One Dark Throne

by Kendare Blake

  Katharine cries out. She pushes away from Arsinoe and runs for the door, covering her head.

  “You,” she says, and points at Mirabella. “You will have to be weakened before your execution. I will not have any shows of lightning diverting the people’s attention.”

  “Are you so afraid?” Mirabella shouts, with tears in her voice. She shoves past the guards and falls to her knees at Arsinoe’s side, and Arsinoe coughs and convulses.

  Katharine watches until Arsinoe begins to grow still. As Mirabella’s weight presses down on her chest, Arsinoe lets her eyes drift shut.

  “I am not afraid,” Katharine says. “And I am not without mercy.” She turns to the guards. “Let her cry awhile over the corpse before you take it away. And then prepare it for viewing. I would have it on display at the execution. So afterward they can lie side by side.”

  Mirabella pulls Arsinoe’s limp form onto her lap. She weeps so loudly that it is hard to hear when the sounds of Katharine’s escort fade into the corridor.

  And even then, Arsinoe waits until the only sound she hears is Mirabella before she finally reopens her eyes.

  THE WEDDING

  As Nicolas takes his oaths before the High Priestess, Katharine’s mind wanders. It is not that she is not excited to be marrying him. She is. But it feels almost like the denouement, after the thrill of the crown inked into her skin. After the joy of pouring poison down her sister’s frightened throat. She had waited so long for that. She could almost spin in place remembering how Arsinoe struggled and how Mirabella screamed.

  She slumps, sees Natalia watching, and straightens up again. It is just that there are so many oaths. Nicolas is not a queen, and he must swear, and swear, and swear his allegiance.

  Only Natalia and the Black Council are present for the wedding, with Luca and a few priestesses. The small dark room in the East Tower is lit by three tall candelabras. Someone should have opened a window. The reek of the sacred incense is making her want to cough.

  “Drink and be anointed,” Luca says.

  They make him drink from her crowning cup and dab him with blood and oil. Poor Nicolas. He tries hard to look like he belongs there. But he keeps looking at her, like she might come to him instead of standing to one side. No one told him that the wedding of a king-consort is more to the Goddess than it is to the queen. That she will not even touch him. That they will not even kiss.

  Katharine studies him in the candlelight. He is so handsome and a good match for her. But he is not Pietyr.

  A tight, cold ball settles in the pit of her stomach. Pietyr tried to kill her. But only because he thought she would be killed anyway and killed horribly, by serrated knives and strangers pulling her apart.

  Of course he could have hidden her instead. But that is not the Arron way. Arrons win, or they lose. All or nothing. And Katharine never expected him to be any different.

  Finally, Nicolas finishes his vows and is allowed to face the queen. The priestesses bow to her. Even Luca. Then they file out of the room, followed by the Council. Natalia leaves without looking her in the eye, still angry about her choice of suitor. But Natalia is as a mother to her and will not stay angry forever.

  Nicolas takes her gloved hands.

  “That is it?” he asks. “I thought they would take my blood or burn their symbol into my chest. I thought we would be bound together by lengths of cord.”

  “Is that what they do in your country?”

  “No. In my country, we would both take vows. And my bride would wear white.”

  “She would not if she were a queen,” Katharine says.

  Nicolas lifts her hand to his mouth. He kisses it so greedily that his teeth graze the fabric. He has been respectful in his courtship. He has not even kissed her properly on the mouth. But when he pulls her forward and crushes her to his chest, his hands slide into her hair and cup the back of her head. He is not gentle or shy.

  Katharine raises her elbows and pushes out of his grip.

  “Not now,” she says.

  “What do you mean, ‘not now’? We are married. You are mine.”

  “We are each other’s,” she corrects him. He reaches for her again, but she moves away, her gown rustling like a rattlesnake’s tail. “I would see Natalia. I do not like it when she is angry with me.”

  “See her later, Katharine. I don’t want to wait. I would have you out of those clothes. Skin to skin.” His eyes move over her hungrily. “I have been patient, and we are here, in our castle.”

  “You have been patient,” she says. “But our wedding night will not be here. With everything so rushed and sudden there was no time to prepare even a bedchamber in the West Tower. It is all covered over in dust sheets. Full of coughing priestesses chasing away cobwebs.”

  “Where, then? And when?”

  “My rooms at Greavesdrake. Natalia has arranged a carriage to take us there.”

  When someone opens the door to Natalia’s study high in the East Tower, she expects a servant. Some good and thoughtful boy come to bring her a hot cup of poisoned tea. But it is not. It is William Chatworth.

  “Some other time, William,” she says, and returns to the letter she has been scribbling, another letter to her brother Christophe seeking the whereabouts of Pietyr, as well as to tell him what has transpired. Perhaps the news will finally jolt her brother out from underneath that wife of his, away from her country estate and back to the capital where he belongs.

  “Not some other time. Now.” William strides into the room and helps himself to a pour of her brandy, so fast that she can barely slap it out of his hand.

  “It is tainted,” she says as they stare at the shattered wet mess upon the floor. “With nightshade and fresh elderberry.”

  Chatworth exhales. He flexes his fist and releases it. Then he swings back hard and slaps Natalia across the face.

  Her head turns. She takes a step back, mostly from shock. It is shock more than the pain that makes her eyes water.

  “Perhaps I should have let you drink it,” she says. The impact has driven her teeth into her cheek, and she spits a little blood down at his shoes. “But then again, I see that you are drunk already.”

  “You married your brat to the Martel boy.”

  “There was nothing I could do. You were there. She made her choice in front of everyone. Perhaps if your son had bothered to show up—”

  “So say she changed her mind. That she was angry at him for not being at the crowning.”

  “I cannot,” Natalia says calmly. “She is the queen. And we had to proceed quickly. We are in a precarious place—”

  “Undo it.”

  “I said I cannot.” Natalia grimaces, tired of his breath and his mainland concerns. His normally clear, handsome eyes are squinted and swollen. She does not like him like this. Though perhaps this is what he truly is underneath. Angry, and ugly, and small. “They are wed. He is on his way to her bedchamber now.”

  “What does it matter? She can sleep with him and then marry Billy later. Your queens are not ladies. None of you are fit to be true wives. My son will have to teach her.”

  “He will not teach her anything,” Natalia snaps. “Now leave, William. You are drunk.”

  But Chatworth does not leave. His face turns red and spittle flies from his lips.

  “I’ve spent years feeding Joseph Sandrin to get Billy a place on Fennbirn. To get him a crown. I poisoned the elemental. And before that, the girl in Wolf Spring.”

  “We will not forget it.” Natalia turns her back. A mistake, perhaps, but she cannot bear to look at him any longer. “You will have as much of our trade as I can manage; I do not think Nicolas’s family will be overly diligent. All that you lack is the title, and for that, you get to keep your son. That must please you, surely.”

  He falls quiet, and Natalia begins scribbling on her letter again. His hands wrapping around her neck from behind are such a surprise that she does not even cry out.

  He is strong and so angry that it is only
moments before Natalia’s vision swims. Her hands claw at his fingers and then at her table for anything to help her. All she has is a glass paperweight, a pretty, lilac thing, rounded and not very large. A gift from Genevieve. She picks it up and twists as far as she can to smash it against the side of his head.

  The blow is glancing but makes him stumble, and she falls to the ground, gasping. She tries to call for help, but her voice comes out a croak. Then William kicks her in the stomach, and every muscle in her body clenches tight.

  He hits her. And hits her. Without a sound. She stares into his drunken, bloodshot eyes, hearing nothing but her heartbeat and his labored breathing.

  I cannot end like this, she thinks. I am Natalia Arron.

  She puts her arms up to fight, clawing wildly.

  “Kat,” she gasps. “Katharine.”

  And then Chatworth’s hands close around her throat again, and Natalia’s world goes dark.

  Rho steps into the threshold to find the mainlander standing over Natalia.

  “This is your fault,” he is muttering, and spits at the motionless body. “You should have done what you were to—”

  His words cut off abruptly when Rho enters. She sweeps past him in her white robes and kneels to feel for Natalia’s pulse even though she knows she will not find one. Her neck is crushed. Her eyes are red with burst blood vessels.

  “Clean it up,” the mainlander says. “Clean it up, and find me someone else to deal with.”

  Rho stands. She looks him in the eyes. And without a word, she draws her serrated knife and sinks the blade deep between his ribs. The expression on his face as she carves him up from lungs to heart is delicious to her old war gift. Were it not for the vows she took to the temple to leave her gift behind, she would push him with her mind. Throw him up against the wall so hard he bounced.

  “You . . . ,” he gasps. “You . . .”

  “You should not have touched her, mainlander.”

  She yanks her knife free. He staggers backward, his hand fluttering at the blood pouring from his side. Then he drops to the rug, dead even before he lands.

  Rho cleans the blade on the black band of her robes. The blood can remain there for who knows how long, invisible, her secret badge. She calls out for aid, and two initiates come running.

  They moan and clap their hands over their mouths when they reach the door.

  “Roll him up in a rug,” Rho says. “And dispose of him in the river.”

  It takes them too long to respond for her liking, but they are new, so she tries to be patient.

  “What about . . . Mistress Arron?” asks the taller when she finds her voice.

  Rho stares down at Natalia’s body. So much trouble she has caused them over the years. But Natalia was of the island. Of the Goddess, like Rho herself is. And at the end, she died an ally.

  “Go and find her sister. Bring her here and tell her what has happened. Tell her gently.”

  THE VOLROY CELLS

  “I still do not understand,” Mirabella whispers. “So Katharine really did shoot you with the poisoned bolt?”

  “Right,” Arsinoe says, lying on the floor of their cell, still pretending to be poisoned and dead.

  “But you did not die of poison because you cannot die of poison. . . . Were you really wearing thick leather armor underneath your clothes?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you not die of the bolt wound?”

  “Just be glad I didn’t,” Arsinoe whispers. “Now go on weeping.”

  Mirabella glances over her shoulder. Unlike Arsinoe, Mirabella was not born for the stage. Her fake cry sounds like a harbor seal Arsinoe and Jules found beside the cove once, with a bellyache and horrible gas.

  “Not so loud,” Arsinoe hisses. “We don’t want them to give you all night to mourn! Just enough so they can hear you. And believe that I’m dead.”

  Mirabella pretends to sniffle this time, much more softly, and Arsinoe closes her eyes. She must try to be patient. After all, Mirabella’s first tears were real, before she looked down and realized that Arsinoe was grinning.

  Mirabella quiets, and Arsinoe opens one eye.

  “They crowned her,” Mirabella murmurs. “I cannot believe they crowned her.”

  “And ordered your execution,” Arsinoe adds. “Good Goddess. They really made you want to be queen, didn’t they? They held that crown out for you like a prize.”

  “I am angry about being executed,” Mirabella says, and scowls. “But there must have been some reason . . . why Luca would let them. . . .”

  “Because we gave them no choice.” Arsinoe squeezes her sister’s hand. “But you have to be brave now. I can’t get out of here without you.”

  “Get out of here to what?” Mirabella asks bitterly. “I will not go back to Rolanth, to a temple who would see me killed. Not even if they imprisoned Katharine instead. Not even if they said you could live.”

  “Which they would never say,” Arsinoe mutters.

  They are fugitives now. Exiles. Arsinoe cannot go back to Wolf Spring any more than Mirabella can return to Rolanth. She cannot go back to the Milones and get them in worse trouble than they may already face.

  “The island crowned its queen,” Arsinoe says. “Another poisoner, and not even the strongest poisoner of the litter.” She humphs. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want anything more to do with them.”

  “Nor do I,” Mirabella agrees. “So what do we do? Stand side by side united tomorrow as we are executed?”

  “No. You have a terrible sense of rebellion.” Arsinoe swats her. Then she lies back and knocks her head against the straw-covered floor.

  “The island crowned its queen,” Mirabella murmurs. “You are right. So perhaps it is not that we are done with it, but that it is done with us. Perhaps it will let us go.”

  Arsinoe looks up hopefully. But the hope is fleeting.

  “I’ve tried that. Twice.”

  “You have not tried with me.”

  That is true. Mirabella’s gift is so strong, it could tear a hole through the mist. And dying at sea would be better anyway, than dying at the hands of the Arrons.

  Mirabella holds her hand out.

  “All right,” Arsinoe says, and takes it.

  She grins until footsteps sound down the corridor. Then she goes limp. So much must go their way for their escape to work. But this is their only chance.

  The key turns in the lock. The door swings open. Guards shuffle inside, murmuring apologies. To them and every other guard they will encounter, Arsinoe and Mirabella are still queens, and the sisters will use that to their advantage.

  “Forgive us, Queen Mirabella. But we have to take her.”

  “No!” Mirabella throws herself across Arsinoe’s chest. “A few moments more!”

  Arsinoe wishes she could open her eyes to see how many guards there are. From their footsteps, she would guess no more than three.

  “Come now. Any longer will only make it harder.”

  Mirabella pitches such a fit that Arsinoe almost laughs. But her acting is much better now.

  “Take Queen Mirabella aside,” the guard says, and Mirabella shouts and struggles and makes a general ruckus. They lift Arsinoe by the arms, and she lets her head fall back. She waits until they have her hoisted high enough that she can get her feet underneath her, and then she takes her chance.

  She jerks her right arm loose and punches the guard straight across the face. The poor girl crumples like a dropped sack of potatoes. Jules would be proud. Arsinoe twists her left arm, prepared to pull and pull, but her luck holds. The shock of seeing her come back to life has loosened the other guard’s fingers. So Arsinoe draws back and hits her, too.

  The last guard holding Mirabella stares at Arsinoe in wonder. He is a skinny thing, not much older than Joseph’s little brother, Jonah.

  “What—” he stammers. “How?” He lets go of Mirabella and takes a few disoriented steps.

  Arsinoe squares herself to fight before
he can collect his wits and alert the rest of the prison.

  But to her surprise, Mirabella threads her fingers together and swings down hard to club him at the back of the neck. His eyes cross as he falls to the floor.

  “Oh!” Mirabella exclaims softly.

  “‘Oh’ is right,” Arsinoe says. She reaches down and relieves the lead guard of her keys, then takes up the lantern they set near the door. “Now tear that skirt of yours to use for gags, and let’s get out of here.”

  Jules’s and Joseph’s last meal was a good one. Their guards were kind and brought them roasted duck and bread and soft cheese. Even a bag of sugared nuts from a street vendor.

  “I can’t eat this,” Jules says, and listens to Joseph toss his metal plate down.

  “Nor can I,” Joseph replies. “What’s roasted duck when we’re going to be dead in the morning? I can toss some to you. For Cam.”

  Jules nudges her plate toward the cougar, who lies with her head on Jules’s knee. Camden will not even sniff at it.

  “She won’t take it either.” She strokes the cat’s broad, golden head. She cannot believe that they will pass their last hours like this. She is numb. Not even afraid. She has not been able to feel anything since the guard came to tell them that Arsinoe had been executed. And that they would be tied to posts in the morning and executed as well, their bodies left out for Mirabella to see.

  She hears Joseph moving in his cell, turning against the bars.

  “I keep thinking of what we should have done,” he says. “What we could have done differently. But maybe there was nothing.” He snorts. “Sometimes you just lose. After all, someone has to.”

  “I want Cait,” Jules says, her throat tightening with tears. “And Ellis.” She wants Aunt Caragh and even Madrigal.

  “I know,” Joseph says. “I want them too. I wish we were anywhere else but in the belly of this castle. But Camden’s here. And I’m here. Don’t cry, Jules.”

  “I have to tell you something.” She wipes at her cheeks. “I have to tell you what Arsinoe told me. About the low magic.”