“Mira?” Arsinoe pushes up onto one elbow. She squints at the brightness of Mirabella’s candle, which only now begins to fade along with the easing beats of her heart. “Billy? What are you doing here? Was I making noises again?”
Mirabella and Billy look at each other. The shadow was real. Not a dream or a vision. And on its head, it wore the whisper of a crown, the same one that Arsinoe had sketched and that Mirabella recognized from a dozen paintings, a dozen woven shrouds. Silver and bright blue stones. The crown of the Blue Queen.
“Was she here?” Arsinoe asks. “What does she want?”
“Mirabella,” Billy says quietly. “I think you ought to give the low magic a try.”
Mirabella creeps forward and takes her confused sister by the hand.
“I think you are right.”
Billy, Mrs. Chatworth, Jane, and Mirabella sit at the informal dining table in the room just off the kitchen, sharing a most uncomfortable meal. Mirabella has not touched her sliced ham, instead scribbling away on a piece of paper. The only thing on her mind is the island, and she cannot ignore it, not even to please Mrs. Chatworth.
“I cannot seem to stop drawing her.” Mirabella reaches for a bit of blue chalk, the only drawing tool she could find in that color, even though the blue is all wrong. She turns the paper at an angle and studies it intently. The dark queen made of shadow, her long bony fingers clutching at the air, her grotesque legs tucked under herself. Beneath that drawing is a small stack of others: the shadow queen in other poses, all menacing, all monstrous. So monstrous that Billy’s mother has chosen to pretend that they are simply not there.
“Where is Miss Arsinoe?” she asks.
“On an errand,” Billy replies.
“Alone?”
Neither Billy nor Mirabella bother to respond. It is a stupid question. Who else besides those at that very table would be accompanying Arsinoe anywhere?
“It is like I am trying to commit her to memory,” Mirabella says. “Or perhaps to convince myself that she was indeed real. That we really saw her.” She slides the topmost drawing across the table. Billy takes it, holding it by the edges.
“Don’t know why you’d be trying to do that.” He sets it back down again, so his mother can stop staring pointedly away. “What could it mean? Why would another Fennbirn queen be haunting you?”
“Haunting us. You saw her, too.”
Mrs. Chatworth makes a pained noise, and Jane pats her forearm.
“And you’re certain it is Queen . . .” He searches for the name. “Illiann? The Blue Queen?”
Mirabella taps her drawing with a forefinger. The rendering of the crown is not perfect. The silverwork is much more intricate and the blue stones, a much brighter blue, but for ink and chalk, it is not half bad. “I have seen that crown in portraits before. There is no other like it.”
“If she was an elemental, then why wasn’t she in one of the murals in the temple? She must’ve been one of the most impressive and revered of the elemental queens.”
“William Chatworth Junior, this is not proper conversation for the table.”
“Not now, Mother.”
Mirabella glances at Mrs. Chatworth apologetically. But she goes on.
“Blue queens—fourth-borns—are not claimed by a particular gift. They are queens of the people. All of the people.” She stops. “It is hard to imagine what the island was like before her and before the mist. Had she not hidden us away, we would be entirely different. Perhaps we would be more like you.”
She raises her head. “You must have some record of this on the mainland. An entire nation disappearing into a fog?”
“No.” Billy frowns. “Everything known about Fennbirn is thought to be myth. A fable. There are no mentions of it in any historical text. Nothing on the maps. They must have been removed.”
Or he has seen the wrong maps. Mirabella traces her drawings with the tips of her fingers, and they come away stained black. “This was the queen who turned Fennbirn into legend. What could she want with us now?”
“Ghosts often appear to deal with unfinished business,” says Jane suddenly, and everyone looks at her in surprise.
“Jane!” Mrs. Chatworth gasps.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“No, Jane, that’s not half bad,” says Billy, and Jane’s shoulders wriggle happily, as a bird ruffling her plumage. “Could that be it, Mira? Unfinished business?”
“I do not see how. She had a thirty-year reign. It began with a war with the mainland, but she won. And then she reigned happily.”
Mrs. Chatworth throws down her napkin and pushes away from the table.
“Enough of this! I will not stand for it in my own house. This talk of witchery and heathen queens.”
“Mother,” Billy chides. “You sound so old-fashioned.”
“Proper is what I sound. And if Miss Arsinoe is having some sort of . . . episodes, the kindest thing to do for her would be to refer her to a physician, not to let her roam around the city by herself, getting into more trouble.” She stands and smooths her dress. “Jane, let us retire into the drawing room.”
Jane does as she is bid but casts a rather longing look over her shoulder. After they have gone and the doors between them are shut, Mirabella puts her head in her hands.
“Until last night, I would have agreed with her about the . . . physician. That is something like a healer, yes?”
“Yes. But when she says physician, all she means is a quack who will determine that Arsinoe is suffering from hysteria. They’d lock her away in a sanitorium.” Mirabella grimaces, and Billy glances at her.
“It was chaos in that room last night,” he says. “So I didn’t mention it. But I saw what your gift did up there. I saw that candle light without a match. How did you do it?”
“I did it for her,” Mirabella replies. “Arsinoe needed me to do it. So I did. Sometimes I think that is my true purpose. Not to be queen, like the Westwoods and Luca convinced me of. But to protect her. Just to protect her.”
THE ROAD FROM BASTIAN CITY
Jules, Camden, Emilia, and Mathilde creep out of Bastian City beneath the cover of dark. They have only the supplies that can be carried on their backs and what money can be stuffed into their pockets. As they pass through the outer wall and move onto the main road, Emilia suddenly stops.
“What is it?” Jules asks, and Emilia bursts into muffled laughter.
“It occurs to me,” she says when she has quieted, “that in our haste for revolution, we have neglected to decide where to start.”
Jules groans. So does Camden, leaning heavily against her good leg. “Well? There are not too many choices. Do we head north for Rolanth? Or west toward Wolf Spring?”
“Neither,” says Emilia. “Word from Rolanth suggests they are still too bitter about their loss, yet also still too loyal to the temple.”
“And why not Wolf Spring? Have your bards made it there yet? What are they saying about the uprising?”
“They may have heard rumors,” Mathilde says. “But it is still too soon. In my experience, it is best to allow naturalists to warm to ideas slowly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jules asks.
“It means they are fast to say no. Nothing more.”
“It means they still hate the legion curse,” Emilia adds, less kindly. “Better to avoid Wolf Spring awhile. Dealings with naturalists are uncertain under the best of circumstances. They never want to get involved in anything.”
“Hey,” Jules says. “I’m a naturalist.”
“Yes, and you are the only one here who does not really want to rise.”
“Fine. So where, then, are we supposed to start?”
Mathilde adjusts her pack on her shoulders and begins to walk. “Why not start where we have already begun? My home of Sunpool is with us, as are many of the surrounding villages. They have been preparing for months, for they believe in the prophecy.” She gestures up the road. “We will go south around the capital and t
hen skirt the mountains to the east. Once we are far enough north, we will begin speaking to the towns. Until the new force meets the existing one.” She looks at them over her shoulder, smile and white braid flashing in the moonlight. “Then we will circle back for Wolf Spring and Rolanth.”
“At least there is an inn,” Emilia says when they arrive in the village. “So we will not have to sleep in a barn.”
“A barn might be wiser,” says Jules. “Easier to run out the back if they don’t like your rabble-rousing and come for us with pitchforks.” She arches an eyebrow at the warrior, but Emilia is too tired to argue much. It has been a long walk on the roads and off the roads, cutting through fields and forests to avoid Indrid Down. All of them are weary, their cloaks and faces stained with dirt, in need of fresh supplies and a good wash. Even tall, elegant Mathilde looks like she wrestled a pig and lost.
“Come on.” Mathilde adjusts her pack and leads them to the inn. Jules glances back up the road toward the place she left Camden dozing in a patch of ferns. The cat will wait there until she is called.
The interior of the inn is not much, just one large room on the ground floor full of tables and wooden benches. A few men and women sit alone or in pairs, hunched over bowls of stew.
“Do you have rooms for rent?” Mathilde asks.
“Wouldn’t be much of an inn if we didn’t,” replies the girl behind the counter. “How many will you be needing?”
“Just one, large enough to sleep three.” Mathilde drops a few coins on the counter, and the girl slides them into her palm. “Does that also buy dinner?”
“Nearly. But you look so worn down that I’ll say it does. Another silver will buy you a hot tub of water to wash in.”
Emilia slaps two coins down. “We’ll take two tubs. And we’ll eat our meal here in your fine room.”
“As you like.” The girl studies them a moment. But if she finds them odd, two filthy warriors and an oracle bard in a stained gray-and-yellow cloak, she does not comment on it. Perhaps as a keeper of an inn she is used to strange travelers. Though Jules cannot imagine that many choose to stop in this tiny village.
“Are you fleeing from the capital?” the girl asks, and both Jules and Emilia tense. “We’ve had some folk from there passing through after what happened.”
“What happened?” asks Mathilde. “We have been traveling for some time. We have not heard.”
“Queen Katharine murdered a boy.”
“Murdered?” Jules gasps. But the girl only cocks her head and sighs, as if it is no longer news at all for how many times she has had to tell it.
“Aye. Right in front of everyone. More bodies had washed up on the shores of the capital, and the people were panicked. They started shouting at her and throwing things. One little boy broke loose and ran at her with something. Probably no more than a stick, but she sliced his head off, easy as you please.”
“Where was her queensguard?” Emilia asks.
“Dealing with the grown-sized people I’d imagine.” The girl’s lips curl in disgust. Then she cocks her head again and slips their coins into her pocket. “Two tubs will take a while, but I’ll get my boys on it. You can head up to your room now if you like. I’ll have them brought in.” She points up the stairs behind her. “First one up those stairs. Or any of them. They’re all empty.”
As soon as they get inside their room, someone knocks at the door: the boys delivering the empty tubs.
“Water will take some time,” says the first boy. “Most folks don’t want two.”
“Thank you,” says Emilia, and closes the door behind him. “I didn’t want two either,” she says, turning toward Jules. “But there’s a bug’s arse of a chance of me sharing a tub with a mountain cat.”
“Why not just have Camden go last?” Mathilde asks.
“The tub would be cold by then.” Jules takes off her pack and stretches her shoulders. The hot bath will be welcome. The travel has been hard on her poison-damaged legs. Some nights they have throbbed so bad she has felt like screaming, but still she pushed on, not wanting to admit she should stop. She always said that Arsinoe had a stubborn streak a river wide, but really, her own might have been even wider.
“Do you believe what she said?” Jules asks as she sits down on the soft bed. “Do you think Katharine really murdered some little boy?”
“Maybe she did and maybe she didn’t,” replies Emilia. “It will make it easier to bring this village to our cause, in any case.”
Mathilde unbraids her golden hair and runs her fingers through it to rid it of twigs and leaf bits. “A queen who kills her own people. One would think she was trying to lose her head.”
“Eh,” Emilia says, a dismissive sound. “For once, I will not be too hard on her. There was a mob. The boy charged at her with a raised weapon. He had it coming.”
“Had it coming?” Jules asks, and Emilia tips the knife she has been playing with lazily toward her chest.
“You don’t threaten the life of a queen and live to tell the tale.” She flips the knife, catches it. “Taking the life of a queen . . . now that is another matter.”
By the time they descend the stairs and head into the main room for supper, most of the tables are full. It seems to please Emilia and Mathilde: they can hold their meeting right in the inn. No need to try and gather people scattered through the village. But Jules would like to walk straight back up the stairs.
They sit down at a table near the wall, their arrival attracting a few curious glances. The girl from before sets down three cups of ale.
“Stew tonight and some oat bread. If you want more ale than what’s in these cups, it’ll cost you more coin.”
“What’s in the stew?” Jules asks.
“Meat,” the girl replies, and goes to fetch it.
Jules looks around the inn. Nearly everyone in town must have come to the inn for supper, and it makes her wonder whether Emilia and Mathilde had somehow sent word of their coming. But if they had, no one seems particularly interested in them past the first glance. So maybe the meat stew is just very good.
“Do you really think we should start here?” Jules asks. “We’re still not that far from the capital.”
“We’re far enough.” Emilia swallows half her cup of ale. “Sounds like they’ve got their hands full with a murderous queen. We probably could have walked closer to the border and saved ourselves some time.”
“But look at these people. They’re farmers. Tanners. Many too old to fight.”
“That is what rebel soldiers look like.” Emilia’s dark eyes sparkle. “What? You have something better to do? Exile? Fugitive?” She grins and pushes Jules’s mug toward her. “Drink more and think less, Legion Queen.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” Emilia wrinkles her nose at Mathilde. “That is the one that people seem to have liked the most, isn’t it?”
Jules snorts. Who would like such a title? It is as bad as being called “Undead,” or perhaps even worse. “You will never convince them that way.”
“They have lived under the poisoners, too. They won’t need much convincing.”
Emilia drains her mug and calls loudly for more ale. Her exuberant hand gestures and overall loudness have begun to attract more attention. And as the villagers look toward Emilia, their gazes linger on Jules with something above mere curiosity. As if they sense something that makes her worth staring at.
“Ridiculous,” Jules mutters, too quietly for even her tablemates to hear. But she would be lying if she said she was not curious too. Every time a stranger looks at her with something like hope, something like hope sparks inside her, and nearly tricks her into breathing again. Nearly, but not quite.
Hope is for fools, she wants to tell them. Not long ago I hoped for everything, and look what has become of me, and those I loved.
“This is never going to work,” Jules says.
“Of course it will,” says Emilia. “You have not seen how Mathilde can mesmerize w
ith her voice. She’ll hold these people in the palm of her hand.”
“It is why I became a bard,” Mathilde says, and smiles.
Emilia prods Jules in the shoulder. “You do not want it to work.”
“Of course I do. I want to be able to go home. I want Arsinoe to be able to come back and visit us.”
Emilia’s voice sinks low. “Do not speak of that.”
“Why not?”
“If she returns she will want the crown.”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
“Yes, she would. It is in her triplet blood. And we are not rising to put the traitor queens back on the throne. We are rising for ourselves. For Fennbirn.”
“Would you have done the same if Katharine had not won?” Jules asks. “Would you have still tried to overthrow Mirabella? Or Arsinoe?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Emilia softly. “That is not what happened.”
When the stew arrives, it is good, though perhaps not good enough to attract so many diners on its own. Despite her hunger, Jules cannot manage more than a few bites. Her stomach will not stop buzzing.
“No appetite?” Emilia asks as she licks her bowl.
“I’m going to bring the rest up to the room, for Camden.” They snuck the big cat in near dusk through the rear entrance. The water in the second tub was still warm and fairly clean, and not a single one of them caught a claw to the face when they dunked Camden into it.
“Camden can eat it herself.” Mathilde stands. “Off this very table.”
“Wait,” Jules stammers as Emilia rises, too. “What am I supposed to do?”
“All you have to do is be you.” Emilia smiles and draws her long knives. She drags the point beneath Jules’s chin, soft as a caress. “And be ready to use your gifts.”
Mathilde throws back the folds of her gray-and-yellow cloak. Her voice, though soft, seems to fill the room.
“A moment, friends,” she says, and steps before their table. “I am called Mathilde, from the city of Sunpool far to the west. I am a seer, and I am a bard, and I would tell you a tale, if you will hear it.” She extends an arm toward Emilia, who flashes her blades. “This is Emilia, a warrior, and witness to the Ascension, to the debacle of the traitor queens and their escape.”
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