Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

Arsinoe opens the passageway, too quickly for Mirabella to know how she did it, and Mirabella prods her inside. Before she lets the tapestry fall, she reaches for Arsinoe and kisses her hard on the head. Then the fabric drops, and her sister is gone. But before she hears the wall grind shut, she hears Arsinoe whisper.

  “You cannot always be the peacemaker.”

  “Mirabella!”

  Mirabella spins around just as Katharine is admitted into the room. She cranes her thin neck this way and that until she spies Mirabella in the bedchamber.

  “There is a fire in the fireplace,” Katharine says. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Only nerves. It helps, to play with the flames.”

  Katharine looks back at the fire. But she does not move to it or hold her hands out to warm them. Perhaps she is warmed enough by the excitement of the coming parade. Her pale cheeks are even slightly flushed.

  “Is everything all right, Queen Katharine? Was there something you needed?”

  “Only to get away from the whispers of the Black Council in my ear. That the parade is a mistake. That to display you to the capital like this will somehow raise you up as queen.”

  “And what do you say?” Mirabella asks.

  Katharine cocks her head. “I say that the people can wish for you all they want; it will not make it so. And besides. They do not know . . . what plans I have for you.”

  “Plans? What plans?” Mirabella steps away from the wall, sensing Arsinoe is still there. She has not fled down the passageway as she should. Instead, she is just behind the stone, listening.

  “Soon,” Katharine promises. “Soon I will tell you everything.”

  INDRID DOWN

  Getting out of the castle is easier than getting in, and Arsinoe makes her way back through the city and into the hills, to Jules and Emilia, without any trouble. She slips off the road and into the sparse cover of winter trees and brush to the clearing where they wait.

  “Arsinoe!” Jules and Camden stand, slipping out from underneath their fur blanket beside Emilia’s small fire. “Thank the Goddess.”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I told you I knew what I was doing.”

  “Did you see her?” Emilia glances at her from beneath her brow. She kneels beside the fire, skinning a rabbit to roast. “Will she be ready?”

  “Well?” Jules asks when Arsinoe does not reply.

  “I don’t know.”

  Emilia tips her head back and throws her knife down to sink in the snow. “What do you mean you don’t know? Did you speak to her or not?”

  “She’s up to something.”

  Jules and the warrior trade a frown. They have come a long way and risked much. For what?

  “So she won’t come,” Jules says quietly.

  “I don’t know.” Arsinoe clenches her fists and presses them against the sides of her head. The rush of sneaking into the castle, of being so near both of her sisters, has begun to wear off and leave her shaky. “I was right there, Jules. So close I could have reached out and cut her throat. That’s why I should have come. To end Katharine. To put an end to all of this.”

  “That is the poisoner in you,” Emilia says. She takes up her knife again and stands, wiping the blade on her trousers. “The assassin. We will have need of your skills yet, in the coming battle. But do not be too hard on yourself. Though you were born a queen—born to be a killer—Jules is right: you are not one.”

  Arsinoe looks at her, surprised. She nudges Jules. “Are you telling everyone now?”

  “So what do we do?” Emilia asks them both.

  “Burn the black smoke,” Jules says. “Call Billy and the others back. We’ll leave Mirabella here, to do what she will.” She turns to Arsinoe. “I hope you’re right, and she really is up to something.”

  After leaving Arsinoe outside the Volroy, Billy successfully joined the six warriors from the rebellion. Using the oracles’ visions as a guide, they secured lodging at a livery stable not far from the parade route and prepared to wait out the night.

  As night falls, Billy sits with his shoulder against the east window of the hayloft. Three of the warriors are in the loft with him, and three more are below in the stables with the horses. Outside, the city is quieting, and torches and gaslights illuminate the streets. The small torches outside of the livery they sleep in cast a circle across the cobblestones and part of the fenced-in pen where a dozen horses doze or lazily munch hay. The flag hanging over the door is white and bears the face of a fox in gold and black paint.

  “Here.” One of the warriors hands him a steaming mug. She is called Bea, and is one of Emilia’s most trusted fighters. To Billy she seems not fierce at all. She even looks a little like his sister, Jane, with soft cheeks and a small mouth. But he has no doubt she would not hesitate to put a knife right through his eye.

  “Thank you.” He takes it and sniffs. Tea. No wine or ale. They must all be clearheaded for tomorrow, when they will turn loose the horses and set fire to the stable. They will rain down flaming arrows into the lead queensguard and scatter them. They will cause chaos.

  He hopes Arsinoe is all right. He can tell by the looks the warriors give him that they see him as a burden. A boy to babysit. But he could not let Arsinoe attempt this alone. He had to be close in case something went wrong.

  He hears footfalls in the straw behind him and looks over his shoulder. The warriors have gathered at the west window and whisper to each other. Bea nods and hurries back to his side.

  “What?” he asks when she hauls him up by the arm. “What’s happening?”

  “Black smoke. It has been called off. Get your things. Hurry.”

  “What do you mean it’s been called off?” He looks about the floor of the hayloft. He has no things, except for a borrowed blanket and the cup of hot tea. But he supposes those should not be left and reaches for them. When he bends, he catches a glimpse out the window.

  “Bea. Wait. Is that normal?” The horses in the adjacent pens are riled. They stomp and mill about.

  Bea bends down beside him, just in time to see the flash of silver. “Queensguard armor. They know we are here.”

  “How?” Seeing the soldier, Billy freezes with fear. He reaches for the hilt of his sword. A sword. Ridiculous. He has never had cause to use one before. All his life he has settled his rows with words and fists.

  “They are inside,” says Bea. She shoves him to the window. “The roof. Go.”

  “What?” he asks as he slings a leg over the sill. There is nothing to hold on to and the ledge is not a ledge but a slim bit of timbering. He looks down. He may be all right if he falls, as long as he aims for a pile of straw.

  The door of the hayloft is kicked in and a lit lamp heaved through the opening. The flames catch instantly, lighting up the space and showing warriors arming themselves. Bea pulls a crossbow from her shoulder as a barrage of bolts follows the lamp. The warrior near the window manages to deflect many, until one sinks into her gut. The hit makes her gift falter, and she is taken down by the next volley, so many bolts stuck into her that she looks like a pincushion.

  “Anne!” Bea shouts, and fires as the first of the queensguard comes through the door. She drops him with one bolt, right to the head. “Go!” She shoves Billy farther out the window and coughs. The smoke inside is already thick.

  “What about you?” he asks, but she shoves him again, so hard he nearly loses his grip and falls to the cobblestones. As he climbs, desperately finding one foothold after another, one fingerhold after the next, he hears someone begin to fight the fire inside. What has become of the warriors inside? Were any able to make it out? He reaches the side of the building, throws his arm over the roof and starts to drag himself up.

  The bolt catches him in the ankle, and he reaches back without thinking, losing his grip on the roof. He falls. When he comes to, he is facedown on cold, wet straw, staring at a set of boots. Before he can so much as shake his head, he is lifted until his feet dangle, like a newborn puppy picked up by his
scruff.

  “Let go!” he shouts. Then he looks into her eyes and stops speaking. Even in the dark, he can see that they are black, like the queens’ eyes. But they bleed that blackness in veins down the cheeks, and in wetness, like tears.

  “What are you?” he asks, just before she knocks him unconscious.

  THE VOLROY

  When Rho comes to Katharine’s chamber to inform her of the rebels’ capture, she knows it before she arrives. The dead queens still inside Katharine sense the return of their dead sisters, lent to Rho in the cells beneath the Volroy.

  Katharine lights a lamp.

  Inside Rho, the dead queens have made themselves right at home. Though Katharine had not given many, their blackness spills from the tall priestess’s eyes like tears. And though Rho speaks in a gentle voice, she cannot seem to stop baring her teeth.

  When Rho has finished telling her that two rebel warriors and the suitor William Chatworth Junior have been captured within the capital, Katharine extends her hand.

  “Give them back.”

  Rho shrinks.

  “I know,” Katharine says. “But you must. You are not a true vessel. You are not a queen. I will give them to you again, when they are needed.”

  Rho nods, and Katharine cups her cheeks almost like a kiss. The dead queens slide out of Rho’s mouth and into her own, down her throat like trout released into a stream.

  With the boost to her gift gone, Rho collapses to one knee. She wipes her face, breath heavy.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Queen Katharine.”

  “Then take me to the prisoners.”

  Rho leads her down, through the gate that leads below, the cold, stale air blanketing them even against the warmth of their torch.

  “I feel strange,” Rho says quietly.

  “That is to be expected.” Katharine watches the priestess as they go. The more steps they take, the more Rho seems to return to herself. The warrior is strong. It is why Katharine chose her. She is strong enough perhaps to satisfy the dead sisters and keep their minds off Mirabella. At least for now.

  The prisoners are housed on the first level beneath the castle. Two warriors, one with a crossbow bolt sticking out of her shoulder and another whose back and side have been badly burned. The smell of burned flesh wrinkles Katharine’s nose before she sees the extent of it: one whole arm of the warrior is charred, her clothing fused with her skin. Half of her hair is gone as well, and the scalp is bright red and weeping.

  “Have the healers mix a salve,” she says to the guard. “And get someone to remove the bolt. Rebels they may be, but they are still our subjects and will receive treatment.”

  “What about me?”

  Katharine turns.

  “I’m not your subject.”

  “Indeed, you are not.” She looks into the eyes of William Chatworth Junior, the first suitor she kissed. He has been wounded as well, and favors his leg. “So it really is you. I admit I am surprised. I thought my commander might have caught a decoy.”

  “Your commander,” he says, and shudders. “What is she? What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing.” Katharine gestures to Rho, who looks completely well again, red hair shining beneath her white hood.

  “When she took me, there was something. . . .”

  “You must have been mistaken. Moonlight plays tricks on the eye. As does panic.” She looks over the faces of her queensguard, and sees how they avoid Rho’s gaze. The furtive glances they send her way. Katharine will have to speak with them. Assure them that their commander is nothing to fear.

  “What were you doing here?” Katharine asks.

  “Touring the capital,” he spits.

  Katharine laughs. “You are brave. We will see for how long. Whatever you were planning, it will not happen now. And my foster family, the Arrons, will be most pleased to discover that we have captured the son of the man who murdered Natalia.”

  “My father? He murdered—”

  “Yes. He strangled her. Perhaps to aid your escape.”

  Katharine narrows her eyes. He seems so bewildered. Disbelieving.

  “If he . . .” He hesitates as if unable to even utter the words. “He didn’t do it for me. Where is he now?”

  “Where is he now?” Katharine turns on her heel and stalks back down the corridor. She gestures to Rho as she passes. “She killed him.”

  THE PARADE

  Only five queensguard soldiers were lost in the capture of the rebels. With the dead queens’ help, Rho had foiled whatever plan the rebellion had hatched, and now Katharine has Arsinoe’s boy. But the fact that the rebellion had a plan at all. . . .

  “The black pearls, my queen?” Her maid Giselle holds them up against her neck. “Perhaps the black pearl choker?”

  “Not now,” Katharine says, and pushes free. “Send me my Commander of Queensguard.”

  “Yes,” Giselle replies, and hurries to the door.

  “Wait.” Katharine takes a breath. Giselle has been her maid since Greavesdrake. She has always been kind. Almost a friend. “I did not mean to be brusque. Do not worry about the pearls. I wear no jewels today. Only armor.”

  The maid dips her head, and Katharine knows she is forgiven.

  Not long after, the guards at her door announce Rho’s arrival, and the tall priestess strides into the room.

  “The prisoners remain silent,” she says before Katharine can ask.

  “Yes. I expected them to.”

  “But if the Chatworth boy is here, you can be sure that the Bear Queen is here as well.”

  “Do not call her that,” Katharine snaps. “Double the queensguard presence at the parade. Nothing must go wrong. Have you”—she hesitates—“have you any reason to suspect Mirabella’s involvement in this plot?”

  Rho takes a moment to consider. “No. And I have been monitoring her closely. Even down to the woodpecker.”

  “Good.” Katharine sighs and walks to her bed, where a black embroidered gown has been laid out to wear beneath her gold breastplate. “For I am surprised to discover that I actually trust her.”

  “She is a powerful ally to have.”

  “As are you,” Katharine says. “I want to thank you, Rho, for your loyalty. And for your discretion.” She lifts the strap of the gown. “Will you send my maid back in, please?”

  Rho nods and leaves. The moment the door closes behind her the dead queens begin to chatter.

  Mirabella, Mirabella, they murmur until Katharine wants to tear her hair out.

  Mirabella is not to be trusted. Not until she is ours.

  Bree and Elizabeth arrive early to dress and arm Mirabella. Elizabeth wears her finest robes and an adornment of blue ribbon, the splash of color permitted in celebration of the Mistbane and the heroic elementals. Bree wears the custom gown Katharine ordered made, and the blue and silver beads of the skirt sparkle as she moves, giving her the impression of a shining, swimming fish.

  “It’s not as heavy as I thought it would be,” Elizabeth says, holding the breastplate in place with her right hand as Bree buckles it. The smooth, silver panel shines across Mirabella’s chest. She will have to be careful not to look down at it if the day proves sunny. She might blind herself.

  Bree runs her fingers across the engraving of clouds and lightning, so expertly worked into the metal, the veins of the bolts spidering down to the edge of the armor. “It is beautiful. Even Luca was raving about it. I think she wishes we had made you something like this for the Ascension.”

  “Does she think that would have helped?” Mirabella looks down at herself, then over her shoulder, toward the hanging tapestry and the secret door. She knows that Arsinoe is gone; after Katharine left her alone, she fiddled and tapped at the wall for what felt like forever, unable to get the passage to open. If Arsinoe had still been there, she would not have been able to disguise her laughter.

  “Are you all right, Mira?” Elizabeth asks. “You seem very nervous for a simple parade.”


  “You will not have to fight the mist today, after all,” Bree adds. “Well, unless it decides to rise . . .”

  “That is very helpful!” Mirabella forces a grin. “But I am fine. And as usual, Bree, you will outshine me.” She gestures to the beaded gown, and Bree twirls.

  “It is glorious! But heavier than your breastplate. I feel sorry for my horse.”

  “They’ll have to put you on a nice, heavy draught horse, then,” says Elizabeth.

  “Good Elizabeth. Always thinking of the animals. Perhaps a charger. I do not think Queen Katharine will allow any plow horses into her parade.”

  Mirabella squares her shoulders. Arsinoe will not have given up on trying to get her out of the capital, no matter how foolish and impossible the task. Will she be there, somewhere? Will Mirabella have to see her face in the crowd, and the betrayal in her eyes when she does not use the distraction to run?

  “Mira, do you want to wear any jewels? I do not know how they will go with this armor. . . .”

  Anything could happen today. Something could go wrong. People could be killed. And there is no way to avoid it. She is utterly powerless to stop her sisters as they gnash their teeth at either end of her outstretched hands.

  “No jewels,” she hears herself say. “Just the blue cape.”

  “We should go, then,” says Bree. “They will want us in the council chamber. The soldiers will have already lined up.”

  Mirabella follows Bree and Elizabeth down the stairs and listens to the sounds of the city at every window. It is louder than usual. Excited. The marketplace is alive, and vendors have taken up places along the parade route to sell hot hand pies and skewers of roasted meat. People will crowd along the streets ten or twenty deep.

  When they enter the Black Council chamber, no one bows. They only nod, and after a quick glance, their eyes slide by to linger on Bree. Only Katharine remains fixed on her, whispering to Rho from the corner of her mouth and beckoning Mirabella closer.

  “Sister,” Katharine says. “Are you ready?”

  “I am. You look very fine in your armor.” Katharine’s gold breastplate, engraved with a skull and snakes, gleams against the black of her sleeves and cape. Everything on her is black and gold, from the hilt of her ceremonial sword to the dusting of gold across her painted lips.