“I have seen Arsinoe do things with low magic that you could not even dream of. And do not,” Mirabella adds when Luca’s eyes widen, “come at me with temple rhetoric about low magic. Arsinoe can oust the dead queens from Katharine and serve them up to the mist on a platter.”
She waits as Luca imagines it. As she rolls the possibilities in her mind.
“And then what?” Luca asks. “If the dead queens are vanquished and the mist is quiet? What will we do then?”
“Then Katharine will rule. The true Katharine. My little sister, as good a Queen Crowned as I ever would have been.”
Luca stares down at her desk and at her hands, hands which have shaped the course of the island for many years. Mirabella hopes that she will agree. But she did not come to ask the High Priestess’s permission.
“You think that Arsinoe will come?”
“I know she will.”
“Then write your letter. Send it with Pepper. But you must tell Katharine that you are doing it.”
“Of course. I know.” Mirabella smiles. She relaxes her shoulders. Every bone in her body feels like it has been overcooked, like she has danced with lightning for hours.
“There is one more thing I would ask of you,” she says, and Luca smirks.
“I am almost afraid to hear it.”
“What do you know of the original temple? The first temple that was built here in Indrid Down, before the capital was the capital?”
“I do not know much,” Luca replies, surprised. “Why do you seek it?”
“It is just a sense I have,” Mirabella says. “So many old queens return. Old queens and old tales brought to light. If we are to face them, I would know as much of our history as I can.”
“Very well,” says Luca. “I will see what I can find.”
SUNPOOL
Arsinoe watches as Jules’s ax comes down in a graceful arc and cleaves the log in two. A clean, fast cut through a fallen trunk as thick as Braddock’s back leg. It should have taken many more swings than that. It would have taken Arsinoe the better part of the morning. But the strength in Jules’s ax does not come from her arms. It comes from her war gift. She did not really even need the ax at all.
Arsinoe goes to the pile and takes a log in her arms to load onto the cart. They have come fairly far into the forest to cut wood, so far that Braddock got bored and stopped following. But she hears him, off somewhere not far away, rustling through brush for old frozen berries or other things to eat. She smiles. The bear may not be her true familiar, but they are still quite alike.
“Trusting yourself around an ax again, eh?” Arsinoe asks. She means it as a joke, but Jules loses concentration and the blade buries itself only a few inches into the wood.
“Aye,” Jules says, and grunts as she pulls the blade free. When she uses the war gift, Jules’s edges are sharper. Her glances cut, and Camden’s claws are quicker to come out. But the tether is holding, and that is what matters.
“And what about Emilia? With your gifts tied together, is she a full naturalist yet?”
“No.” Jules pauses midswing. “But she has grown very involved with her horse.”
Arsinoe laughs.
“She wants me to be queen so badly. The Legion Queen. But you and I both know I’m not suited for it. With this curse or without. I’m a soldier. A warrior.”
“A guardian,” says Arsinoe, and Jules smiles.
“A guardian.”
“You’re as much of a queen as I am,” Arsinoe says.
Jules looks at her.
“No. I’m not.”
And it is true. After all that has happened, Arsinoe could rule if she had to. Sometimes she even feels the pull to lead the rebellion, which could explain why she and Emilia always butt heads.
Camden grunts and hops on top of the log pile, sniffing the air. A few moments later, Emilia and Mathilde ride into the clearing. Mathilde with Pietyr Renard on the back of her saddle.
“And what do we do with Master Renard?” Arsinoe asks, exaggerating his name.
Jules shrugs, eyes narrowed as she watches them approach. “Emilia says the spies will report back to Katharine that he’s awake. My bet is that she’ll decide for us.”
“I hope they tell her that I woke him up when she couldn’t.” Arsinoe smirks. “That ought to stick in her craw.”
Jules sinks the ax deep into a chunk of wood and wipes her hands. The horses stop at a respectful distance, and Mathilde lets Pietyr slide to the ground.
“What’s this?” Jules asks. “Afternoon exercise?”
Emilia nods to Pietyr.
“The prisoner has asked to see the queen.”
“Not that queen,” Pietyr says, looking at Jules with a curled lip.
Emilia dismounts and shoves him hard. “She is the only queen we have. So speak if you will.”
“You brought him all the way out here?” Arsinoe asks.
“We have eyes on the roads. Birds in the sky. The forest is secure.”
Jules looks at Arsinoe and sighs, then crosses her arms. With Camden seated beside her, the cougar’s head nearly reaching her waist, she gestures for Pietyr to come closer.
“What do you want, Master Renard?”
He frowns, like his name on her lips hurts his ears. “To thank you, I suppose. For making me well again.”
“You’re welcome. Though it’s not me you should be thanking but Arsinoe. It was her low magic that did it.”
“I know.” He frowns again. “I can feel it like mold growing across my skin.”
Arsinoe snorts. “That’s some thank-you.”
“I . . . apologize. I should not complain. Since it was low magic that got me into this mess in the first place.”
“You?” Emilia asks. “An Arron was practicing low magic? For what purpose?”
Pietyr glances between Jules and Arsinoe. “Should we not have this conversation someplace more private?”
“Say what you would say.” Jules lifts her chin. “Emilia and Mathilde are leaders in this cause. We have no secrets.”
“Very well.” His hands have begun to tremble, and he stuffs them into his pockets. They have put him in a thick gray coat, but he wears no scarf, and the skin of his neck and chest are exposed at the open collar. The healer in Arsinoe resists the urge to wrap him in a cloak. He is still weak and should be in front of a cozy fire with a hot bowl of soup.
“How is it that I have come to be here?” he asks. “I gather that I was stolen from the capital.”
Emilia shoves him again. “You are here to give information, not get it.”
“Emilia.” Jules shakes her head, then returns her attention to Pietyr. “You were stolen from your sickbed in Greavesdrake Manor. From what we have heard, you had been there for a long time.”
“You don’t remember anything?” asks Arsinoe.
“Have you ever been unconscious, Queen Arsinoe?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should know that is a stupid question.”
She frowns. In her mind, she takes away his bowl of soup.
“I was performing low magic in order to help the queen,” Pietyr says, looking back at Jules. “Needless to say, it did not work.”
“Help her to do what?”
“Help her to rid herself of the dead queens who have inhabited her since the night of the Quickening Ceremony. When she fell into the Breccia Domain. The rumors are true, you see. ‘Undead’ is not just an honorary epithet.”
Dead queens. Katharine is possessed by dead queens. To the credit of those assembled beside the wood cart, no one cries out or falls over into the snow. They only go very quiet. The shock and disbelief are as plain on their faces as Pietyr’s enjoyment watching them.
“That is why she seems so strong,” Mathilde says. “And at times, so monstrous. That is how she survived.”
“Yes,” says Pietyr. “And I was trying to get them out. Using low magic taught to me by Madrigal Milone.”
“Is that why Katharine killed he
r?” Jules asks. “Because she was helping you?”
“No. Katharine did not know.”
“But it did not work, you said.” Emilia’s face is still as stone. “You could not get them out.”
“She did not want them out. She said she did—she thought she did—but in the end, she used them to . . . Well, you saw the state I was in. She was not trying to kill me, but—”
Jules snorts. “You don’t think she was trying to kill you?”
“If she was or they were, I would be dead. The boy murdered on the docks, your mother—those were not Katharine. It was them. They have taken her over more and more. I thought if they were gone she would go back to being my Katharine. I was a fool.”
Despite his effort to remain cold, he sounds miserable. And still in love. Even Emilia seems to soften, like she might reach out and give him a bracing punch in the shoulder. Their sympathy makes Arsinoe want to scream.
“Who cares about your romantic foibles? The Queen Crowned is full of the dead! That’s why the mist is rising! Why everything is going wrong! And Mirabella doesn’t know!”
“She does not know?” Pietyr smiles. “I thought perhaps that was why she went. Abandoning the weaker queen for the stronger.”
“How did you know she was even there?” Mathilde asks. “If you were asleep for all that time?”
“I have not been asleep for the last day. And no one in the Lermont house seems concerned about what I might overhear.”
Mathilde looks ashamed. But she is not responsible for the voices of every oracle. Nor can the oracles really be blamed, when they are unused to keeping prisoners.
“Could that be why she left?” asks Emilia. “She ran to the stronger queen?”
“No,” Arsinoe says. “She wouldn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Jules. “All that matters now is what do we do about it.” She looks around the circle. Not even Emilia has a ready answer. How do they attack a queen who is not only one but dozens?
“I’ve dealt with dead queens before,” Arsinoe mutters. “Believe me, they’re even more dangerous than live ones.”
“This is a fine Black Council you have assembled,” Pietyr says after watching their silence. “An oracle, a warrior, and an exiled queen, all in service to a legion-cursed naturalist.” He looks to each in turn, and even Arsinoe shivers beneath the weight of his ice-blue eyes. “But you are still missing something.” They raise their eyes, and he grins. “A poisoner.”
Arsinoe’s mouth drops open. “What? You?”
“I would make the perfect addition. Katharine would tell you I am an excellent adviser. She would have made me the head one day.”
“If she hadn’t nearly killed you.”
“Is that why you’ve given us this information so freely?” asks Jules. “Because you hope to trade it for a position within the rebellion?”
“No,” he says, and looks at her squarely. “I am telling you because I do not want to go back.”
Jules looks down, watching Camden’s thoughtful, twitching tail.
“Don’t worry, then. We have no immediate plans to send you back.”
“What are you talking about?” Arsinoe tugs her sleeve. “We have to trade him. For Billy!”
Before Jules can respond, a hawk descends sharply through the tree canopy. It dives to Jules with a piercing cry, spooking the horses and Pietyr Renard. Jules winces as it lands on her bad side, putting weight on her bad leg. She quickly reads the message it carries, and her face goes pale.
“What?” Arsinoe asks. “What is it?”
“Bastian City has been attacked. The queensguard has marched upon them.”
Emilia leaps onto her horse’s back.
“Wait!” Jules takes the reins of Mathilde’s mount from her and jumps into the saddle. “I’m coming with you. We’ll need supplies.”
“We will get them along the way,” Emilia growls, and before Arsinoe can say another word, she and Jules put heels to their mounts and race out of the clearing with Camden running behind.
THE VOLROY
Bree and Elizabeth sit with her as Mirabella writes her letter to Arsinoe. Normally, she would be glad of their company. But today she craves quiet. She must get her words just right. And the way Bree and Elizabeth watch her . . . it has begun to make her uncomfortable.
“Stop staring at my belly, Bree. There are no triplets in there yet. Perhaps not ever.”
Bree smiles guiltily, and Elizabeth blushes from chin to eyebrows. But they still both look like they want to come and press their hands against her stomach.
It was not Mirabella who told them this secret plan. It was Katharine. Perhaps to further sway Mirabella’s decision. To show her she would not be alone. Or perhaps without the dead queens to put their hands over her mouth, Katharine was simply a girl who was eager to confide in her newfound friends.
“Forgive us,” Bree says after a moment. “It is just that we are excited.”
“It may never happen. The Goddess may never choose to send the triplets to me, a queen who is not crowned. Besides, it could be twenty years before we know or begin to doubt. Twenty years is a long time to foster excitement.”
“She will send them,” says Elizabeth. “She must. And then the Goddess will have what she has always wanted anyway: triplets from her favorite.”
Mirabella’s mouth twists wryly and goes back to writing. “And the Goddess always gets what she wants,” she murmurs.
“Queen Katharine has been in a good mood of late,” Bree says, peering over Mirabella’s shoulder at the letter. “But I still cannot believe she agreed to an alliance with Arsinoe.”
“She agreed, because she trusts me. And because she knows that I can bring them together.”
“But can you be so sure?” Elizabeth asks. “There is so much hatred between them.”
“No more than there was between Katharine and me when I first arrived.” Mirabella sees them look at each other; they are not so sure. “Katharine knows that we need Arsinoe. We need her low magic.”
Elizabeth’s face constricts. The priestess does not approve, and Mirabella wishes she could tell her everything, about the dead queens and what Arsinoe can do. But those secrets are not hers to tell.
“I will understand, Elizabeth, if you do not wish to send Pepper with this letter.”
Across the room, stuck to the rough stone of the fireplace, the woodpecker cocks his small tufted head. Then he flies to Mirabella and sits on her shoulder.
“Pepper is always happy to serve his queen.” Elizabeth smiles. “Though he would appreciate an extra worm and seed cake upon his return.”
“A worm and seed cake. I will see what I can do.” Mirabella reads through what she has written. Then she reads it again. She does not know why she is so afraid to send it. With a deep breath, she rolls it up and seals it, and little Pepper sticks out his leg to receive the message.
“Fly fast, you good bird,” she whispers, and the woodpecker flits to Elizabeth and then out Mirabella’s open window, on his way to Sunpool.
SUNPOOL
Arsinoe is in the apothecary, restocking shelves, when Pietyr Renard finds her.
“Where’s your guard?” she asks, watching him wander the shop, touching this jar and then that, sometimes impressed, sometimes disdainful.
“Outside.”
She looks through the window. One warrior, armed with a sword, stands before the entrance.
“One guard. This really is a shoddy rebellion.”
“You are not wrong,” Pietyr says. “When your Legion Queen and her commander race off alone, without advice of counsel or any preparation. The war gift. It is so impulsive.”
“They care about each other, if that’s what you want to consider impulsive,” Arsinoe snaps defensively, even though had he been anyone but Pietyr Renard, she would have agreed. “And they’ll be back soon. So don’t get any ideas.”
“Soon. If they return at all.” He pulls a jar of hemlock off a shelf, removes the cap
and inhales deeply. Then he replaces the cap, and Arsinoe watches the jar disappear down his sleeve as if it never was.
“Aren’t you usually supposed to wait until no one is looking?”
“I thought you might indulge me. You know, poisoner to poisoner?”
Arsinoe narrows her eyes. He has his color back, whatever color an Arron can be said to have. And he is as handsome as ever in his haughty, deceptive, murderous way.
“The guard outside,” he says, and nods to her, “she thinks me soft. That I would not make it far in these wilds if I tried to run. She thinks I do not need much guarding.”
“And is she right?”
“That I do not need much guarding, yes.”
“Oh, really?” Arsinoe finishes tying a bundle of herbs and drops it into a drawer. “So you don’t intend to run back to Katharine as soon as you spot the chance?”
“I will not deny that I want to see Katharine very badly. Almost as badly as I do not want to see her.”
There is more than fear in his voice. There is dread, and Arsinoe is surprised to find that she believes him.
“What is she?” she asks. “What can she do?”
“I do not know. Perhaps not even she knows. When she sent the dead queens into me, I think it was by accident. A reflex.” He smiles weakly. “Or perhaps I do not want to admit that she would try to kill me.”
“She sent the dead queens into you, so she can send them into anyone?”
“I do not know.”
“You don’t know, or you won’t say?”
He rounds on her, eyes burning.
“I do not know. But I think you should assume that she can.”
He leans against the shelves. He is awake but not fully recovered. Perhaps he never will be.
“It’s odd to see you so dejected,” Arsinoe says, and he lifts his head. “I always thought of the Arrons as such a hard people. Driven, if a little lacking in passion. Yet here you are. And your broken heart is plain to anyone looking.”
“Broken-hearted and a fool. I should have known what she was becoming. I should have always been afraid of her. Yet how could I be when she was not a monster to me? Take care, Queen Arsinoe. I thought I was safe. But no one is.”
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