Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns #4) - Kendare Blake Page 0,61
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.
“Thank you,” Katharine says. “To the horses, then.”
The sight of the parade assembled in the inner ward makes Mirabella’s knees go weak. So many queensguard soldiers. So many silver buckles, on them and on the horses. Flags of blue, white, silver, and black flap softly in the breeze. But there is no sun. The sky is overcast with low gray clouds. So at least she will not have to worry about blinding herself with her own chest.
“How well you look,” Luca says as she appears at Mirabella’s elbow. “How well you both look.”
“Are you sure you will not ride with us, High Priestess?” Katharine asks. “I would have the people see a strong showing from the temple.”
Luca nods to Rho, already mounted on a tall, white mare whose mane and tail have been braided with blue and silver streamers. “One of my priestesses leads your guard. That ought to be strong enough.”
Mirabella says nothing. It is not her place to weigh in on matters of the crown, and even if it were, she could not have managed a word. How could Arsinoe have thought she could escape? She will be held fast in the center of a sea of bodies. Soldiers, mounted and on foot. The waving elementals whose lives she saved in Bardon Harbor. And half of the Black Council: Genevieve and Antonin, Bree. Paola Vend. Even if she would have run, she would never have made it.
“Your mount, Mist-breaker.” A soldier approaches, leading an enormous gray horse. An odd gray, and Mirabella wonders whether he has been dyed to resemble the mist. That would be a silly amount of detail, but given the scope of the parade, she is not surprised when she strokes his shoulder and her hand comes away coated in gray powder.
“I hope that Mist-breaker is the horse’s name,” Mirabella says after she is helped into the saddle, “and not something new that they are calling me. ‘Mirabella Mistbane’ is grand enough.” Katharine rides close on her black stallion, and the gray gelding stomps his feet. “And I hope that he is steady. I should have told you: I am not much of a rider.”
“That cannot be true,” Katharine says, a little coldly.
“I am afraid that it is. I spent most of my time in carriages. I can ride and at any pace. But if he shies or startles, I might need you to take hold of his bit.”
Katharine’s brow knits. She stares at Mirabella quietly before finally nodding. “I will take hold of him if anything happens.”
At a signal of trumpets, the first soldiers begin to march out, leading the procession out of the Volroy and into the streets of Indrid Down. When they come upon the start of the crowd, Mirabella waves beside Katharine. The cheers of the people are loud in her ears, their reactions to every part of the processional like announcements of who is passing: for the brave elementals they cheer, and for the queensguard they respectfully clap. Gasps and exclamations for the Black Council, which is no doubt due to Bree’s gown. Then the queens arrive, and they explode.
“See how they love you?” Katharine shouts into her ear. “Are you worthy of it?”
“I hope so!” Mirabella shouts back.
“Good. I would hate for them to be disappointed.”
Mirabella glances at her. It is on odd thing to say. There is an edge to Katharine that Mirabella has not felt since first coming to the capital, and it makes her nervous.
They make another turn, heading for the marketplace before the parade winds around to end in the square. Mirabella takes a deep breath and continues to wave. She hopes that the smile on her face looks true as her eyes dart over every stack of crates, every slumping canopy, anywhere that Billy and the war-gifted might be crouched down to hide. In moments, something will happen. And she will ask Katharine to take hold of her horse.
They come upon the market, and the hand upon her reins begins to tremble. At any moment, any second, someone will start to shout. Something will burst or burn. Except that they ride on, and it does not.
“Are you well, sister?” Katharine asks. “You seem nervous.”
Mirabella sighs and smiles. “No. I think I am fine.”