Three Dark Crowns (Three Dark Crowns #1) - Kendare Blake Page 0,103
baked into the shape of a swan.
The air fills with delicious scents. The first three rows of poisoners lift their noses to scent the air like alley cats at a kitchen window.
“Are you hungry, Queen Katharine?” Natalia asks, and Katharine takes a breath.
“I am ravenous.”
Natalia stands to one side as Katharine eats. Her bites at first are tentative and small, as if she does not believe. But as the feast progresses, and the poisoners clap, she grows more confident. Pink-tinged sauce drips down her chin.
The mainland boys on the dais wet their lips. What wonder they must feel, watching this girl who cannot die. It does not even matter that it is not real.
Katharine pushes away the plate of candied scorpions. She ate three, clever enough to leave the tails crumbled in the yellow sugar. All that remains is the swan pie.
Natalia guides Katharine around the side of the table, and the queen tears through the crust to scoop out the meat. That is all. Katharine washes it down with a full goblet of wine and empties it to the last drop.
She slams her hands down on the table. The crowd cheers. Louder, it seems, out of sheer surprise.
Natalia raises her eyes to the dais and finds Luca’s cold, stony gaze.
Natalia smiles.
QUEEN ARSINOE’S STAGE
From her place behind the stage to Katharine’s right, the Gave Noir looks as grotesque as Arsinoe expected a ritual feasting of poison to look. She is unfamiliar with many of the poisons listed in the dishes, but even she must admit to being impressed as pale, petite Katharine swallows them down. By the time it is over, Katharine is coated in berry glaze and meat gravy to the elbows, and the crowd is screaming.
Arsinoe clenches her fists and then remembers the rune drawn in her palm and quickly releases them. It cannot be smudged or muddied. This is not the best day to ask her palms not to sweat.
“Arsinoe.”
“Jules! Thank the Goddess!”
Jules presses the small black bowl of potion into Arsinoe’s hand. Arsinoe makes a face.
“Pretend that it’s wine,” Jules says.
Arsinoe stares down into it. Drinking seems impossible. Though it is no more than four mouthfuls, it is four mouthfuls of salty, metallic, and tepid liquid. Blood from her own veins and the veins from a bear.
“I think I see a piece of fur,” Arsinoe says.
“Arsinoe! Drink it!”
She tips the bowl back until it knocks against the wood of her mask.
The potion tastes just as bad as she feared. It is surprisingly thick, and the herbs and roses do not help, providing only unwanted texture and chewiness. Arsinoe’s throat tries to close, but she manages to force it down, remembering to save enough to pool in the palm of her rune hand.
“I’ll be just beside the stage,” says Jules, and disappears.
The priestesses announce Arsinoe, and she steps up. The eyes of the crowd are as heavy as they were atop the cliffs, but she cannot think about them now. Somewhere, not far away, a bear is waiting.
She walks to the center of the stage, the hastily assembled boards creaking beneath her feet. The blood-taste coats her tongue and rolls in her belly. She keeps her rune hand carefully cupped to her chest. It will work. It will look like she is praying. Like she is calling for her familiar.
“Here, bear, bear, bear,” Arsinoe mutters, and closes her eyes.
For a few moments, all is silent. And then he roars.
People scream and part a wide path as he lopes toward the stage from the cover of the cliffs. He climbs up beside her without hesitation. The sight of his long, curved claws makes the cuts on her face itch. Somewhere to her right, Arsinoe hears Camden snarl and hiss.
Arsinoe may not have long. Jules may not have much control. She has to get the blood and the rune pressed to his forehead.
He comes closer. His fur touches her hip, and she freezes. His jaws are large enough to take half her rib cage in one bite.
“Come,” she says, surprised that her voice does not crack. The bear turns his snout to look at her. His bottom lip hangs down, as bears’ bottom lips do. His gums are mottled pink. There is a black spot on the tip of his tongue.
Arsinoe reaches out, and presses the bloody rune into the fur between the bear’s eyes.
She holds her breath. She stares into the bear’s brown and gold-flecked eyes.
The bear sniffs her face and slobbers on her mask, and Arsinoe laughs.