With a smile, Illiann affixes her sheer, protective veil across her face and leads the way.
Yuck. Veils. At least we didn’t have to wear those. Or a doublet and hose. Goddess bless the girl who invented trousers.
They step out of the tent, and Arsinoe peers around curiously. Innisfuil Valley has not changed much in the four hundred years between Daphne and Illiann’s time and Arsinoe’s own. The cliffs and the view of Mount Horn remain the same and the lushness of the long grass. The trees are different, though, smaller, and in varieties that no longer exist on that part of the island. They cast a different color and a shifting brand of shade—even the trees suggesting that this part of the island’s history was a brighter time than the time of blood and secrets that Arsinoe was born into.
Illiann pulls Daphne up onto a dais. Directly before it, a circle has opened up in the crowd to form an impromptu stage, and as they watch, actors in bright costumes prepare to present a scene for the queen’s amusement.
The lead actress steps to the fore and bows.
“We are a troupe from the oracle city of Sunpool. And we present a scene in honor of Queen Illiann’s birth.”
It begins, and three young girls wrapped in swaddling cloths of green, gray, and pale blue mime being born to a woman playing a queen with a great, yellow-painted crown atop her head. Another woman, dressed all in shining black, with silver ribbons in her hair, descends upon the queen and wraps her in her arms.
The Goddess, Arsinoe thinks.
The Goddess brings with her one more babe, a beautiful girl in bright blue and black, who bursts out from where she had been hidden in the Goddess’s skirts. “Illiann!” the actors cry. “Illiann, blessed and blue!” The crowd claps loudly, as does Illiann herself with a soft laugh. The girl playing her twirls in delighted circles and touches each of her “newborn” sisters on the forehead, and they fall dead to the ground.
If only it were really that easy. That clean. The play ends, and Illiann places a garland of flowers around the neck of the actress she judges to have been the best: the girl who played the birthing queen. But though they received no garlands, every single actress comes to kiss the Blue Queen’s robes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Illiann asks, and Arsinoe feels Daphne blush.
“It’s only . . . you’re so different from what I expected. They really love you. You really love them.”
“That is what it is to be a queen.”
“Not where I come from.”
“Is Centra truly such a terrible place? You rarely speak of it fondly. Am I to dread marrying Henry, then, if after my reign we are to return there?” Illiann regards Daphne from the corner of her eye. “You know, Daphne, that even if I do not choose Henry to be my king-consort, you will always be welcome here.”
“You would let me stay?” Daphne asks.
“Of course. You seem better suited for the island anyway. Perhaps that is why I love you so well and so quickly. You have the novelty and tales of a Centran but the spirit of the island. Though I do not know if you would truly stay if Henry must go.”
Arsinoe wishes for a mirror, to see what Daphne’s expression gives away, but then the dream moves ahead, as dreams do, of its own accord, time folding over on itself so that day becomes night and Arsinoe reels at the sudden change.
They are on the cliffs now. Atop the cliffs, overlooking the bay. And from the fires and drums, Arsinoe knows what she is about to witness. She has witnessed it before, from near that same spot, in her red-and-black painted mask.
The Disembarking Ceremony.
Why Daphne is there, Arsinoe does not know. Perhaps because she was ashore already. Perhaps because she has become Illiann’s new favorite. It does not matter. Daphne stands behind the queen, so close that Illiann’s black skirt billows against the edge of Daphne’s doublet. But they are not alone. So many maids and white-and-black-robed priestesses surround them that Arsinoe is surprised none have fallen off the rocks.
“It is nearly time,” one says, and giggles, and even in the darkness lit only by flames, it is easy to see the blush in her cheeks.
So many names pass by Arsinoe’s ears: suitors from Bevellet and Valostra and Salkades. Nearly a dozen, far more than the five she had to face at her own ceremony.
“Marcus James Branden,” says one of the maids. “He has caught everyone’s eye. He is the Duke of Bevanne. It is a lesser principality of Salkades, but his family holds great favor with their king and have substantial mining interests. Gold and silver, I think.”
“Marcus James Branden, the Duke of Bevanne.” Illiann grimaces. “He has so many names.”
“And what is a minor duke compared to Henry?”
“A duke from Salkades,” the maid persists. “Who commands the finest fleet of ships in the world.”
“So he’s rich and has a navy. He’ll trudge onto the beach decked out in velvet and slouching from the weight of the coin in his pockets.”
There is some last-minute pushing and prodding as the maids change their minds about one of Illiann’s bracelets and replace it with one of lapis lazuli stones. And none of them will stop gossiping, tittering about this or that suitor’s piercing eyes, and the pounding hearts of love.
Arsinoe is glad that it is only a dream and her true stomach is not there to be sick.
“When they look at you tonight,” someone exclaims, “your gift will spark into a flame.”
Arsinoe feels Daphne purse her lips.
“As someone who has been privy to the inner circles of the women, and of the men,” Daphne says, “I can tell you that the men on those ships are not talking about Illiann with such rosy-cheeked poetry.”
From the top of the cliffs, all eleven ships are visible in the harbor with flags aloft. It is Illiann’s nervous wind, the maids say, but Arsinoe cannot tell if that is true. Illiann looks like she always does. Composed and focused. A queen born to rule.
Then Illiann trembles, and over the bay, spiderweb-thin veins of dry lightning crack across the sky. Daphne gasps, and the queen glances at her with embarrassment.
“I suppose I am a little nervous. Do I look all right, Daphne?”
“Of course you do. You are beautiful. Henry has said many times that you are the most lovely girl he has ever seen.”
Did he really say so? Somehow I doubt it.
The boats launch toward the shore, lit with torches and lanterns, and garlands of flowers that go to waste, as they can hardly be seen in the darkness. They make landfall, and suitors disembark and pass by on the beach below, some nervous boys who mess up their bows, some laughing buffoons like Michael Percy and Tommy Stratford, those poor suitors whom Arsinoe accidentally poisoned.
The ones from Bevellet wear black cloaks hung with gold and carry fat red roses. Those from Valostra are each dressed in different light-wool stripes.
Then it is Henry’s turn. He arrives on a launch lit with nine lanterns.
“One lantern for every great county of Centra,” Daphne whispers to Illiann.
“He looks very handsome in that black-and-crimson cape. Though someone should have told him that crimson is for funerals. Shall I wave?”
Daphne chuckles.
“I think he almost winked.”
Illiann chuckles as well and then stops. Below on the beach stands the final suitor. Branden, the Duke of Bevanne.
Arsinoe feels Daphne swallow and begin to fidget as Illiann and Branden stare at each other. He is good-looking, to be sure. One of the best-looking boys that Arsinoe has ever seen, and she grew up with the likes of Joseph Sandrin. But there is something else about him that strikes her, above his looks.
“Illy?” The queen does not respond, and Daphne clears her throat. “Illy? What is it? Should Henry be worried?”
Henry should be more than worried, Arsinoe thinks. For there is something in Branden’s eyes that reminds her distinctly of Queen Katharine’s wicked king-consort, Nicolas Martel.
“Arsinoe? Arsinoe!”
“What? What’s the matter?”
“You said, ‘Henry,’ again.”
Arsinoe sits up and brushes herself off. “Hmm?” She tries to feign innocence, or perhaps confusion, but the blush creeps onto her face. Her scars must already be dark from it.
“Don’t play the fool. And don’t play me for one. You called me Henry the other day when you wanted to borrow some socks. Now who is he?”
“Shouldn’t we be getting back?” She stands and sees Mirabella approaching from the direction of the house. Billy gets to his feet beside her.
“There you are!” Mirabella calls.
“Arsinoe, stop playing with me. Have you met someone named Henry?”
“No, of course not. Why are you so upset? It was only a dream!”
Mirabella arrives in the midst of their argument and looks from one to the other as Billy picks up his jacket and beats it free of grass.
“If I were to dream and start whimpering and moaning, ‘Christine, Christine,’” he says, “I’d wake up to your hands around my throat.”
“Oh no, Billy.” Mirabella touches his shoulder. “It is nothing like that.”
“Mira.” Arsinoe shakes her head. “Keep quiet.”
“We said no secrets, sister.”
Arsinoe exhales hard through her nostrils and turns away, the closest thing to permission she can bring herself to give.
“She has been having visions of the past.”
“Visions?” Billy asks. “I didn’t think you had visions. Isn’t that . . . some other gift?”
“Not visions. I misspoke. Dreams. She has been dreaming through another queen’s eyes. A queen from the Blue Queen’s time. And she saw . . .” She pauses, as though searching for a word. “A specter, a shadow beside Joseph’s grave. A shadow that looked like us.”
Arsinoe peeks at Billy from the corner of her eye. He is utterly befuddled.
“But why would she be dreaming that?”
“I love it when you both talk about me as if I weren’t here.” Arsinoe casts a glare at them. Then, before either can ask any more questions, she stalks quickly back to the party.
BASTIAN CITY
It does not take long for word of the mist to reach Bastian City from the capital. In the Bronze Whistle, Emilia beats her fist against the table.
“The mist rises and spits drowned bodies onto the shore. Right at the Undead Queen’s feet.”
Mathilde leans forward, her arms around a cup of wine. “They say the corpses were torn apart. Skinned. Aged by years when they had sailed only days before.”
“It is another sign,” says Emilia.
“It’s rubbish,” says Jules. “Fishers got caught up in the same squall, and sharks set upon the wreckage afterward. It’s a tragedy, to be sure. But it’s not a sign.”
“And what of the aging? The advanced decay?”
“Exaggeration and fear. Or simple misunderstanding. The sea can do strange things to a body. I’ve seen it myself, back home. And you should know it as well here so near the water.”
Emilia and Mathilde trade weary expressions, and Emilia pounds her fist again.
“Another sign or not, the time is right to move. Half of the people already consider Katharine to be an illegitimate queen, and the other half will say they do if only to get rid of another poisoner.”
“Half and half.” Jules snorts. “So she has no supporters, then? The whole island is on your side?”
“Even the mist is on our side,” says Emilia, and laughs. She looks to Mathilde. “It is time. It is finally time to begin.”
“Yes,” says Mathilde. “A call to arms.”
Both turn and stare at Jules expectantly. As if Jules would stand and shoulder a blade, give a rousing battle cry, and charge straight out of the tavern.
“Don’t look at me,” says Jules. “I already told you what I thought of your prophecy. And where you can stuff it.” She tosses a few roasted nuts into her mouth and chews hard.
Again, Emilia and Mathilde trade glances, and Mathilde slides her hand gently across the table. “Jules. I understand your reluctance. But there will be no hiding from this. No escape. It will be easier on you and everyone if you choose to embrace it.”
The seer looks so confident. The expression in her eyes is soft and imploring, as if she thinks Jules is simple and if only they talk slower she will understand. As if she does not understand full well the scope of their ridiculous plan. Raising a rebellion in her name. The name of the legion-cursed naturalist. She feels her temper rise into her throat and hates it, that war-gifted aspect of herself.
“Come now, Jules,” says Emilia. “Haven’t I always been a friend to you? Did I not help you save the traitor queens from the Volroy?”
“Don’t call them that.”
“Have I not hidden you and fed you all these weeks?”
“So is that it, then?” Jules asks. “I owe you? Well, perhaps I do, but I can think of a more reasonable payment than leading an army.” She chooses her next words with care. “You cannot usurp the throne from the rightful line of queens.”
“A failing line,” Emilia says, and points a finger into Jules’s face. “A weakening line. What did they give to us this time? Two defectors and a lesser poisoner. No real queen.”
Jules cannot really argue with that. Even when Arsinoe had determined to fight for the crown, she only wanted to survive. She never wanted to rule. “Weakening or not,” Jules says, “the queens are all the island has ever known.”
“And does that make it right?” asks Mathilde.
“Why not show them something new?” Emilia gestures to the ceiling, to the sky. “You can be a part of that, Jules. You can lead us to it.”
“Lead us to what?” Jules chuckles. Emilia’s passion, if not exactly infectious, is certainly something to watch.
“An island where voices outside the capital are heard. A council comprised of people from Sunpool and Wolf Spring, from Highgate. From everywhere. The Legion Queen will not be another queen like the triplet queens. She will be different. She will be a protector for us all.”
“She’s an idea,” Jules says. “And you want me to be her face.”
“I want you to realize that you are her.”
“You want me to rule.”
“No.” Both Emilia and Mathilde shake their heads. “We want you to lead. We want you to fight. And then we want you to be a part of Fennbirn’s future.”
Fennbirn’s future without the triplet queens. It is hard to imagine, even though Jules bears no love for Katharine or the poisoners. “Katharine has been crowned,” she whispers. “The island won’t go against that, no matter how unpopular she is.”
“Let us prove you wrong,” says Mathilde. “Let us show you. Come with us to the villages and towns. Speak to the people.”
Jules shakes her head.
“Or consider this,” Emilia says casually. “With Katharine gone and the poisoners out of power, you will no longer be a fugitive. You and your cat could go back to Wolf Spring.”
Jules looks at her as hope leaps into her chest. “Back to Wolf Spring?” She could go home. Home to Grandma Cait and Ellis. To Luke and even Madrigal. And Aunt Caragh . . . with the poisoners who banished her deposed, Aunt Caragh would go free as well.
“Even if I could go back, I would still be shunned for the curse,” she whispers, but the temptation in her voice is plain.
“Not by your family. You might catch a stone or two to the side of the head, but you would not be carted off in chains. And eventually, they would come around. They would see that you are still you, and there is no curse at all.”
The corner of Jules’s mouth curls upward. The thought of going home again is a sweet dream indeed.
Emilia makes a fist and shakes it, as though the crown is as good as won. “You let us take care of that.”
In the rear of the Bronze Whistle, the door that leads to the alleyway opens and closes. The trio falls quiet listening to the footsteps, waiting to see whether they will turn up toward the manor house and leave them in peace. But as the footfalls enter the final corridor, they hear the kitchen boy exclaim, “Mistress Beaulin! We weren’t expecting you!”
“Mistress Beaulin,” Mathilde whispers. “Margaret Beaulin? From the Black Council?”
Emilia glances at Jules, then jerks her head hard toward the bar. Mathilde grabs Jules and drags her quickly behind it, crouched low and out of sight. She presses her finger to her lips as the footsteps pause in the doorway.
Margaret Beaulin. What could she be doing there, Jules wonders. What could she want?
Despite Mathilde’s firm grip on her arm, Jules leans out to the edge of the bar and peers around.
Margaret stands in the doorway in black and silver like the queensguard, her clothes still dusty from the road. A tall woman, she occupies nearly the whole frame. Emilia has remained seated, even kicked her chair back to rest her leg against the table. But her fingers brush the long knives she always keeps strapped to her sides.
“Margaret. It didn’t take long for you to find me.”
“It was easy enough to guess where you would be.” Margaret steps farther in, eyes darting fondly around the Bronze Whistle. “They say you’ve made it your own.”
“Who says?” Emilia asks. “So I will know whose tongue I must fork.”
“It looks the same as when your mother and I used to come here. When we used to bring you.”
“What are you doing here? Why are you not in the capital, licking an Arron boot?”
“Have you not heard?” Margaret asks, her mouth twisting bitterly. “The new queen has replaced me on the Black Council.” She walks to Emilia’s table. “Replaced me with a war-gifted priestess, of all things.”
Emilia draws one of her blades. “If you dare to sit, I will run this through your throat.”
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