Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  They go, and Mirabella straightens her shoulders. “Maybe to you,” she grumbles, and reaches out to knock. The door opens. She is surprised to see not a servant answer but Katharine.

  “Sister,” she says. “Come in.”

  Mirabella steps into the warm, low-lit space, careful not to make the fire flare when she passes it. She seats herself across from Katharine. The table is round and small. Intimate.

  “I like your jewels,” Katharine says. “And your gown. You look much better. Perhaps too much better. Perhaps I should make you wear mainland clothes so my people will not love you on sight.”

  Katharine sits, pretty but restrained in a long-sleeved dress of black muslin, her hands hidden in black gloves. “I hope I did not keep you waiting. I had a special menu prepared.” She smiles with dark red lips. “And I wanted you hungry enough not to refuse it.” She lays her napkin in her lap and gestures to the covered dishes. “We will have to serve ourselves, I am afraid. I sent the servants away to have you all to myself.”

  Mirabella uncovers her plate. The food underneath—a small hen stuffed with bread crumbs and herbs, roasted root vegetables shining with butter, and a slice of onion tart—looks perfectly ordinary and smells like a savory dream. But she has never in her life been so afraid of a chicken. Not even when Billy cooked it, she thinks, and chuckles.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing,” Mirabella replies. “Only that you extend an invitation of allyship and I arrive to threats and insults. I sit down to a meal that I am clearly supposed to be too frightened to eat. Is it because of the way you were raised?” She picks up her silver and cuts a sliver of onion tart. “Would Natalia Arron be proud?”

  “It is what she would do,” Katharine says.

  “Perhaps she would not do it in so heavy-handed a fashion.” Mirabella takes a bite of hen. “Natalia Arron was a woman of singular power. And those who are truly strong do not need to demonstrate it every five minutes. This is delicious, Queen Katharine. Thank you.”

  Katharine leans back, and Mirabella forces herself to keep on eating, forces her gift down deep beneath her skin so Katharine will not detect any hint of nerves, no flickering candles, no gusts of wind. She very much doubts that the food is poisoned, even slightly poisoned only to make her ill. But she has not forgotten that her little sister is deadly, and that could change with the very next meal or even during this one, with a sleight of hand and something slipped into her drink.

  Katharine looks down at her plate and spins the rings on her gloved fingers before picking up her fork. “Perhaps you should take my demeanor as a compliment. I know you were raised to play this game. The game of reigning. Of politics and favors. I was only raised to win. And then to be moved about like a puppet on a string.”

  “Have you not met High Priestess Luca?” Mirabella smiles wryly. “The Arrons are not the only ones who are skilled in the art of puppetry. All queens would be made puppets. If they are not careful.”

  For a moment, Katharine’s eyes soften. Then she laughs. “Am I to sympathize? How hard it must have been to be so gifted and such a favorite. Shall we compare scars, then? Did the cruel priestesses give you daily lashings to make your gift rise?”

  “It is not a competition. And your own gift seems strong enough.”

  “Yes. But my gifts took time. Sacrifice. Yours simply . . . was.”

  Mirabella sits quietly, hoping Katharine will say more. But she returns to her meal with a sigh.

  “Why have you come here, Mirabella?”

  “Because you asked me to.”

  Katharine scoffs.

  “You asked me,” Mirabella goes on, “and it was made to seem I would be welcome. Was that not so? If you were pressured into this alliance or if you have changed your mind, you have only to say so, and I will go.”

  “You think it would be so easy to leave?”

  Mirabella narrows her eyes. She lets her gift loose, and the flame in the fireplace blazes. “I think you will never again take me alive down to those cells.”

  Katharine stares at the fire, but she is less afraid than Mirabella expected. The way her gaze drifts along the flickers of red and orange seems almost curious. Almost eager, as if she would try to push back.

  “I apologize,” Katharine says finally. “I do not know why I . . . I did not mean for our meeting to be this way. When I extended the invitation for you to come to Indrid Down, I meant it. I meant to welcome you. Perhaps contention between us cannot be helped. Perhaps it is in our nature. Like the legends say.”

  “It was not so with Arsinoe and me. It was not so between any of us, once.”

  “Yet you betray her now.”

  “I do not betray her,” says Mirabella. “Ask me to harm our sister and I will refuse. Ask me to help you as you harm her and I will refuse.” She chooses her words with care and keeps firm control of her tone. “This is not about Arsinoe. It is not even really about you.”

  “Then what is it about? What made you change sides from the rebellion to the crown? Was it that old ingrained loyalty to tradition? To the ways of the island?” Katharine leans forward, so Mirabella can better see the band of black marked forever into her forehead. “Or was it something else? Perhaps something you saw at Innisfuil that day when I killed Juillenne Milone’s mother and cut loose her legion curse.”

  “Yes,” Mirabella says truthfully. She remembers well Madrigal’s last words to her. She is full of them. Full of dead. And she does not think she was referring to her daughter. The puzzle of those words drove Mirabella here as much as any urging from Luca. “It was Madrigal Milone. That is why I am here.”

  “No.” Katharine slides out of her chair, her movements fast as a striking snake. She grasps Mirabella by the wrist and hauls her up with surprising strength.

  “Where are you taking me?” Mirabella asks as Katharine pulls her through one room and then another, until she flings the shutters wide and pushes Mirabella flush to the open-air window so her hair is blown back by the bite of wind off Bardon Harbor.

  “Look,” Katharine says as she holds her fast, and Mirabella stares out across the water rippling with moonlight. Not far past the northern outcropping of cliffs, not nearly out far enough, lies the mist, thick and constant as a wall. The sight of it makes Mirabella’s stomach drop into her shoes.

  “The mist,” she breathes.

  “Yes,” says Katharine. “It comes and goes as it pleases. But I saw you fight it back in the valley that day. And I know you fought your way through it to escape after the Queens’ Duel. The Legion Queen’s rebellion is a problem. But a problem that I can solve.” She shoves Mirabella forward again. “But that. That is why you are here.” She lets go, and Mirabella grasps the edge of the window, hands trembling.

  “My Black Council is assembling below. Make yourself ready. You are to go before them.”

  “Go before them to do what?”

  “To plead your cause. To convince them that you are worth keeping alive.”

  Within minutes, Mirabella finds herself standing in the Black Council chamber. She was placed at the end of the long table, and her hands are clasped before her like a prisoner brought up from the cells to hear her sentence read. Even the faces of those she would call allies—Luca, Bree, to some extent Rho Murtra—are unreadable as stone.

  At the head of the table, Katharine crosses her arms. “I do not need to ask where the lines are drawn.” She gestures to the High Priestess, Rho Murtra, and Bree. “You three will be for allowing Mirabella to stay. You others”—she waves a hand to indicate the rest—“will be against her. The only question is who of those against her are willing to see if she can help.”

  “Help,” Lucian Arron scoffs. “What was this bargain that brought her to us in the first place? It was not disclosed to us, and though it seems that they know”—he points to Luca, Rho, and Bree—“we cannot wring it out of them.”

  “Oh, what does it matter?” Bree interjects. “Once the people know that Mirabel
la has joined with the crown it will only strengthen the queen’s position.” She looks to Katharine. “When will you make the announcement? Indrid Down should see you both, side by side.”

  “They should not see her,” Antonin Arron hisses. “She should have been dropped by a poisoned arrow the moment she set foot in the city.”

  The lamps in the room flare, but not from Mirabella, and she casts a look of warning at Bree. Her fire has always gotten the better of her.

  “No,” says Katharine. “I invited my sister here under a banner of peace. And I will keep my word so long as she meets her end of the bargain.”

  “What bargain?” Lucian Arron asks again. He and the other Arrons are becoming more and more frustrated. Mirabella would find their wild-eyed expressions amusing were they not currently deciding whether or not to let her live.

  “You were not at the battle, Lucian. You did not see her at Innisfuil fighting back the mist. She is the only weapon that we have against it, and until we find a better one, give me real reasons why I should not keep her close. Real reasons,” Katharine adds when Antonin opens his mouth.

  “On top of her . . . skill with the mist,” Luca says slowly, “her presence assures us the allegiance of Rolanth in our growing civil war. Indrid Down and Prynn cannot stand alone against everyone else.” She looks at Mirabella and nods, and Mirabella shifts her weight. It will be difficult to be so near Luca again. Difficult to keep her guard up when all she wants is to forget that Luca sided with the Arrons and ordered her execution.

  Antonin and Lucian Arron look at each other. They seem miserable. Old. Exhausted. “It goes against tradition,” Antonin says.

  “That is not enough of a reason,” says Katharine.

  “And are we just supposed to take her at her word?” Genevieve asks. “That she is to be trusted?”

  Katharine’s eyes flicker to Mirabella’s as Genevieve goes on.

  “And you, my queen, have seen her fight the mist. But not all of us have. Who is to say she can do it again?”

  That, at least, seems to get Katharine’s attention. “What are you suggesting, Genevieve?”

  “Test her gift. Send her out into the mist and see if she can banish it.”

  “And if she cannot?”

  Genevieve cocks her head. “Then the mist will take her, and our argument will be solved. And we will really be no worse off than we are now.”

  “You cannot be serious,” Bree says when Katharine appears to consider it. “Using her as defense against the mist is one thing, but to send her into it—”

  “We ought to send other elementals along with her.” Rho’s deep voice cuts through the space and every head turns toward her in surprise. Especially Luca’s. “Who is to say that one elemental gift is better than another? Why not test several? Perhaps we have not needed her from the start.”

  Katharine drums her fingers on the tabletop. “I feel we are being very rude. Sending my sister out as a sheep to slaughter. Surely, we ought to ask for her consent to this test.”

  “I consent,” Mirabella says.

  “Good.” Katharine knocks twice on the wood and rises. “Renata, send summons for the five strongest elementals from Rolanth, gifted in wind and storms. And when they arrive, sister”—she smiles—“you will face the mist.”

  The meeting over, the guards return Mirabella to the king-consort’s apartment, with assurances they will stay posted directly outside for her “protection.”

  Mirabella closes her eyes, and the face she sees is Katharine’s. But not the cold, pale-cheeked queen who sat across from her all night. Instead she sees the beautiful little girl who rarely frowned and loved to have her hair brushed.

  When she opens her eyes, she sees the mist, still settled over the sea. The same mist she watched creep over the land at Innisfuil and overcome the queensguard soldiers, tearing them apart like strips of cloth.

  “Arsinoe,” she whispers, and wishes more than anything to be back in Sunpool, where she was no longer a queen but a sister and friend. “It should be you here with your cleverness. I do not know if I can do this.”

  After the Black Council has disbanded, Katharine lingers in the halls before the chamber. She will never get to sleep tonight. With Mirabella in the capital, her blood is up, and the dead queens are swirling through it like a school of rotting fish. She is so distracted by the sensation, and by her own thoughts, that she does not notice she is not alone until Genevieve says her name.

  “Katharine.”

  Katharine glances at her, annoyed. “Genevieve. What are you doing here?”

  “It is late. I thought I might spend the night here rather than taking the carriage back to Greavesdrake.” She joins Katharine near the wall. “Will you walk with me a little? You are not the only one left unsettled.”

  “I am not unsettled.” Katharine raises an eyebrow and starts walking. “I am apprehensive. I am undecided.”

  “Two very unsettling feelings.” Genevieve throws a cloak around Katharine’s shoulders. “Come. Let us take some air.”

  They walk out of the castle and into the night, alone except for the constant shadow of queensguard soldiers. At a look from Genevieve, the queensguard fans out and secures the entrances, effectively giving them their privacy.

  “I know you wish Natalia was here,” Genevieve says. “That even Pietyr was here, rather than me.”

  “Do not sound so pitiable. Why would I wish for you? Of all the Arrons . . . I like you the least.”

  To Katharine’s surprise, Genevieve does not pout. Instead, she smiles.

  “Why should you like me at all?” she asks. “When I was cruel. When I was ashamed of you, and resented you, as the weak queen we were left with. From the moment you set foot inside Greavesdrake, I knew you would be nothing but an embarrassment. But I was wrong.

  “You are a good queen, Kat. All those times I thought you were cowering, you were actually listening. Learning. I was wrong about you, and I am sorry.”

  Katharine stops. She studies Genevieve suspiciously in the dark, the courtyard lit only by small lamps and the torches of the queensguard. “I half expect that now you will throw a bag of angry snakes at me.”

  Genevieve shows her hands. Empty.

  “Then what are you after?”

  “Only a word. I know you never listen to me. That you have no reason to value my advice. But I would caution you against allowing Mirabella to fight back the mist. She is already a legend to the people, and such an act is queenly. They will love her more.”

  Katharine frowns. “You think I have not thought of that? She is too beautiful, too strong.” She balls her hands into fists. The dead queens raise their heads to sniff like hunting hounds at the mere mention of Mirabella. Even they . . . even they would choose her were they given the chance. “But what else am I to do?”

  “I do not know. The mist must be dealt with; the port must reopen. I only know that Mirabella will steal the island even if she does not steal the crown.”

  Genevieve dips her head and says good night. The queensguard moves aside to let her pass back into the castle.

  Alone again, Katharine paces the length of the courtyard. Genevieve’s caution did nothing to ease her unrest, and her feet carry her through the dark, off the castle grounds. She does not really know where she is going until she smells the salt air rising from the harbor.

  Now the queens scurry through her veins for another reason. They fear the mist and so fear the water—with every step closer that she takes, they pull against her skin. She takes a torch from one of the queensguard and motions for them to stay back. They do not need to be told twice.

  “Stop,” she says to the dead queens as her heels echo against the wooden dock. “What do you have to fear? And why does she not fear it at all? What is so great within Mirabella that is not also great within you? Or within me?” She reaches the end of the dock and holds out the torch. The flame illuminates only a few paces in every direction, but the moon over the water is still mostl
y full and shows the mist clearly as it stretches toward her.

  It curls around the dock, so thick she could use her dagger to slice it into sections. On the shore, the queensguard shifts like nervous horses.

  “You are no use to me afraid,” she says to the queens, and they, obedient wraiths for once, slip to the surface. They rise to stand with her, and she feels them layering upon her skin like armor. Wisps and tendrils of mist surround the dock on all sides. It is horrifying up close—much worse than it was in the clearing at Innisfuil. It is as if she can see ghosts of shapes inside it. And sometimes, when it thickens, she would swear she senses a solid form.

  “You see? It is like it was in the valley. It does not touch us. We are all of the blood. Even you. The old blood.”

  She reaches out with a gloved hand, expecting the mist to shrink back. Instead, her hand disappears inside it. At first all she feels is mild surprise. A dull ache, as if from cold. And a sudden sense of sadness. Then she starts to scream.

  Inside the mist, her hand is torn apart. She hears the snap of her index finger—the sharp pop as her thumb comes out of its joint. At the sound of her cries, the queensguard charges the dock.

  “Stay back!”

  She bares her teeth, gritting them. She calls to the dead queens, “Help me, stop it,” but they do nothing but screech. The sensation of them weakens as if they are leaking out of her with every fat drop of blood that splashes against the wood and falls into the water. Finally, she grasps her arm at the elbow and wrenches herself free, then runs toward shore as fast as her legs will carry her, where her queensguard waits just long enough to swallow her up before running alongside. Only when they reach the top of the hill does she dare look back, and sees the mist still gathered around the dock, still churning and searching for her, and in the dark, she hears splashes, like fish feeding in the water.

  “Queen Katharine!”

  The soldiers stare openmouthed. Their torches put the injuries to her hand in plain view, the broken, misshapen fingers, the red flesh mixed together with the black fabric of the glove. Blood soaks her to the elbow. It looks like she has been gnawed upon.