Five Dark Fates

by Kendare Blake

  “I’m not running away!”

  “You must!”

  “What about the rebellion?”

  Emilia looks back to the fighting. “There is no rebellion. As there is no Bastian City. And I would not have what happened to Margaret Beaulin happen to you. I will not lose you!”

  Jules looks out across the fields of battle, where people lie dying. She watches Rho as she cuts toward them in a rain of blood. Neither of Jules’s gifts are Rho’s equal. Her stand against Rho would last only long enough for the priestess to hack her in two. She reaches out and draws Emilia close. She runs her fingers along the inside of her palm and feels the lines of the low-magic scars. The lines of the tether. She hears her mother whispering of destiny. She hears Arsinoe. And she knows what she must do.

  “Please, Jules,” Emilia begs. “You have to run.”

  Jules takes the knife out from her belt. She reaches back and slips her fingers into Camden’s fur for one moment of comfort. Then she grabs Emilia’s hand and turns it over.

  She slices through the fabric of Emilia’s sleeve and works around the arm guards, using her blade to reopen the scars on her arm and hand. Then she does the same to herself, pressing their arms together and letting the blood mingle again. Setting it free.

  “What are you doing?” Emilia tries to pull away, but it is too late. “No, Jules! You can’t!”

  “I’m sorry,” Jules says sadly as the curse rips through her. “But this is what I was made for.”

  She shoves Emilia, tossing her like a doll, and Camden leaps from the saddle, growling. Every bit of bottled rage is released into her blood in an instant, and she kicks her horse, fixed on Rho.

  When Jules charges down the hill, at first Arsinoe thinks she is falling. That is how fast she flies. Later, in Arsinoe’s memory, it will seem that Jules covered the ground between herself and Rho in one long bound, her horse’s hooves never touching the turf. The two commanders come together with their arms raised, teeth bared, and with so much speed that it seems they both must break upon the impact. Instead, when their swords cross, such a great force is released that it sends a shock wave across the battlefield, and levels the entire line in both directions. Including Arsinoe.

  She comes to a breath later, ears ringing. Somehow she manages to stay in the saddle as her gelding struggles back onto his feet. For a moment, she does not remember where she is or understand the sights and smells around her. Blood and the filth of gut wounds. Brave, naturalist-urged horses stumbling with cracked spears in their chests, still lashing out hooves to fight even when their naturalist riders are gone.

  That collision. That explosion. It must have been Jules and Rho. But how could Jules have—?

  “The tether.” She cut it loose. She let the legion curse go free.

  Arsinoe scans the battle and quickly finds them, circling each other with blades drawn, their horses fallen unconscious or perhaps even dead and rolled to the side as if they were thrown. Her heart aches for a moment for that good black gelding of Katharine’s who carried them through the mountains after the Queen’s Hunt. Jules should not have ridden him into war. Goddess knows, he had done enough for them already.

  Arsinoe’s vision wavers, and she blinks hard; she clenches her teeth against the dull vibration in her ears. All across the battlefield, soldiers come to, looking dazed. It does not seem possible. Jules is so small and Rho such a hulking beast, Jules should have been thrown all the way back to the rebel camp. Pietyr Renard said that Katharine had sent the dead queens into him, and Arsinoe knows that Katharine has done the same to her commander.

  It is almost too monstrous to think about.

  Arsinoe tears her eyes away from Jules to search for Katharine. Her gaze passes over Billy, and she allows herself one breath of relief. He is alive. A little blood smeared across his jaw, but it does not seem bad, and might not even be his. But Emilia is nowhere near him. Perhaps as a warrior, Emilia can look out for him from a distance, relying on the accuracy of her crossbow bolts to keep him out of danger. Or perhaps she never meant to keep her promise, after all.

  “Arsinoe! Are you all right?” Mathilde asks. The seer is unhorsed, and bright red blood leaks down her cheek from a cut above her eye.

  “I’m fine. Where’s Gilbert?”

  Mathilde shakes her head, and Arsinoe sees a body lying not far away beneath a yellow cape.

  “Do you see my sister? Do you see Katharine?”

  Mathilde points.

  Katharine gallops in the midst of a dozen queensguard with her banners flying and flags draped from her horse’s reins.

  “I’m going for her. Stay back!”

  “Wait!” Mathilde grips her leg as a sudden blast of horns rings out from the rear of the queensguard.

  Arsinoe does not need to look to know what it is. She does not need to see the frantic soldiers scattering from the direction of the sea.

  “The mist,” she whispers. “Come to join us at last.”

  When Pietyr’s eyes met Katharine’s across the battlefield, he thought that he would freeze. That he would be killed by some queensguard sword, while he stood, struck dumb. But he had kept on fighting. She had called his name. He could read it on her lips. And the look in her eyes was not one of confusion, or hatred at seeing him in the rebel colors. It was only happiness. Relief. Yet Pietyr had kept on fighting.

  As he makes his way through the chaos, that is the thought that keeps his sword arm strong and his legs moving forward. He passed the test. Face-to-face with his Katharine, he had kept on.

  For she truly is his Katharine. The moment he spotted Rho riding across the field, he knew that the dead sisters were no longer inside Katharine’s skin. Poor Rho. He is the only other person who knows what it feels like to have those dead queens poured into you, and he does not wish it on anyone, not even her.

  Pietyr steps over a fallen soldier and gasps; she looks so much like that little priestess that Bree Westwood is always running around with that he is almost fooled. It is hard to hear, and to get his bearings. The whole world is shouting and metal on metal. And on top of that, his ears still hum from being thrown to the ground so hard that he bounced when the legion-cursed queen and Rho collided.

  “Hey!”

  Pietyr turns as Billy makes his way toward him through the struggling bodies.

  “Why are you not fighting?” Pietyr shouts. “Instead of following me like a lost dog? They did not say we had to stay together!”

  He dives as Billy swings hard at his head.

  “Are you mad?” Pietyr asks before he looks behind him and sees the fallen queensguard solider.

  “No, I’m not mad.” Billy pulls his blade out. “Also, you’re welcome. Where are you sneaking off to in such a hurry?”

  “I am ‘sneaking off’ somewhere I am less likely to die.”

  “Come on,” Billy tilts his head. “Come back the other way.”

  “Do you see what’s happening the other way?”

  “You have to serve your purpose.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?”

  To his astonishment, the mainlander comes forward, sword swinging. It is an unpolished display—bad form, a poor grip, with less chance of cutting him than had he used a butter knife—but Pietyr stumbles backward.

  “You idiot!” Pietyr shouts, and then they crouch as an arrow strikes near their feet. They wait out the volley together, shields over their heads as arrows sink into the dirt like rainfall.

  For all his talk of poisoner glory, Pietyr never imagined he would be in a fight like this. The sights and smells of the dying do not bother him. But the chaos—the panic and the disorder—it makes his breath come faster and sweat prickle the back of his neck.

  “Blast these random volleys! Give me an arrow guided by the war-gifted. At least they always hit their mark.”

  “You’d rather be hit?”

  “I would rather be hit clean than pinioned to the ground by an arm or a leg,” he snarls, and feels a momen
t of empathy for the Deathstalker scorpions that he pins to his lapel.

  Billy comes out from behind his shield. The wooden edge is stuck with an arrow. He breaks it off with his foot.

  “You say you’re slinking off for safety,” he says, “but you’re heading in the direction of Arsinoe. Tell me why.”

  Pietyr’s eyes narrow. Perhaps the mainlander is not so stupid after all. He is headed for Arsinoe. But not for the reason the boy thinks. Arsinoe is his best chance to get to Katharine. He does not know what will happen to her today. He only knows that he needs to be there when it does.

  Billy misconstrues his narrowed eyes and rushes him again. Their shields bash, and Pietyr clenches his fist to stop its vibrating.

  “Are you not forgetting your sworn target?” Pietyr asks. “In case you missed her, Rho Murtra is right over there.” Across the battlefield, the rebel lines have already begun to flag as the shouts of the warrior captains are ignored and formations break and scatter. He is running out of time.

  Pietyr’s small dagger is out of his sleeve and sunk into Billy’s side so fast, he even impresses himself. Billy’s mouth drops open to form a small surprised O.

  “I am sorry, Chatworth,” he says as he lets go of the handle, leaving it stuck. “But I have to see her.”

  He turns and dashes through the fighting, leaving the mainlander to fall to the ground. He hopes he will not take it personally. He does not see how he could when the blade was not even poisoned.

  It is not hard to find Arsinoe. She stands out from the rest in her black clothes and silver armor, and the furious scars slashed across her face. She is on horseback in the middle of a group of soldiers who are apparently there to do all of the fighting for her. He cannot tell if they are trying to cut her a path through the queensguard or simply keep her safe, and Arsinoe does not seem to care. All of her focus is downfield on Katharine.

  Across the field, the riders around Katharine push close. They form a steering wall and take her horse by the reins, pulling on his bit so that his neck must twist nearly to his shoulder. In moments, they have her, and turn back for the Volroy just in time to evade the mist, creeping across the battlefield from east to west.

  INDRID DOWN

  High Priestess Luca hears the cries of the battle when it begins. The stomping and clashing, constant as a hum. Through her high window in Indrid Down Temple, she catches glimpses of circling hawks and falcons: familiars fighting alongside their naturalists.

  Outside her door, her guards have fled to linger on the lower floors and wait for news, or perhaps to abandon their post completely. She does not care. One way or the other, the battle will be decided. A queen will take the throne, or the dead queens will keep it. And Luca’s time within that conflict is over.

  She pours herself a cup of tea, for it is still cold on this upper floor, and nearly spills it when the entire temple shakes to its foundation. An elemental is what comes immediately to mind. An earth-shaker. But not even Mirabella could have produced that kind of shock from the distance of the battlefield.

  When she hears the hurried footsteps approaching, she turns, thinking it a guard coming with news. Instead, Bree and Elizabeth fly through her door.

  “Luca, are you all right?” Bree asks. “What was that?”

  “You would know better than I would.”

  “Whatever it was, it nearly knocked me down the stairs.” Elizabeth rushes to the High Priestess and throws her arms around her. Her plucky little woodpecker flies right into Luca’s hood.

  “He has returned,” Luca says, and squirms as Pepper roots around the nape of her neck.

  “Pepper, get out of there!” Elizabeth calls the bird back into her sleeve; he emerges a moment later atop her head. “Yes, he’s returned.”

  “And he delivered his message?”

  Elizabeth looks to Bree; they nod.

  “But there was no return message?”

  Bree shakes her head, and Luca sighs. “Well,” Luca says. “I suppose Arsinoe means to deliver it in person.”

  Perhaps not wanting to think about what that message might be, Bree moves through the room and starts stuffing Luca’s belongings into a sack.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What we should have done long before this. We are getting you out of here.”

  “No. You girls cannot risk yourselves for me. If Queen Katharine wins the day, she will know who did this.”

  Bree’s expression is all elemental fire.

  “We know the risks. We are not children anymore.”

  “And if anyone asks, we’ll say we took you out of the city for your safety,” Elizabeth adds. She helps Bree with the packing, filling another sack with jewels, clothes, and trinkets. Luca gathers up her personal journal. Whatever else remains, she must trust that the priestesses of the temple will preserve it for her.

  “Talk in the Volroy grows wild,” says Bree. “I half expect that Lucian will order one of the maids to stab him through the heart rather than face capture by the enemy.”

  They shoulder the sacks, and each takes one of Luca’s elbows. But she hardly needs the assistance. Her legs suddenly feel years younger.

  “I would not worry about Lucian,” she says, and chuckles. “Poisoners have a flair for the dramatic, but few Arrons are brave enough for it. Natalia was the only one of them worth her salt.”

  “You sound like you miss her,” Elizabeth says.

  “I do miss her. My old adversary. If she had not been killed, it never would have gone this far, let me tell you.”

  She sees the girls exchange a humoring glance. She may be the High Priestess, but they are of another age. And perhaps they are right. It is young women now who bleed upon the battlefield. Young women who will lead them, no matter which side prevails. There will be no more puppet queens.

  “Why did you bother saving me?” she asks. “Why did you not leave this old relic to her fate?”

  “There is certainly a case to be made that you earned that fate,” Bree says, brow arched. “But we love you, Luca. And we will still need you if we are to get past this madness. You may be old, but you are no relic.”

  Luca takes Bree’s hand and squeezes it. There is still vital blood in her veins. The Goddess may yet have a role for her to play in the future of the island. Or they may be taking her through tunnels and darkened alleys, out of the temple and out of the capital, all the way out of Fennbirn’s story. After the life she has led, and all she has lost, Luca is surprised to find she will be happy either way.

  When Genevieve rides her frothing horse directly into the castle, she nearly runs right over the top of her brother and cousin.

  “Antonin! Lucian!” She looks from one frightened, exasperated face to the other, and notes that they are both carrying velvet bags. “What are those? Do you intend to steal from the Volroy and take to the road like common thieves?”

  “Yes,” Antonin replies. “And so must you. Go now and take what you can. Thanks to the strategic thinking of Rho Murtra, our way back to Greavesdrake is cut off. We will be lucky to make it through the city and onto the road to Prynn.”

  “You mean to abandon Greavesdrake? It is our home!”

  “Greavesdrake will be burned out by day’s end,” Lucian snaps. “Have you seen the rebel numbers?”

  “Have you seen our commander?” Genevieve counters. “And what about the Queen Crowned? No matter what happens we must remain with her.”

  “Would you rather advise, or would you rather survive?” Antonin asks.

  She sets her jaw stubbornly, and he approaches her horse to put his hand over hers on the reins.

  “Sister. I know you would do what Natalia would do. And if Natalia were here, she would stay with Katharine. But she was blinded by that girl. Blinded to her faults. What she should have wanted was to live to fight another day. Come now, we have to hurry.”

  Genevieve sits numb in the saddle. “You are too late. The mist has already made the battlefield. Queen Katharine is retreat
ing here. She will be here within moments.”

  “All the more reason for us to move swiftly.”

  For a blink, Genevieve considers helping him onto the back of her horse. Galloping away and never looking back.

  “Outside, our soldiers are fighting against naturalist beasts and war-gift-guided knives,” she says. “That they should be swallowed up and torn apart by the mist is—”

  “Terrible,” Antonin whispers. “But there is nothing that we can do.”

  Genevieve shakes her head. She tugs her hands gently away.

  “Genevieve—”

  “No. I cannot go. You are right, Antonin. The Arrons must survive. But at least one Arron must remain also with the queen.”

  “Genevieve!” Lucian takes hold of her leg. “If the queen survives, we will return! But if the rebellion overtakes her . . . they may spare Bree Westwood and even old Luca, for love of the elemental. But we three, we will burn in the square!”

  “Then I will burn.” Genevieve swings off the horse, her hands trembling. She is not brave by nature. Not like her sister. She hands Antonin the reins. “Take my mare. You will have a better chance on horseback.”

  THE BATTLEFIELD

  “Queen Arsinoe!”

  She looks over her shoulder. Pietyr Renard is making his way to her. There is blood on his hands, and some on his shoulder, but otherwise he seems unharmed.

  “You,” she says. “What are you doing here?” She cranes her neck to search around him, but Billy is nowhere in sight.

  “He stayed behind,” Pietyr says, reading her expression. “He said he had his own business to take care of.”

  “Not with Rho. Not with that Rho.”

  “He knows. He knows; do not worry. He said he would remain, to help.”

  “But not you.”

  Pietyr smiles. “Not me.”

  Arsinoe studies him a moment. He is panting and sweating. Outfitted in rebellion gear. She woke him from unconsciousness and probably saved him from a slow, unaware death. But he is still an Arron, and she half expects that his next move will be to leap upon her and try to cut her throat.