Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  “I’m thinking that I wish visions were clearer.”

  “We all wish that,” Mathilde says, and smiles.

  Jules sets down her cup and studies the table as if looking at a map. Her fingertip traces imaginary routes between Sunpool and Indrid Down, so quickly and precisely that Arsinoe has to check to make sure a map has not actually been carved into the surface.

  “I don’t know how to do it, Arsinoe. I know you want me to save her—”

  “Who says she wants to be saved?” Emilia asks. “Nothing is more complicated than rescuing someone who has no wish to be rescued. Though we will know precisely where she is.” Emilia’s hand drifts to the dagger at her belt. “Even if we can’t get her out, it would be possible to slip in and—”

  “If you say one more word,” Arsinoe growls, “I am going to get my bear.”

  “I do not say it to be cruel. Or even because I want her dead, despite the fact that she is a faithless, troublemaking traitor.”

  Arsinoe’s fists clench, but Emilia’s voice is light and in jest. Almost gentle.

  “But you know her, Arsinoe. You know how strong she is. And that she is too strong.” She sighs. “And beyond that. You know what the dead queen Daphne told you. What Mirabella’s death might mean. For an end to the mist, it would be worth it.”

  “Emilia,” Jules says, still leaning over the table, “that’s already been decided. We won’t pursue Mirabella’s death.” She stands up. “And without her, we lose the whole of Rolanth.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be entertaining this at all,” Cait says. “If what the oracles saw is true, what will it mean for you, Jules? Perhaps you should leave it alone. Let the moment pass.”

  Jules rests her hands on the table, and beneath her hands, the wood begins to shake.

  “Jules?” Arsinoe says, and Jules steps back.

  “I’m fine.” She swallows and then she moves her wine cup with her war gift just to prove it, hopping it across the table like a rabbit as her grandmother watches with a stern expression.

  “You’ve been practicing.”

  “I had to be sure that both gifts were safe,” Jules says, sounding slightly ashamed.

  Arsinoe looks at Emilia. The warrior is cradling her arm, the one with the low-magic cuts. When she sees Arsinoe looking, she quickly lets go. But Arsinoe knows she felt something when the table began to rattle. When Jules’s war gift flared, the tether between them was pulled taut.

  “We will let it go,” Jules says. “We’ll wait for another chance. Another vision.”

  “There might be no other chance,” Emilia says. “I am afraid for you, too. But the opportunity to remove Mirabella from the field of battle—”

  “I’m not afraid for me. That I’m not at the battle of the Volroy could mean anything. But I won’t risk anyone else. Not on something with such poor odds. I won’t have a repeat of what happened to my mother!”

  She steps back again as the table shakes and her wine cup spills red across it. Camden leans against her good leg. Cait catches Arsinoe’s eye and shakes her head once, sternly. She is worried. Afraid that Jules is not ready for this.

  Arsinoe stares down at the table, an invisible version of the Volroy forming across it as if she too had the war-gifted’s talent for maps. “What if there was a way to get Mirabella out without anyone needing to do anything?”

  “What way is that?” Jules asks warily.

  “I will sneak into the Volroy and find her. I’ll tell her we’re there. We can lay a distraction somewhere along the parade route where she can break free and escape. We’ll arrange a meeting point, and Emilia and the warriors can get us all out of the city.”

  “How will you sneak into the Volroy unnoticed?” Emilia asks. “You are not exactly easy to miss when you are either scarred or have a scarf wrapped around your face.”

  “I know the back ways through the fortress. All the hidden passageways. Even the ones in the Queen’s Tower.”

  “How do you know those?” asks Jules.

  Arsinoe shrugs. “Because I dreamed them through Daphne’s eyes.”

  Jules and Emilia look at each other, Jules’s expression doubtful.

  From outside the door, there comes a loud squawk that gradually turns into a crowing: Hank, Luke’s black-and-green rooster. Such a great sound from such a small beak. It practically shakes the wood.

  “There’s Hank,” Arsinoe says. “Luke must be getting impatient. So what do you say, Jules? And bear in mind that if you say no, I’m probably just going to do it anyway.”

  THE VOLROY

  In the capital, preparations for the parade take up most of Katharine’s time.

  “A deeper blue for the cape,” Genevieve says to the attendants as they show her the garments that the elementals will wear. She touches a jacket with silver buttons and caresses the collar. “And more silver thread. Here. I want every elemental in black and blue and silver, just like she is. I want them recognized, these dutiful subjects of the crown.”

  Those elementals who survived the encounter with the mist in Bardon Harbor will ride at the head, out in front of the queens. Genevieve has also spread word that every elemental is invited to wear the colors, to show their gift with pride. The survivors will look very fine, outfitted in black wool and capes of deep blue, daggers at their hips each with a polished silver handle and capped with a fat river pearl. Mirabella will also wear mostly blue, to show that she is different from the queen, and the custom silver breastplate that Katharine has ordered. Katharine will of course be in all black, except for a breastplate of gold and skulls.

  “You are very good at this, Genevieve,” Katharine says as Genevieve runs her hands over the beaded skirt she has had designed for Bree, the official elemental of the Black Council.

  “I am glad you see the use in the talent,” she says, eyes on her work. “Others might call it a waste. But there is power in the show of power. The way you are presented . . . it matters.”

  “It does. I ought to put you in charge of every formal function.”

  Genevieve glances at her from the side of her eye. “You ought to put me at the head of your council.”

  Katharine smiles kindly. Genevieve has struggled to find her place in Natalia’s absence, attempting to be many different things: the kind leader; the cunning, cutting Arron matriarch. She could tell Genevieve that she does not need to be her sister. But somehow she thinks that is something that will have to be learned on her own.

  “Yet Rho Murtra is overseeing the soldiers,” Genevieve goes on, “and Antonin and the High Priestess oversee the accounts.”

  “Is it not enough that you are my master of spies?”

  “Co-master. A title I must share with giftless Renata Hargrove, of all people.”

  “Renata,” Katharine says. “Renata is nothing but eyes, and she knows where and when to place her ears to the ground. But it is you I trust the most, Genevieve.”

  Genevieve turns toward her, dismissing the servants with a flap of her hand. “You trust me the most?”

  “I do.”

  “Because our goals are aligned?”

  “Because our goals are aligned,” Katharine says. “And because you are Natalia’s sister. Do not worry, Genevieve. It is not because I think you care.”

  Genevieve wraps a measuring tape around her hand like a rope. “I do care. I care very much, now.” She tugs the tape tight until it digs into her skin. “You know the Legion Queen rides always with an oracle. Even though the sight gift is fickle and weak, I worry about the things it may tell her. What she may know before we do.”

  “I would perhaps be more inclined to fear that the Legion Queen rides with Arsinoe and that bear.”

  Katharine and Genevieve spin.

  “High Priestess,” Katharine says. “We did not hear you.”

  “Few do. It is the robes, I think. The material of them. I know that Renata has a fair number of spies outfitted in temple garb.” The old woman steps closer, and Genevieve quickly ta
kes her leave. Like her sister before her, there is no love lost between Genevieve and the High Priestess.

  “The parade preparations are going well?” Luca asks. She walks close to the tables where the elemental garments have been laid out. “I know that Rho is barely sleeping, mapping and remapping the city, identifying holes and possible places of trouble.”

  “Yes. I have seen her riding out with the soldiers morning and night.”

  “And Genevieve has ordered banners made and flags?”

  “All that remains are fittings,” Katharine says. “And the food. And the wine. And—”

  Luca chuckles. “Do not worry so much. The people of the capital have more than enough experience putting on a show. Nothing will go wrong.”

  When she, Bree, and Elizabeth are summoned to the throne room to help with the parade preparations, Mirabella hides a frown. Another dress fitting and another choice of lace are not high on her list of priorities. She must still find a way to get to Pietyr Renard. And find a way to wake him.

  She is full of the dead.

  Madrigal’s final words swirl through her head, as do thoughts of Daphne and Queen Illiann. The volumes about the Blue Queen in the Indrid Down Temple library were taken for researching the mist. But why had they not been returned? Is there something more? Something to hide?

  “Mira?” Elizabeth asks. “Don’t you want Bree to try on her gown?”

  “Yes, of course. I am sorry. I am having a hard time concentrating.”

  “Is something wrong?” asks Bree.

  “Everything is fine,” she lies.

  Arsinoe. How I wish you were here. Even if your counsel would prove rash and terrible.

  Mirabella follows Bree and Elizabeth down the stairs as if in a dream. When they arrive in the throne room, she watches with a frozen smile as they excitedly direct the tailors. Ribbons and pearls fall to the floor in streams and seem to bounce toward her with molasses-like slowness.

  “Are you all right, sister?” Katharine asks, and Mirabella jerks back alert. “Or perhaps this bores you. You have had many days like this: playing with dresses and laughing with friends.” Katharine leans back against the edge of a table, with a serenely happy expression. “For me, it is still a novelty.”

  Mirabella reaches for a pretty silver pendant. “Forgive me. Such days should always be appreciated.” Across the room, Luca laughs as Bree shows off her beaded skirt. For the briefest of moments, the High Priestess’s eyes meet Mirabella’s. What are you waiting for? her old eyes ask. Do you think you will have forever to find your answers?

  “Katharine. How fares your Pietyr?”

  Katharine clears her throat.

  “He is well. As well as he has been. Why do you ask?”

  “I know it must weigh heavily on your mind. And . . . I would like to see him.”

  “See him?”

  “Visit him,” Mirabella amends. “And I would like also to see Greavesdrake Manor, where you were raised.”

  Katharine studies her curiously, but Mirabella’s expression does not waver.

  “Of course. I will arrange it.”

  Bree comes to show off her skirt, and Mirabella admires the beadwork. She steps up to the table and runs her hand over the handles of the ornamental daggers. Such finery. It is hard to imagine that Jules Milone would wear it someday. Hard to imagine that she would command the queensguard army in a crown and a gown. Or that Luca would ever bow to her.

  Mirabella had meant it when she told Bree and Elizabeth that she had no allegiance to either Katharine or the rebellion. But for there to be no queen of the line within the West Tower . . . She would be lying if she said it did not feel unnatural.

  She goes to the window and looks down; from there, she can see the inner ward of the Volroy grounds, where Rho sits astride a large white horse directing rows and rows of queensguard soldiers through their drills. Even if she cannot make out the words, she hears Rho’s booming bark and watches the soldiers respond with crisp precision.

  “She is very good,” Katharine says, joining her at the window. “A great asset to the Black Council. As I am sure she was to you in Rolanth.”

  “Rho’s first loyalty was to the Goddess,” Mirabella replies. “And it seems, to the line of succession.”

  “She will be of much use against the rebellion.”

  “I am sure she will be.” Below, Rho has shed her white hood, and her red hair blazes down her back. She is the Commander of the Queensguard now. Hardly a priestess at all.

  INDRID DOWN

  Arsinoe and Billy slip through the early-morning streets of the capital dressed in warm gray cloaks. He carries a basket, as if on his way to the marketplace. She carries nothing. Before they parted ways with Emilia and Mathilde outside the city, she asked them to dress her up to look like someone else. Nothing too fancy to draw the eye. She wanted the clothes of a merchant or a bookkeeper. So they left her in her soft brown trousers, and Mathilde lent her a vest of goldenrod to button over a clean white shirt. Then they twisted her short hair into a pair of loose low buns, a few strands tugged free to slightly obscure her scars. She does not know whether she looks like a bookkeeper, but she certainly does not look like herself.

  “Good Goddess,” Arsinoe mutters as they walk along the side streets, doing their best to keep their feet out of slushy, wet pockets in the pavement. “I’d hoped I’d never see this place again.” She sniffs. “But at least in the winter it doesn’t smell.” They have nearly reached their destination now; the towers of the Volroy are clearly visible, blotting out the sky as they pass between buildings.

  “I don’t like this,” Billy says. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Alone is safer. And I won’t have to be dragging someone along behind me who doesn’t know the ways.”

  They hurry to the end of an alley and stop short. Another few cross streets and they will be at the Volroy. Arsinoe puts her hands on Billy’s shoulders. “You should stay here.”

  “Why? I’m dressed like a Fennbirnian. No one will notice if I go onto the grounds with you and leave alone.” He glares up at the towers. “How are you going to reach the secret passageways, anyhow? Is there some other entrance? Something underground?”

  “If there is, I don’t know it. I’ve just got to go in with the other folk who seek governance. I’ll slip into the passageways once I find one.”

  Billy looks at her, aghast. “You never said—! You’ll be recognized!”

  “Maybe not. If I’m only glimpsed by queensguard and no one from the actual council, I doubt they’ll realize who I am. Not dressed like this and when it’s so unexpected.”

  Billy cannot manage words. He just stares at her with his mouth open.

  “We knew there were going to be risks,” she says.

  “You never told me there was no secret way in. You shouldn’t do this. We should smuggle you in through the servant’s entrances or the kitchen.”

  “That’s a whole lot of interaction in a city full of unfriendly traitors.”

  “I thought we were the traitors.”

  Arsinoe frowns. “Anyone who sides with Katharine is a traitor to their own conscience. Now I’m going in. Kiss me for luck.”

  Billy hesitates, but in the end, he does as he is bid and does it well, pulling her close, his fingers cradling the back of her neck.

  “Arsinoe, are you ever going to listen to me?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “When?”

  “When you’re right. Look, I’m the one who ought to be afraid for you! All I need to do is slip in, tell Mirabella what to do, and slip out.” Billy’s part in the plan is much more dangerous. He is to hide with the warriors along the parade route and provide a distraction so Mirabella can escape.

  “Be safe,” he says, and she leaves him in the shadowy alley.

  She crosses the last few streets to the Volroy grounds, her breath fast, white puffs in the chill air. With every step she takes, her knees want to lock up and turn around. There a
re no good memories here. She shivers as she passes the spot where Katharine kept Braddock caged prior to the Queens’ Duel.

  But Mirabella needs her. She is there, somewhere, in who-knows-how-much danger inside the hulking, black stone monster of the towers. And Arsinoe will not leave her.

  “Not even if you got yourself into this mess,” she whispers as she rounds the path toward the entry gate.

  Ahead, people have gathered to see the queen. From the looks of them, they are mostly merchants, with bolts of fabric beneath their arms: black and many shades of blue. When she gets closer, she sees they are not actually raw bolts of fabric but completed banners and flags. At the front, a woman stands holding something large and draped in black cloth. She has an air of nervous pride. Whatever she holds, it must be important.

  Arsinoe walks alongside the waiting carriages, blending in with the apprentices. Too soon she finds herself blocked in, in the middle of the waiting group, with queensguard soldiers making inspections. The soldiers begin to bark instructions, and the crowd around her jostles itself into a line.

  She does her best to look like she has been here before. But when she stands up on tiptoe and sees the queensguard searching and questioning every person, her heart jumps into her throat.

  “When did they start doing this?” she hears a man ask irritably.

  “Ever since the Legion Queen rose in the north,” someone replies.

  Arsinoe wants to turn tail and walk out of there on fast legs until she can dive behind a shrub to panic properly. But if she does that, she will never have the nerve to try again. And she will probably be caught.

  She thinks quickly and worms her way through the line, ignoring every cry of “Hey!” and “Where do you think you’re going?” until she manages to get directly in front of the woman holding the item draped in cloth. Now that she is closer, she can make out the faint outline of the item’s shape. It looks to be armor. Custom armor.

  The line moves fast. The last few ahead of her answer questions with downcast eyes and hold their arms out to be searched.