One Dark Throne

by Kendare Blake

  Pietyr tosses the mare’s reins across a low branch. The long, knotted rope in his saddlebag was purchased from a trusted merchant in Prynn. Coil after coil of thick, sturdy knots that weighed the mare down on one side as they rode. Coil after coil, and still he is not sure whether he purchased enough.

  He studies the trees, but none seems strong enough to tie off on. Not even the ones as thick as his waist, when the Breccia Domain is leering over his shoulder. He would prefer a trunk as thick as his horse. He considers rigging an additional safety line to her saddle, but if she were to run she would drag him back up over the side. And besides, the extra line would cost too much rope.

  “Get on with it,” he growls, loudly, to break the silence and bolster his courage. “I did not ride all this way for nothing.” He holds his mare’s cheeks between his hands. “If I am lucky,” he says to her, “I will see what Kat saw.”

  The horse blinks. It does not take a naturalist to see she knows he is lying. If Pietyr is lucky, he will not see, or feel, anything at all.

  He chooses a tree and ties his rope, then lets out slack all the way to the mouth of the fissure. Sweat dots his forehead. His hands shake. He is terrified of a hole in the ground. How Nicolas Martel would laugh at him if he were there.

  Pietyr throws the loose end of the rope over the side of the rocks, and it unfurls for many long seconds. He does not hear it strike the bottom. It only comes to an end, tugging against his fists.

  Perhaps the rumors are true, and there is no bottom.

  With the rope in place, he walks back to his horse, and takes a small lamp out of his saddlebag. He ties it to his belt, and stuffs extra matches into every pocket. Then he breathes in deep, goes to the edge, and lowers himself over the side.

  The knotted rope makes for easy enough going. His feet do not slip, and his hands are strong and sure. Even so, he keeps his eyes on the patch of blue-and-white sky overhead. When the patch is dishearteningly small and his legs have begun to tire, he finally looks around, resting against the side of the crevasse. The sides are sheer, steep rock. He does not know how Katharine was able to stop her fall.

  He continues on, deeper and deeper into the dark. Until his feet search for the next knot, and it is not there.

  Pietyr’s hands clench tight as he tries to catch his previous foothold. It is hard not to panic thinking of how far it is to climb back up and how far he may yet have to fall. And it is so dark now that he cannot see the rope in front of his face.

  A sudden wind moves across his shoulders. He jerks, and his hip strikes painfully against the stone. But it is only wind, sneaking down from the surface. Never mind that the wind somehow smells like death and rot. Or that when he laughs at his foolishness, there is no echo.

  There is nothing here, he thinks as the back of his neck prickles. There is no one down here, no one watching. This was a waste.

  He reaches for the lantern at his belt. He will light it just to be sure, to get a look at the darkness and nothing below his feet. But when his fingers find a match, he does not want to strike it. What if he is near the bottom? Will he see everything that they have discarded? Long-dead queens lying in piles of bones and ragged black dresses, staring up at him with empty, accusing eye sockets and bare, yawning jaws.

  Or will he see Katharine, his Katharine, rotting where he threw her, and the claw marks on the stones of whatever scratched its way out to take her place?

  No, he thinks. That is foolishness. A flight of frightened fancy.

  He strikes the match.

  It struggles to light, and he touches it quickly to the lamp. Yellow-orange flame casts against his clothes, against his rope and the stone it hangs beside. Carefully, he unties the lantern and holds it out, looking down, past his feet.

  There is nothing. No bones of dead queens. No cavern bottom of rocky growths. It is only a void, and that is a wonder in itself considering how far he has descended. The length of rope he would need to reach the bottom would have been too much for his horse to carry. All he can do now is drop the lamp, and try to see something in the moment that it lands.

  Before he can let go, something scrapes against the rock. The sound was not subtle. It sounded close, but he cannot see a thing.

  I imagined it, he thinks, and then, a lizard. Or a natural shifting of the ground.

  Foul-smelling wind ruffles his hair. It curls into his collar like a bundle of clammy fingers.

  “Who is there?”

  A silly question, and no one replies. But in Pietyr’s mind, he sees teeth and a grin stretched wide in the dark.

  He swings his lamp out to all sides. There are more noises now: scraping and the clacking of bones.

  “It is not possible!” he shouts, foregoing all restraint. “There is nothing here!”

  But everyone knows that the Breccia Domain is more than an empty hole in the earth. Who knows what happened to the queens who were thrown down into the dark? Into the heart of the island, where the Goddess’s eye is always open. Who knows how she kept those queens or what she turned them into.

  Pietyr tries to steady his rapid breath.

  “What did you do to her? What did you do to my Katharine?”

  At the mention of her name, the air warms. Katharine was one of them. One of the fallen. There are centuries of sisters here, ready to listen to her woes and cradle her with skeletal hands.

  But that was a lie. Whatever help they gave was not for her. It was for them, and they have twisted through Katharine like ivy.

  “Who are you?” he shouts, but he already knows, and so the queens who dwell in the Breccia do not bother to tell him. What remains of them is uglier than bones and gray, withered skin. It is crushed hopes. The air reeks of their bitterness.

  Pietyr scrambles back up the rope. He has to get back to Katharine.

  “It is my fault,” he says, and drops the lamp to use both hands to climb. As the light flashes through the dark, it flashes past an upturned face. It is just for an instant but it makes him scream, and the image of its empty eyes lingers in the dark. Pietyr climbs as fast as he can. It is not until he feels the bones brush against his ankle that he realizes that Katharine is a queen, and though she was able to survive the Breccia, he, in fact, may not.

  INDRID DOWN

  The great round arena of Indrid Down sits on the outskirts of the city, at the center of a large open field, easy to be spotted in. But it was simple enough for Jules and Arsinoe to sneak into it and meet Caragh and Madrigal after dark, creeping along the southern side, full of scaffolds and building materials.

  “Do you think anyone saw us?” Arsinoe wonders, out of breath.

  “Shush,” says Jules, and stares out into the night for any sign of movement.

  “Don’t be so worried,” says Madrigal, and both Jules and Arsinoe jump. “The guards are few and posted up high. Or patrolling below in the staging rooms. Come,” she says. “I’ll take you to Caragh.”

  They pass beneath the scaffolding, and Arsinoe stares up in wonder. The arena is enormous, a grand spectacle even though several sections have fallen into disrepair. Part of the northern wall has crumbled away entirely, and the age of the structure is visible in cracks and weather-worn edges.

  “Where’s Aunt Caragh?” Jules asks.

  “Below the extra seating, near one of the entrances to the competition ground. It will be a good place.”

  Jules senses something and stops short, causing Arsinoe to run into her back just as Camden collides with their fronts, purring and butting her head into their faces.

  “Blegh,” Arsinoe says, plucking fur from her mouth. “I thought she was stashed at the stable.”

  “Try telling her that,” Caragh says. She stands leaning against a beam, arms crossed loosely. “Better to sneak her in under cover of dark, anyway. Tomorrow we’d have had to bring her in a cart, hide her under a pile of something.”

  Arsinoe looks over their hiding place and grasps one of the supports beneath the hastily repaired section overhead.


  “Why here?” she asks. “The visibility would be better from the western side.”

  “That is exactly why here,” Jules says. “No one will want to sneak in and watch from underneath the worst seats in the house.”

  Arsinoe pushes against the beam. Tomorrow the arena will fill to capacity. People will pack in on top of one another.

  “I hope they don’t fall through.”

  “I hope Jules can do what she says.” Madrigal looks out at the arena ground and sighs. “We never should have bound you. If you’d had all these years to develop your skill, this would be easy.”

  Arsinoe says nothing, but she sees the way Caragh purses her lips. The binding on the legion curse may have been the only thing that kept Jules sane. It may be the only thing keeping her sane now.

  “If you don’t think you can,” says Arsinoe, “or if you don’t want to, we can find another way.”

  “No,” says Jules. “I can do it. I can guide Katharine’s poisoned weapons off course long enough for Mirabella to kill her. This was my idea, the way least likely to get you caught. We can’t change plans now.”

  Arsinoe’s stomach flutters with nerves. There is no time to change plans, anyway. The night is late. So late it is nearly dawn. Jules has not used her war gift much, but it has been there when it mattered most. And besides, Mirabella is so strong. The duel will be over with one lightning bolt.

  THE HIGHBERN HOTEL

  Mirabella eases out of her ball gown and shivers.

  “Is there a chill?” she asks.

  “Here, Mira.” Elizabeth drags the coverlet from the bed and uses her good arm to wrap Mirabella up tight. “Is that better?”

  “Yes.” But in truth, the blanket feels like it came from a snowbank rather than a down-stuffed bed. And it hurts, like pinpricks against her skin. She takes a breath, and that hurts too.

  “You are so pale.” Elizabeth presses her hand to Mirabella’s cheeks and Mirabella gasps. A freshly tattooed black bracelet encircles Elizabeth’s wrist. Bree sees it as well and takes hold of Elizabeth’s arms. They have even tattooed her left, just above the end of the stump. She has taken the oaths and become a full priestess.

  “You were supposed to tell us,” Bree says. “We would have been there.”

  “Where is Pepper?” Mirabella searches Elizabeth’s hood and her long dark hair. She had not realized how long it had been since she had seen the plucky woodpecker. She had just assumed he was staying in the trees outside the hotel.

  “He’s gone,” Elizabeth whispers. “Rho made me choose. She had him in her fist.” A tear slides down her cheek. “I guess she knew about him all along.”

  Mirabella trembles, partly from rage, and the anger quickens her for a moment and makes it easier to breathe.

  “I could have stopped her,” she says. “I will still stop her.”

  “No.” Elizabeth wipes her face with the back of her sleeve. “I would have chosen this, anyway. To be a priestess.”

  Sara and Luca enter the room, Sara with a tray of tea. She sets it on a small circular table.

  “You must be shaken to the core after that dance,” Sara says, and pours a steaming cup. “What a spectacle. Queen Katharine has nerve to spare.”

  “Yes,” says Luca. “I am sure that Natalia never imagined she and I would need to separate the two of you like children fighting over toys.”

  “It was not a fight,” says Mirabella. “It was not anything.”

  “She is only trying to scare you.” Bree curls her lip. “As if she could.”

  But Katharine did scare her. And judging by their taut, pale faces, she had scared them all.

  Mirabella blinks. The room is spinning. And blacking in and out. Sara hands her a cup of tea.

  “I must sit,” she murmurs. The teacup falls and shatters at her feet, and she crumples to the floor.

  “Mira!” Elizabeth shouts.

  Sara draws back, her hands to her face.

  “It is poison!” she gasps. “Where is the taster? Where is he?”

  “It was not his fault,” Mirabella whispers.

  Luca kneels at her side and barks for Rho. It takes less than a minute for the war-gifted priestess to secure the room, shuttering windows and ordering guards.

  “How?” Rho asks.

  “It must have been Katharine,” Luca says. “She must have had something on her gloves.”

  Luca holds Mirabella’s hand and studies her skin everywhere that Katharine touched her during their dance. There is no redness or blisters. No sign of irritation.

  “Where is Billy?”

  “He stayed behind,” Bree says. “With Joseph Sandrin.”

  “He should have been watching her.” Sara grinds her teeth. “Protecting her!”

  “So should we all,” Luca says. “But it does not matter now.”

  “I have sent for healers,” Rho calls from the door.

  “There is no pain,” Mirabella says. “I am only weak. Perhaps it is not . . .” Her voice trails off. “Perhaps it is not poison at all.”

  Sara touches her cheek. Bree and Elizabeth are both crying. She wishes she could tell them to stop. That she is fine.

  When the healers arrive, they lift her into bed. They take blood from her arm and sniff her breath. They poke and prod and pull back her eyelids to see how her eyes move.

  “She is getting no worse,” they murmur after a time. “Whatever it is, it is not progressing.”

  “Why would they poison her if not to kill her?” Bree asks.

  “Because they have killed her,” Luca says softly.

  Sara kneels beside the bed and takes Mirabella’s hand. The poison does not race through her body. She does not break out in spasms or labor to breathe.

  “Cowards,” Rho growls from the door, and Mirabella hears something break as the war priestess loses her temper.

  “Can the duel be postponed?” Sara asks.

  Luca shakes her head. There is no rule against this. A poisoner is allowed to poison, as they will. As they can. No matter how Mirabella survives the night, she will still be too weak to fight in the morning. She will walk into the arena as good as giftless.

  “This was my fault, child,” Luca says sadly. “I let down my guard.”

  THE ARENA

  The arena grounds fill quickly. The vendors come first, right before dawn, to prepare food to sell from their stands: skewers of chicken and plums, sweet roasted nuts, barrels of cooled wine and cider. Many foods Arsinoe had not tried. Her stomach rumbles. She sent Madrigal out as soon as the crowds were heavy enough to hide her, with plenty of coin to procure samples of everything. But she is not back yet.

  “So many people,” Arsinoe muses as the makeshift stands creak over their heads. “Dressed in their best. Hair pinned and faces painted, to watch a queen die.”

  “Don’t think of that,” Jules says, lurking in shadow with Camden. “It must be done. And when it’s over, the island will have a new elemental queen. And we’ll be free to go.”

  “I should go alone,” says Arsinoe. “You shouldn’t have to give up everything too.”

  “What am I giving up?” Jules asks. “A town that will hunt me for my war gift? There’s no peace for me either, now that my curse is known.”

  “Not everyone would be that way. Not Cait or Ellis. What about Madrigal and your new baby sister or brother?”

  Jules lowers her eyes, and Arsinoe holds her breath. She does not know what she will do if Jules goes back to Wolf Spring. She does not know how to be without her.

  “I’ve never had any path but yours,” Jules says. “So I’ll stay with you, until the end.” She smiles impishly. “Or until the curse drives me mad.”

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, they tuck back into the shadows, and Arsinoe pulls the hood of her light cloak down over her eyes. But it is only Madrigal and Caragh. And Joseph as well, found wandering out on the arena grounds.

  Madrigal hands Arsinoe several skewers of different meats.


  “Don’t share,” she warns her as Arsinoe takes first bites. “Some are poisoned.”

  “Were you followed?” Jules asks Joseph.

  “No,” he replies. “I meant to come last night, but by the time I realized you had left the ball, it was so late that I slept in the stables. Then I snuck in with the morning crowds.” He looks out at the throngs of people. “Honestly, we needn’t have bothered sneaking. Only one thing’s on people’s minds today, and it is not us.”

  Caragh ducks below the beams and peers out into the stands.

  “There are so many poisoners,” she says. “So many elementals.”

  “Almost no naturalists,” Madrigal adds. “Not that I would’ve expected them to make the journey.”

  “Jules,” Caragh says. “Look there.” She points. On the western side of the arena sits a serious-faced group wearing cloaks lined with bright red wool. They are so still that they stand out, calm in the midst of chaos.

  “Who are they?” Jules asks.

  “I think they are warriors. From Bastian City.”

  “Are there oracles too?” Arsinoe asks. “Can they tell us what’s going to happen and relieve us of the suspense?”

  The corner of Caragh’s mouth twists upward. She turns to Madrigal and says, “We should go. Back to the Volroy to be ready to free the bear. We’ll guide him out to the riverbank while the city is mostly empty.”

  Madrigal frowns. It is clear she would rather stay and watch the action. But eventually she nods and goes without complaint.

  “Do you think they’ll manage to do it without killing each other first?” Arsinoe wonders aloud, and Joseph comes to stand between her and Jules. He slips an arm about the shoulders of each of them.

  “Where will we go?” he asks. “After this?”

  “Sunpool, maybe,” says Jules. “I’ve always wanted to see it. And with so many oracles, they’ll already know we’re coming.”

  “Not the ending we hoped for,” says Joseph, “but far better than the ending we feared. The only thing missing will be Billy.”