roasted lamb. “They stole it from a farm we passed. When I warned all to be sure to pay for anything we took. We march as liberators, not thieves!” She tosses the spit into the ash. “They will make enemies for the new crown before it is even on Jules’s forehead.”
“Jules’s forehead? So you mean to put it on her in ink, like Katharine’s?”
Emilia cocks her head. “I don’t often agree with a poisoner, but I do like that. A crown etched in blood. A permanent mark. And less clunky than a circlet or some jewel-encrusted hat. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with Jules?”
“I needed to ask you something. I need to ask you to do something.”
“What?”
“Do you remember how you said you didn’t think Billy should fight?”
Emilia looks away. “I should not have said that. And I did not mean it the way you took it. It is not that I do not think him justified in fighting. But I have seen what the poisoners did to him. I have watched him as he trains and see how his right arm cannot quite stop trembling. Do you want me to hold him back? You should have asked sooner. Now we are preparing to march, and it will not be easy—”
“I don’t want you to keep him back.” Arsinoe bites her lip. “I want you to look after him.”
Emilia blinks like she has misheard.
“Please, Emilia. I’m asking you.”
“I cannot. I will be beside my queen.”
“Jules doesn’t need you. You wanted her to be a warrior . . . and now she is one. But Billy isn’t. And if he faces Rho alone, he’s going to get himself killed.”
Emilia sighs.
“You know we are all likely to die. Yet you want me to worry about one pitiful mainlander.”
“That’s exactly what I want. Please.”
“All right!” Emilia throws up her hands. “I will try. But there are never any guarantees in battle.”
“Thank you.” To both of their surprises, Arsinoe leaps forward and hugs her. Briefly.
“Ah well,” says Emilia. “It is to be expected, I suppose. Always like a boy, to be in need of protection.”
THE BATTLEFIELD
Katharine sits astride her stallion when Genevieve rides up on her black gelding, both Genevieve and the horse outfitted in poisoner purple and skulls over silver armor.
“We have managed to draw the rebels down and to the west,” Genevieve says. “They have given up the good ground to the north.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” Paola Vend says as her mount trots up beside her. “They are untrained. Made up of farmers and laborers. Innkeepers. Their numbers are large, but they will prove to be of no use with no one capable of leading them.”
Katharine looks out upon her army. They hold formation and perfect position. Across the battlefield, the force they face is nowhere near as polished. Their armor is motley and lacking. Some have only a breastplate and no arm guards. Many have no helmets. The tips of their spears waver in the air instead of holding high and upright. But within that army are naturalists and elementals, oracles and warriors. Over their heads, hawks and crows circle and cry. Dogs growl at their sides, and their horses stamp angrily with no need to be urged forward. Fire flickers across knuckles, and clouds gather above. The warriors’ arrows will never miss, and the oracles will know the moves of their opponents before they themselves do.
“They are soldiers of every gift,” Katharine says.
“A legion-cursed army for a legion-cursed queen,” says Genevieve.
Katharine swallows. Somewhere out there is Juillenne Milone, the Legion Queen returned, sent by the Goddess to exact her vengeance, and who Mirabella would have fought beside. But Mirabella is dead. If she were not, it could all have been different.
Inside Katharine, the only thing that races is her pulse. She sent so many of the dead queens into Rho that she is nearly empty, so she knows that the cowardly sweat that breaks onto her forehead is hers and hers alone. She squeezes the reins hard in her hands.
“Your sister Arsinoe will be out there, somewhere,” Paola says. “She turned away from the crown during the Ascension, when she had a right to it. Only to ride on the side of a rebellion and try to steal it from your head.”
“If she can take it, she can have it,” Katharine says, and Genevieve and Paola look at her in surprise.
In the distance to the right, the queensguard parts before a figure on a hul
king black horse. From where they stand, Rho’s face is not visible, nor her black eyes or the black veins stretched across her like spiderwebs. Only her red braid and the waves of something dark that emanate from her form almost like mist.
“What is that?” Genevieve asks.
Katharine presses her lips together grimly.
“That is Rho.”
Arsinoe reaches down and strokes the neck of her horse with a shaking hand. “Are you a good horse?” she asks. He seems a good one, tall and long-legged, with bright eyes and a smart face. His coat is a deep brown from head to tail, except for two white socks on his forelegs. That was why she chose him. The socks reminded her of Billy and his many, many pairs back on the mainland.
She runs her hand down his withers and traces the lines of his armor. It seems there is too much vulnerable flesh exposed. Too much exposed on all of them. She looks to her left, across the hills to where Jules and Emilia wait for the charge. She wishes she were there. But she has one task and one task only and that is to reach Katharine.
Still, she is not alone. Mathilde is with her and Gilbert Lermont, and the troops behind them are vast. Hopefully vast enough to batter a hole right through the opposing queensguard when they charge. Arsinoe will hold back to see where Katharine goes.
“We’ll have to be fast,” Arsinoe whispers to the horse. “And I’ll try my best not to get you killed if you will do the same. You probably have no idea what I’m saying. But all those years of naturalist training have to amount to something.”
There is a jostling in the soldiers near her, and Billy appears, riding through with none other than Pietyr Renard on the back of his saddle. The sight is enough to make her laugh, even now.
“Shouldn’t you be on the far-left flank?” Arsinoe asks.
“We’re on our way there. I just . . .” He smiles a little, and her chest tightens. It is surreal seeing him in armor with a sword and crossbow. “Well, Renard wanted one last chance to appeal to leadership.”
“I should have a horse at least,” Pietyr grumbles. “And a helmet.”
“A horse so you can run to the enemy?” Mathilde asks. “And there will be no helmet either. For you are no good to us if Katharine cannot see your pale hair. Every soldier in the queensguard must know you for an Arron. They must see you in the colors of the Legion Queen.”
“We will see.” Pietyr prods Billy in the shoulder. “Take me to the commander.”
Billy looks at Arsinoe regretfully. “My last day on Fennbirn and I spend it in service to this git.”
She smiles. She wants to reach for him. To hold him right there so they will be at each other’s sides.
“I’ll see you after.”
“Are you all right?” Mathilde asks after Billy and Pietyr have ridden away.
Arsinoe nods. The oracle does not seem frightened or even nervous. Her bright streak of white hair is braided and wrapped around the golden bun on the back of her head, and she wears a clean yellow cape around her shoulders. Between that and her shining white mare, it is almost like she is trying to make herself a target.
“What have you seen?” Arsinoe asks, and looks beyond her to Gilbert Lermont, in a yellow cape of his own. “Gilbert? What have you been able to scry?”
“When I scry, the wine blooms cloudy,” Gilbert replies.
“It is the same with me,” says Mathilde. “The smoke is just smoke.”
When Arsinoe closes her eyes in frustration, Gilbert frowns. “You have let the sight gift languish for hundreds of years, and when you decide you have need of it, you expect it to return at a snap of your fingers.”
“I’m sorry,” Arsinoe says. “That’s not what I meant. It just seems like all of the gifts have strengthened around this generation of queens. Not only the gift of the dominant sister or the victor. Do you think that’s an omen? A sign for the Legion Queen? Or for Katharine, and her many gifts from the dead?”
“That is the problem with omens,” says Gilbert. “They can often be taken for both sides.”
Arsinoe clenches her jaw. She can feel Mirabella there so strongly she would not be surprised to turn her head and find her seated behind her on the saddle. Mirabella, their great protector. She had tried to avoid this to the last. Her final words to Arsinoe, written on that parchment, were words of peace. And she had died for it.
“Are you truly ready?” Mathilde asks.
“I am.”
“One more time in the old ways, then. One last time of queens killing queens.” She looks across the battlefield, and her expression of serene calm fades. “What is that?”
Arsinoe turns in the saddle just as the enormous rider emerges from the ranks of the queensguard. Waves of blackness radiate from their armor as if it is very, very cold. Waves of blackness like floating ink.
“Oh, Goddess,” she whispers, realizing who it is and what has been done to her. Billy cannot face Rho Murtra. Not like that. Perhaps no one can.
She wants to warn him, but there is no time. The moment the rider reaches the front lines, she roars and sounds the charge. Every horse and rebel soldier around Arsinoe and Mathilde flinch as the queensguard cascades toward them.
“The rider!” Mathilde shouts over the sudden noise. “Who is it?”
“It’s Rho Murtra!” Arsinoe shouts back. “Or at least it used to be.”
On the battlefield, Rho leaves a trail of writhing rebels behind her like a spreading carpet. The length of her sword cuts through them so easily, it is hard to believe they have any bones inside their flesh. Darkness erupts from her mouth and eyes to dive down rebel throats. Not even Katharine wants to think about what is happening before it bursts back out and the soldiers fall.
“What happened to her?” Genevieve whispers. “What did you do to her?”
“Nearly the same thing that was done to me,” Katharine says, and Genevieve shrinks back. “The dead queens. They have been with me since the night of the Quickening when I fell down the Breccia Domain.” Or rather, when she was pushed. But even that no longer seems to matter. Out on the field, the queensguard soldiers follow Rho. They follow her because she will be victorious. Because she will keep them alive.
“The king-consort,” Genevieve says, her eyes searching Katharine’s skin for any sign, any glimmers of gray and rot. “And Pietyr. Did Natalia know?”
“That I was truly Katharine the Undead?” She shakes her head. Though she does wonder if Natalia had suspected. She must have sensed that something was wrong. That she was not the same girl for whom she had needed to fake an entire poisoned feast.
Katharine looks again to the fighting, where the cobbled-together rebels are no match against the accurate arrows of the queensguard, their formations of spears. Her soldiers stop haphazard attacks of elemental fire by putting crossbow bolts into elemental chests. They break the ranks of naturalists by cutting their birds down out of the sky. Already her army has bowed the rebel lines. And Rho has sighted Jules Milone and will be upon her within minutes.
“What kind of ruin am I watching?” Katharine murmurs gravely.
“We must raise the order for reinforcements to the flank,” says Paola Vend.
“No.” Katharine unsheathes her sword. “Hold the rest in reserve. I will go out myself.”
“Katharine,” says Genevieve. “You should not.”
“If I do not, then how will my sister find me?” She looks Genevieve in the eyes and puts heels to her stallion, knowing that neither Genevieve nor Paola will ride alongside. When she next looks back, they will be gone, retreated into the fortress of the Volroy. It is the last place they should go. For that is where she intends to lead Arsinoe.
Her stallion gamely rushes down the hill, a proper warhorse keen to the sounds of screams and clashing steel. But Katharine’s heart pounds. The battle is vast. She hardly knows where to begin. And then she sees him across the field to the north. Pietyr, upright and breathing. Conscious.
Pietyr’s sword and shield are streaked with red. Even his pale hair i
s sheeted pink and dripping down the side of his face. He is not a great warrior like her king-consort Nicolas was. But he is doing his best.
“Pietyr!” she shouts, and somehow he hears her. He turns, and for a moment, his eyes alight and they are the only two people on the island. But then his expression turns dark and hard. He raises his sword and goes back to fighting.
“Raise the signal for the eastern flank!”
Horses and soldiers fly past as Emilia barks orders, and Jules’s horse spins a hole into the mud and young grass. She feels every battle cry and every strike of every hoof against the newly thawed ground. Emilia has not stopped shouting since the queen’s army charged behind the black mist-shrouded monster in the queensguard commander’s uniform. Jules does not remember Rho Murtra being so large. But perhaps it was only the white priestess robes that had made her seem smaller.
The clash of the armies had not been anything like Jules expected: a terrible boom and then a worse flash of silence before the screams and metallic crossing of swords.
“Go!” Emilia wrenches a flag away from a frightened soldier and waves it back and forth, signaling to both sides of the rebel force before dropping it and wheeling her horse beside Jules’s. “We have to go! Another moment and we’ll be trampled.” She grasps on to Jules’s arm. For the first time since they met, Jules sees fear in her eyes.
Camden leaps up behind the saddle to avoid the careless feet of people and horses. She is clunky in her armor, and Jules wishes she had not buckled her into it. Better for the cat to be fast and lithe than bound and distracted.
“Where are we supposed to go?” Jules asks angrily.
Rho Murtra, or the thing that used to be her, barrels through the fray like a rolling boulder. One slash of her steel cleaves three rebels through the middle and leaves them in pieces and trailing pink innards.
“Are we to leave our people alone to face that?”
“I was wrong,” Emilia cries. “We cannot face her. There is no queen strong enough. Not even Mirabella.”
Five Dark Fates Page 27
