“The Goddess will not allow both to die,” says Willa.
“How do you know?” Joseph asks.
“Because in all our long history, she has never allowed all of her queens to die. And I should know. Half of our library here is volumes of queen history.”
“But all of her queens wouldn’t be dead,” Jules says. “If both Mirabella and Katharine die in the duel, Arsinoe will still be alive.”
Every eye turns to her, and Arsinoe steps back.
“Maybe that is the plan,” Jules says. “The Goddess’s plan.”
But Willa waves her hand.
“No. Mirabella will be the Queen Crowned. Queen Camille knew it. The entire island has known it, until recently. Arsinoe has been granted her life, a fugitive life in secret. Nothing more.”
“You haven’t seen how many times she’s saved her,” Joseph says. “And brought her back. Just to live as a fugitive? I don’t believe it.”
Arsinoe scoffs. They have all gone mad, looking at her like that. Eyes big as dinner plates and twice as sparkly.
She stares past them, at a large woven tapestry hanging on the wall. It depicts the Hunt of the Stags, the ritual performed by suitors during the Beltane of a crowning year. The tapestry shows young men with bared teeth and shining knives. One lies disemboweled in the foreground, and the stag they hunted has fallen onto its knees. There is so much blood, it is a wonder the weaver did not run out of red thread. And that could be Billy, bleeding to death on the sacred ground of Innisfuil.
“All these brutal traditions,” Arsinoe says quietly.
“Arsinoe?” Madrigal asks.
For a long time, Arsinoe dreamed of a chance like this one. To run away. To disappear. But always the Goddess moved her about like a game piece, placing her where she wanted her. She even gave her Jules, legion-cursed Jules, who Luke had always said was put nearby for a reason. But what was that reason? To win her freedom? Or to win the crown?
Either way, Arsinoe is tired of wondering. She swallows hard and feels her scars, every one of them from her cheek to her ribs. From now on, she will do what she wants.
“We have to go to Indrid Down,” she says.
“Yes,” Jules says, and claps her hands. “Mirabella and Katharine will make their last stand, and when they fall, you will be there, waiting.”
“No, Jules. Willa is right. Mirabella is the chosen queen. And I think I was spared so I could help her.” She grasps Jules by the shoulders, crumpling the duel challenge in her fist. “I’m going to the capital, and I’m going to help Mirabella put down that poisoner queen.”
THE QUEENS’ DUEL
ROLANTH
Mirabella’s coaches are outfitted with silver fastenings and black plumes. The blue elemental insignia flies on flags beside the queen’s black ones. And there are white coaches too, white coaches pulled by white horses and filled with priestesses so that all of Indrid Down will know that the temple stands with her.
“Are you sure you would not rather go by sea?” Sara asks as they pack the last of Mirabella’s things into trunks. “It would be safer.”
“She would parade into my city,” Mirabella says. “So I will parade into hers.”
Sara holds up a gown.
“This, for the ball?”
Mirabella barely glances at it. It is some shiny, satin thing with a fitted bodice and wide straps.
“That is fine.” She turns about the room. Her room at Westwood House since she was taken from the Black Cottage. It is not bare; she has not overpacked. But it still feels emptied, like if she speaks too loud her voice will echo.
“And for the jewels?”
“Anything but black pearls,” she says. “I have heard that Katharine favors black pearls, and I do not want us to look alike.”
“You could never look alike,” says Billy.
Mirabella and Sara turn. Billy stands just inside the door. Sara cocks an eyebrow at his crimson shirt. He should not wear it when they go to the capital, still mourning for a fallen queen when he has declared for Mirabella. But no one will ask him to take it off. And the crimson will win them more favor from the naturalists.
Sara curtsies and leaves to give them privacy.
“How much longer will the mourning last?” Billy asks.
“Not long,” Mirabella replies.
Soon the candles and the crimson will be gone. The prayers said for Arsinoe at altars will cease. Vanquished queens are not spoken of past the Ascension Year. There is no hall in the Volroy that houses their portraits. No one even remembers their names.
“Are you ready?” she asks. “Do you have attire for the ball?”
“I do. Though I can’t believe we’re going to dance and feast with them the night before you kill her.”
“The ball is nothing more than Katharine’s way of regaining control. I set the duel, so she sets the ball. It is all quite transparent. And it will not work.”
Billy holds up a long, rectangular box. “I brought something for you.”
He opens it and takes out a choker of black gems cut into faceted ovals and set in silver. They sparkle as he turns them in the light, and she wonders how long ago he bought them, and if they were meant for someone else. But she will not ruin the moment by asking.
“Here,” he says, and Mirabella holds up her hair to let him place them around her neck.
“They are beautiful.”
“Far more beautiful than anything the poisoner has,” he says. “They can dress that little witch up any way they like. But she’ll still be a monster.”
“Do not say that word,” Mirabella cautions. “We do not say ‘witch’ here. No matter what we feel about Katharine, you must be careful when we are in the capital. I would have you be a popular king-consort among the people.”
Billy grits his teeth.
“Of course. It’s just what she did. . . .”
“I know.”
“I hate her. Don’t you? She took her from me. From us.”
Billy’s hand lingers on her shoulder, from fastening the choker, and Mirabella lays hers atop it.
“I met Katharine before Beltane,” he says. “My father wanted me introduced to all of you, before the other suitors.”
“You never came to me.”
“I chose Arsinoe before I could. But it’s the strangest thing. When I met Katharine, she seemed so sweet. Harmless, even. I actually pitied her. The girl I met was nothing like the one in Wolf Spring. But I suppose I only saw what she wanted me to see.”
“I suppose,” says Mirabella. “Billy, before we depart, I would have you pen a letter to precede us into the capital.”
“A letter? Saying what?”
“Saying that you will be my king-consort and will not pay court to Katharine. Phrase it as meanly as you like. But I would have one more blow to her ego before she sees me at the ball.”
INDRID DOWN