Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  “The tonics you craft,” Cait repeats. “So the rumors are true. Our naturalist queen was only ever a poisoner.”

  Arsinoe pauses with her hand on the door. “You raised a naturalist, and a naturalist I will always be. Though I do feel better about never being able to grow anything.”

  To her surprise, Cait chuckles. “True. But we never schooled you in poisons, Arsinoe, as we didn’t know. Is it safe, what you’re doing?”

  Arsinoe swallows. Safe? Nothing about the ingredients she must use feels safe. If she is not extremely careful in her measurements, Jules could simply stop breathing. But in Arsinoe’s use of it, she has discovered that there is an instinctual aspect to the poisoner gift. Her hands are always sure. She blends the tonics as if in a trance. But that would be difficult to explain to a naturalist. “There’s a healer here who fills in the gaps that my gift doesn’t.”

  She opens the door of the outer chamber, and they go inside. At the sight of Cait and Ellis, Camden rises on her three good legs and grunts softly.

  “You’re happy to see us at least,” says Ellis as he goes to her and strokes her soft, golden fur. “Shouldn’t she be with Jules?”

  “It isn’t always safe. Camden is violent when Jules is unwell. And Jules . . . hurt her when the curse was cut free.” Cait and Ellis frown; for a naturalist, there are few crimes worse than the abuse of a familiar. So Arsinoe clears her throat and brightens her tone. “But when she’s quiet, Camden’s basically fine. Her old self. If Jules is resting, she can go in with you.”

  She unbars the door. Inside, Jules lies on the pile of straw, pillows, and blankets that Arsinoe and Emilia arranged for her. Her hands and feet are chained. Ellis frees Camden from the wall, and the cougar trots quickly into the room. She circles Jules twice before lying down and resting her head in the hollow of Jules’s shoulder.

  Without a word, Cait kneels in the straw and gathers her granddaughter into her lap. Ellis places his hand on her shoulder. It is harder to watch than Arsinoe expected, and her throat tightens.

  “I’m so sorry, Grandma Cait.”

  Cait takes Jules’s hand, so dug into the links of the chain that she has to pry it loose. “Don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

  “If not mine, then whose?”

  “No one’s,” Ellis says.

  “They say she tried to save her,” Arsinoe whispers, her voice choked. “She tried to save Madrigal.”

  “Of course she did,” Cait says. “That was always her way. Saving you, protecting you, trying to keep you out of trouble. And before you, there was Joseph. Our Jules was born a guardian, just as she was born a naturalist, and a warrior. Just as she was born cursed.”

  After Cait and Ellis leave Jules and drift away to rest, Arsinoe remains. She stays in the tower of the castle with Camden, idly scratching between her ears and looking down on the city. There is much activity below. So many goods and supplies coming in that the gate is rarely closed. So many weapons being forged and horses being shod that the fires at the smithy are always burning. Sunpool, not so long ago a failing ruin, has come alive again with war.

  When she hears footsteps on the stairs, she expects that it is Billy, but instead, a man knocks and enters, wearing the yellow-and-gray tunic of the seers.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” she says, glancing at Jules’s barred door.

  “Forgive the intrusion, but I need to know where to house the new naturalists. The newcomers from Wolf Spring.”

  Arsinoe rubs at her brow. The tower with Jules had become her hideaway, and his intrusion is an intrusion indeed.

  “There’s no need to house them anywhere. They’ll not be with us long. And they’re naturalists. Perfectly happy in tents by the sea.”

  “Surely some will want to stay?” he asks.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “What is he asking you for, anyway?”

  Arsinoe does not bother to stifle her groan when Emilia walks into the room, with no warning or announcement. The warrior’s footsteps are only heard when she wants them to be. She grasps the man harshly by the shoulder and spins him away from Jules’s door.

  “You are not to be here. And you are not to ask her anything.”

  “I only thought . . . in the absence of the Legion Queen—”

  “In the absence of the Legion Queen, I will handle all arrangements,” Emilia growls.

  “Good Goddess,” Arsinoe says as the poor fellow hunches low and tries to sidle from view. “He only asked me because I am a naturalist and I am from Wolf Spring.”

  “Naturalist, poisoner . . . ,” Emilia grumbles. “You wear whatever hat suits you at the moment.”

  Arsinoe sighs. “They’ll be fine on their own. They’ll figure it out,” she says, and the man nods.

  “No,” says Emilia. “Place them in the vacant wing of the Lermont estate and whoever does not fit in the empty servants’ quarters adjacent. We need them rested and comfortable if they are to fight.”

  “They aren’t to fight,” Arsinoe whispers.

  “Some will fight. More than you think.” Emilia gestures with her chin, and the man bows to her and leaves to see it done. Arsinoe waits for her to leave as well, but to her extreme displeasure, Emilia does not.

  “Is there anything else?”

  Emilia looks past her to the partially open door where Jules lies. She has not told anyone besides Mathilde about Mirabella’s defection, and Arsinoe knows why. Emilia does not want the rebellion shaken. Not before their Legion Queen is well again.

  It is something to be thankful for, she supposes, and then immediately hates herself for thinking it. She looks at Emilia with a softer expression and tries to remember the hours the warrior has spent by Jules’s side.

  “Emilia, I—”

  Emilia’s eyes flash to hers, full of contention, setting Arsinoe’s teeth back on edge immediately. But before either can hurl another insult, a large, brown hound comes bursting through the door, followed by Jules’s Aunt Caragh, with a baby slung around her middle.

  “I had a feeling you two wouldn’t get on,” says Caragh as her brown hound sniffs happily at Arsinoe and goes to whuffle around Camden.

  “Caragh,” Emilia says, and embraces her. She wiggles a finger before the baby’s face. “And little Fenn. Welcome.”

  “Caragh,” Arsinoe breathes. She banishes the flicker of annoyance that Emilia greeted her first and hugs her heartily, careful to keep from jostling Jules’s little brother. “What are you doing here?”

  “I missed my sister’s burning.” Her voice drops. “But I won’t be kept from Jules. And I had to bring Fennbirn Milone here to meet his father.”

  “Yes,” Arsinoe says. “Matthew is here.”

  “I’ve seen him. And I’ve seen my mother. And convinced her to give you this.”

  Caragh reaches into her coat and produces a glass jar with a length of blood-soaked cord inside. It is the color of rust, and beside it rests a yellowed, folded piece of paper.

  Arsinoe recognizes the cord and the blood. It is a low-magic spell.

  “It’s all Madrigal left us about the binding. She never was much of a writer.” Caragh taps the glass. “Only a page and a half, but it’s all there. All she knew.” She pushes them farther into Arsinoe’s hands. “And now I’m giving them to you.”

  “Cait wasn’t going to give them to me?”

  “Maybe she was angry. Maybe she was blaming you. But if she was, she is over it now.” Caragh bounces the baby on her hip. “And she was wrong to.”

  “What might that do?” Emilia asks, peering into the jar.

  “Maybe nothing,” Caragh replies for her. “Maybe it’s too late. Or maybe you can still find something in there to help.”

  THE VOLROY

  Mirabella wanders through the king-consort’s apartment with a morbid fascination. Nicolas Martel died before he could spend even one night inside, but the rooms still feel like his tomb. She runs her hands over the
bright brocade of the chairs, and reaches out to touch fresh lace that drapes across a small table. The rugs are soft and new. All of these furnishings, selected by Katharine for her dead husband.

  It is a sad thought, made sadder by the silence, though as she looks around the walls, she sees nothing that seems personal or particularly sentimental, no portraits or remembrances of Nicolas Martel. That is no real wonder, she supposes. Such a tragic beginning would have been hastily brushed aside in any reign. The faster forgotten, the better. Still, she wonders how Katharine feels. Everyone knows that she has been in an affair with Pietyr Renard, and long before meeting Nicolas Martel. But for a queen to lose her chosen partner so soon . . . It must have caused her pain, whether she loved him or not.

  Or perhaps not pain, Mirabella thinks, remembering the sight of Katharine and Nicolas together, how darkly and coldly they shone. Perhaps only disappointment.

  The door opens, and Mirabella straightens. Katharine has not sent the clothes that she promised, and she is still wearing her stained, blue mainlander dress with the ragged, hanging lace.

  The woman who enters is one of the loveliest people Mirabella has ever seen. Her light blond hair is streaked with gold, and the violet of her eyes brings life to her otherwise statuesque face. Even beautiful Bree, who comes in behind her, is somehow less impressive by comparison.

  “Bree!” Mirabella brushes past the woman to embrace her friend, who is practically vibrating with excitement.

  “You are here,” Bree exclaims. “You are really here!”

  “I am.” She touches Bree’s cheek, as if to test Bree’s realness as well. “Forgive us,” she says to the woman behind them. “We have not seen each other . . . often.”

  “Of course, Mirabella,” she replies. “Take all the time you need.”

  Her dismissive tone drives the friends apart. “I think you mean Queen Mirabella,” Bree says.

  “I am fairly certain that I do not. I am Genevieve Arron, head of the Arron family of poisoners,” she says, and cocks her head in a decidedly sarcastic bow.

  “Genevieve Arron. I almost did not recognize you outside of Natalia’s shadow. Allow me to express my sympathy in regard to her passing. Losing a sister is never easy.”

  “So it would seem.” Genevieve snaps her fingers, and Bree makes a sour face. “See to her quickly.” She looks disdainfully upon Mirabella’s clothing. “And make sure she is presentable.”

  As she turns to leave, a black-and-white tufted woodpecker flies past her cheek, making her swat at the air. “Disgusting birds everywhere,” she hisses, and when she is gone, Elizabeth slips inside, her white hooded robe making the blush in her ruddy cheeks stand out all the more. As soon as they are alone, she, Mirabella, and Bree fall into one another’s arms.

  “I’m sorry that Pepper came in so suddenly,” says Elizabeth. “I couldn’t stop him!”

  “No need to apologize,” says Bree. “He was perfect. He ruined Genevieve’s dignified exit.” She turns to Mirabella with wide eyes. “Did you see the way she snapped her fingers at me? Like I was her scullery maid!”

  Mirabella steps back to get a better look at her friends. Bree with her quick eyes and colorful clothes. And Elizabeth, a grin from ear to ear, her dark hair wound in a braid that sticks out of her hood, and a curled hand of silver shining from inside her left sleeve. Pepper perches on Mirabella’s shoulder and pokes at her ear, intrepidly trying to find a way to burrow into her hair. She strokes his head and his little wings.

  “So,” she says, and sighs. “What are they saying?”

  Bree leans close. “You are not a prisoner. Not exactly. You are free to roam the castle and the entirety of the fortress grounds. But you are not to leave it without the queen’s express permission. The guards—there for your ‘protection’—have been recently armed with poison.”

  “Poison to kill or merely sedate?”

  Bree and Elizabeth trade a glance. Not even they can say for sure.

  “Katharine said she would send you and Elizabeth to me for comfort. But then she sent you with Genevieve Arron. Another show of power? Another hint of control?”

  Bree purses her lips. “Welcome to life at the Volroy.”

  There is a knock at the door, and servants enter, carrying trunk after trunk of clothes and jewels. Elizabeth helps them to the table and directs the rest to the floor.

  “Thank you,” she says. “We’ll see to the queen— We’ll see to Mirabella ourselves.” The servants curtsy and leave, and Elizabeth begins riffling through the trunks.

  “There is not much,” Bree says. “No gowns of yours; there was no time to send for them from Rolanth. But the shops here are very good, and I had some of your jewels with me here.” She searches through cases until she finds a dark walnut box and hands it to Mirabella.

  It is a necklace: three large fire-colored stones hanging from a short silver chain. Even in the box, without light, the stones appear to burn.

  Mirabella runs her fingers over them. “These— I would have worn them the night of the Quickening. Had things not gone so terribly wrong.”

  “So you will wear them now. For luck.”

  Elizabeth pulls a black velvet gown from one of the trunks and spreads it out. It is relatively simple, without much embroidery. “How about this one? Something comfortable after such a long journey?”

  “It is perfect. But I care nothing about these dresses. I want to hear about you. How have you fared? Elizabeth, how are you allowed to keep Pepper even in your priestess bracelets?” She looks at Bree. “How have you come to be on the Black Council?”

  “One answer for two questions,” says Elizabeth. “The High Priestess sought to make amends with Bree for betraying you, so she offered her a place on the council.”

  “And in order for me to play nice,” Bree says, “I demanded that Elizabeth be allowed to recall Pepper.”

  Mirabella grins at the bird, who clutches on to the back of Elizabeth’s robes. “And how is the new council, Bree? And its mix of elementals, priestesses, and poisoners?”

  “We were at each other’s throats. And we will be again once the business with the rebellion is settled.”

  Mirabella would like to ask more. But it is plain that Bree and Elizabeth would rather she did not. They want this one evening to be themselves and to pretend like they are still back in Rolanth gossiping together at the Westwood house. One evening before everything begins. So Mirabella smiles and prods Bree in the shoulder.

  “And?” she asks. “Who are you tumbling with these days? Some handsome queensguard soldier? Or perhaps another merchant’s apprentice from the city?”

  “Who has she not tumbled with?” Elizabeth asks, and Bree throws a glove at her. “Since the moment she arrived in Indrid Down, boys have fallen over themselves to get into her path. Just last month, two from the kitchens nearly fought a duel.”

  “A duel?” Mirabella laughs. “And who won? Which did you choose? The breadmaker? Or the cheese monger?”

  “Neither!” Bree throws the other glove at Mirabella. “Though perhaps later I will choose both.” She raises her eyebrow as Mirabella and Elizabeth chuckle, but then she sighs. “In truth, there has been no time for any of that. When I arrived, I thought I would seduce Pietyr Arron—”

  “Pietyr Arron? You mean Pietyr Renard?”

  “Yes, but no one calls him that anymore. He shed his mother’s name like one of their snakes sheds its skin. He might as well be Natalia Arron’s own son for the reverence he gets around here.”

  “You said you thought you would seduce him. So you did not?”

  “I could not. He clings to Queen Katharine as tightly as he clings to his seat on the Black Council. Perhaps for the same reason.”

  “That is not true,” Elizabeth says. “He loves the queen. He may not love anything else, but he does love her.”

  “Good,” Mirabella says softly. “Even though she is wicked, I am glad that she is loved.” Her mind flashes back to Arsinoe and Billy—good, k
ind Billy, who certainly loves Arsinoe as much as anyone has ever loved a queen of Fennbirn.

  “In any case,” Bree says, “he would have been the one to watch out for. He would have never trusted you. But it does not matter now.”

  “Why?”

  Bree and Elizabeth stare at her in surprise.

  “You have not heard?” Bree asks.

  “I have only just arrived. I have heard nothing.”

  “Pietyr Arron was struck down. He was found in a pool of blood nearly two weeks ago.”

  “He is dead?”

  “Not dead. But he will not wake.”

  A pool of blood. Mirabella blinks. “Was he stabbed?”

  “There wasn’t a mark on him,” Elizabeth says quietly. “That’s the mystery. No one knows what could have caused it, a poisoner with a gift as strong as his. It seems impossible that he could be harmed by anything other than an arrow or a blade.”

  “Queen Katharine has the best healers in the capital, and one from Prynn, tending to him. Trying to determine what happened. But none can say.”

  “The poor queen,” Elizabeth says. “Him all covered in blood in her old rooms at Greavesdrake Manor, and she was the one who found him!”

  Mirabella looks out the window, toward the grand house nestled in the hills. “And she was the one who found him.”

  Katharine calls Mirabella for supper later than expected. As Bree and Elizabeth escort her up the stairs to the queen’s apartments, even the guards five steps ahead must be able to hear the rumbling of Mirabella’s stomach.

  “It is a good thing Arsinoe is not here,” Mirabella murmurs. “She would have eaten half the furniture by now.”

  Bree glances at her curiously. “What are you going to do about Arsinoe? Will you ask for mercy? Negotiate her pardon?”

  Mirabella nods to the guards, and Bree quiets. There are too many ears in the Volroy and too many corridors that carry sound to corners she does not know.

  They reach the heavy wooden door, and Bree and Elizabeth embrace Mirabella quickly.

  “We will see you soon,” says Bree.

  “Don’t be afraid,” says Elizabeth. “She is kind.”