“Go.” It is a croak. One word. Then again. “Go.” She claws at her mouth. Points again to Fennbirn. “Go.”
“We cannot go back.” Mirabella gets to her feet. “We escaped. We are never going back.” She binds the cut on her arm with a strip of cloth and ties it off with her teeth. Grabs her sister and staunches her blood as well. Without the boost of fresh queensblood, the shadow pales. It slackens. It points one last time and then disappears, taking the wind with it.
“Why did you stop her?” Arsinoe asks as the sounds of birds and insects return to the cemetery. “She was getting stronger.”
“Maybe that is why I stopped her.”
“But she had more to tell us. I know she did.”
“Arsinoe.” Mirabella snuffs out the candles and stomps the last of the smoking resin. She stuffs everything back into the sack and twists it closed. “Do you not think that what she wants is for us to go back and be killed? That we were not supposed to get away?”
“But the dreams—”
“The dreams are bait! They are a trap.” Mirabella puts a hand on Arsinoe’s shoulder as she looks out toward the bay. “And even if they are not, it is not worth the risk.”
THE REAPING MOON
ROLANTH
“It was a mistake to come here,” Pietyr says as the carriage approaches the elemental city of Rolanth. “We should have stayed in Indrid Down.”
“And celebrate the Reaping Moon Festival in the midst of a chanting mob?” Genevieve arches her brow.
“You think there will not be chanting mobs in Rolanth? The entire island has heard about”—he glances apologetically at Katharine—“what happened to that boy.”
“That assassin, you mean. The one whom the queen made an example of.”
The queen and her court are to stay at the finest hotel in Rolanth. The High Priestess herself made the arrangements, in conjunction with Sara Westwood. Katharine drops open the carriage window and takes a deep breath of the crisp northern air. So many white buildings, built into the hills. Limestone and marble, facing the sea, stark against the black basalt cliffs that run up the northeastern coast, that place that they call Shannon’s Blackway. Rolanth is brighter than Indrid Down, with the clear water of the river rushing through the center, and the many green spaces of parks and gardens. Hard to believe that anything could go wrong in such a beautiful place.
She has brought nearly her whole Black Council to ensure it, except for Cousin Lucian, Rho Murtra, and Paola Vend. Some had to stay behind, so it would not appear that they are fleeing. Though that is precisely what they are doing.
When the carriage stops, Genevieve leaps out to see that all has been prepared. Pietyr takes Katharine’s hand to escort her into the hotel.
Their room takes up the entirety of the uppermost floor, a lovely space with ivory walls and blue velvet on the bed. Katharine removes her traveling hood and throws it onto an oval table. Then she swings the windows open and leans out.
“Stay away from the windows, Kat.”
Pietyr closes it up and tugs her back to the center of the room.
“How long will you remain angry with me, Pietyr? For what happened to that boy?”
“I am not angry with you.” He unbuttons his jacket and slings it onto a chair. “I am protective. Though I do wonder why you are not angrier with yourself.”
“I was. I am.”
“Are you? We must brand that poor boy a traitor and not even allow him to be burned, just so we can say that the queen was in the right?”
“I was in the right. He attacked me,” Katharine says, but her voice lacks conviction. The boy had been no real threat. She could have disarmed him. Instead, she put a knife up through his throat. “Natalia would say it is more important for a queen to be feared than to be loved.”
Pietyr frowns. “Natalia would never say that. Not in this case.”
Genevieve sweeps into the room, having finished her cursory inspection of the hotel. She glances between them and rolls her eyes at Pietyr.
“Will you never stop telling her she is wrong, nephew? Will you never stop thinking of what is best for your ‘Kat’ and begin to think about what is best for the reign?”
“Murdering subjects is never what is best for the reign. Fear is one thing, but not for a queen as unpopular as this. Heaping fear upon dislike breeds hatred. And hatred makes the people likely to bite.”
Genevieve sighs. “The people will forget. You have been in the game for so little time, Pietyr. It will be years before your advice is of any value.”
A lump of frustration rises in Katharine’s throat. She knows what comes next. Pietyr’s pale cheeks will gain color. His teeth will grind. He will shout, and Genevieve will shout back, and Katharine will want her head to explode.
“Genevieve,” she says quickly. “Go and see to the festival grounds.”
“Yes, Queen Katharine.” She curtsies and leaves, and Pietyr slams the door so fast it nearly catches the seat of her trousers.
Katharine returns to the window.
“Kat.”
“I am perfectly safe this high up.” She looks out. In Rolanth the sun shines and the sea sparkles. The sky is clear. There is no mist hovering on the water without cause, and there are no missing fishers bobbing in the waves.
Pietyr’s hands slide up her arms. His fingers slip into her hair, and she lets her head fall back against his chest. His touch is a balm: it brings her back into her own body.
“It was not you with that boy, was it, Kat? It was them. The dead queens.”
“I do not know.”
“Yes you do. It is just that you do not want to admit it. Why? Do you think I will think you evil?”
“No!”
“Then why?”
“To protect them!” She squeezes his hands. “As they have protected me. They are a part of me now, Pietyr. And what they give is worth the cost of what they take.”
“Even the life of a young boy?”
Katharine closes her eyes. She sees that young man’s face. She sees it in her dreams. But she tries not to think of him while she is awake. The dead queens seem to like it, and that feels so very wrong.
“That will never happen again,” she says. “Never.”
“How can you be sure? Can you calm them? Can you keep them from putting you in such danger?”
“You calm them.” She turns and pulls his mouth to hers. “As you calm me.”
The day of the Reaping Moon Festival, Katharine is to be dressed by Sara and Bree Westwood. No fewer than six servants enter alongside them, bringing dozens of gowns and several boxes of gloves, several cases of jewels, before bowing and departing to give them privacy. Dressing the queen, particularly for one of the high festivals, is a great honor, though one would not know it by the sour looks on Bree’s and Sara’s faces.
“Mistresses Westwood.”
“My queen.” Sara Westwood curtsies deep, her eyes on the floor. “We thank the queen for extending this invitation.”
Katharine looks with compassion on the stiffness in the woman’s back, and the gray of her hair. It did not used to be so gray. Even as recently as the Queens’ Duel, Sara’s hair was a bright, vibrant brown.
“I would not think to extend it to anyone else in Rolanth.”
They have brought the one-handed priestess, Elizabeth, with them, as usual, and the girl busies herself straightening dresses and whispering to Bree. At one point, Bree laughs, and Elizabeth prods her jovially with the stump of her wrist. They are good friends, even without Mirabella to bind them together.
“I—” Katharine clears her throat softly. “I would wear my own gloves.” She holds her arms up. She has already put a pair on, above her dark linen chemise.
“As you like, my queen.” Sara nods curtly and shuts each of the glove cases. “Though the ones we have brought are more fashionable.”
“I am rather particular about them.”