Five Dark Fates (Three Dark Crowns #4) - Kendare Blake Page 0,97

it when Jules said Margaret’s name.

“Whatever she sent,” Jules says quietly, “no army could best it.”

“Then what do we do?” Emilia whispers through her teeth, eyes shining. “Do we let her get away with it?”

“No, we don’t let her get away with it,” Arsinoe growls, and stands. The thought of Katharine continuing to rule, continuing to exist while Mirabella is ashes upon the sea makes Arsinoe’s heart twist inward on itself. “The Undead Queen can’t be allowed to remain. She has her dead queens—” Arsinoe clenches her fist. She feels every scab and every scar from the low magic stretch and sting. “And we’ll have ours.”

Billy’s mouth falls open.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we use Daphne. I know where to find her.” Through the window, the peak of Mount Horn juts into the clouds. “And you could say that, after everything, she owes me a favor.”

“Arsinoe, it’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“I didn’t say you were.” She expects him to tell her she is being reckless. Or to try and change her mind. Instead, he says no more.

“But even with a dead queen,” Caragh says, “what difference does that make? If they are that much more powerful, like you say, then what is one against dozens?” She looks to Jules, who looks to Emilia and Mathilde. They look to Pietyr, but he has no more answers than they do.

“Daphne is stronger,” Arsinoe says. “She’s not like them.”

“What do you mean?” Jules asks. “She was a queen like they were. She is dead like they are.”

“Not like they were. She ruled. She wasn’t killed. She didn’t lose.”

Her words ripple around the room. It is their best chance. Their only gambit. Arsinoe feels their eyes come to rest on her with cautious hope.

“If you think she’ll fight with us,” Jules says, “then go get her.”

“When the army marches, I’ll separate and head to the mountain. I can catch up with you afterward.”

“Then let us march.”

They quickly depart, talking in hushed tones, Emilia once again at the helm to mobilize the rebels. Before Billy leaves, Arsinoe takes him by the arm.

“I know you don’t want me to do this. But I have to.”

“I know. Just like you know that I have to fight.” He touches her face. “Mirabella would be proud of you. I’m proud of you. And I hope you know what we’re riding into.”

When Pepper arrives, Arsinoe is alone in her room, watching rebels prepare in the city below. From her window, she has a clear view of the archery practice in the hills, where targets used by the war-gifted stand filled with arrows split by other arrows down the center. Others have arrows sunk into them from every possible angle, like pincushions, or shot into them to form elaborate patterns. She looks down to the square, where wagons are loaded with weapons and naturalist-ripened grain. The entirety of the rebellion has redoubled its efforts in the wake of Mirabella’s death. As if they knew she would be the reason, finally, for their marching.

The little bird flies onto her windowsill. She knows him immediately, even before he greets her with one bright chirp. For a moment, it feels as though he is Mirabella, come back to visit her, before Arsinoe remembers that Mirabella was no naturalist. Only a friend to one.

She holds her hand out, and the black-and-white tufted woodpecker hops into her palm. He is tired, and agitated, the poor little fellow. His wings hang loose and away from his body, and his small sharp beak parts in a pant.

Arsinoe is no naturalist either, but the moment his feet touch her skin, he settles down and fluffs his feathers. She carries him farther inside as his tiny, dark eyes drift shut, and sits down in her chair by the fire.

“No sleeping yet, friend,” she whispers, and tickles his belly.

Irritated, Pepper cracks one eye open. Then he thrusts out his leg with the note tied to it, shaking it slightly as if to urge her to hurry so he can get some rest.

Arsinoe removes the note and unrolls it. Her breath catches when she recognizes Mirabella’s writing. She sets it in her lap and strokes the bird a moment. She thought it would be from his naturalist, Elizabeth. Or perhaps from Bree Westwood. When had Mirabella written it? When had she sent it? She purses her lips and looks down at the woodpecker. He is asleep already.

She unrolls the parchment and reads.

Please come to the capital. Katharine is not what you have