Three Dark Crowns (Three Dark Crowns #1) - Kendare Blake Page 0,94
before Arsinoe. She takes the queen’s hands between her own and rubs them.
“You feel like ice,” she says. “And you look like a belly-up fish.” She motions to one of the priestesses. “Bring her water.”
“I do not want water.”
Luca sighs. But she smiles at Arsinoe kindly, trying to be patient. “What do you want, then? Do you know where you are?”
“I tried to get away from you,” Arsinoe says. “I tried to run, but the mist wouldn’t let go. We fought. We paddled. But it held us like a net.”
“Arsinoe,” Cait says. “Do not say any more.”
“It doesn’t matter, Cait. Because I couldn’t get away. She held us in that fog until she spit us out, right into this cursed harbor.”
Arsinoe’s arms tremble, but her eyes do not waver. They are red, and weary, full of hatred and despair, but they remain fixed on the High Priestess’s face.
“Does she know?” Arsinoe asks. “Does your precious queen know what you are planning?”
Luca inhales sharply. She tries to pull away, but Arsinoe does not let go. Priestesses advance to help, and grasp Arsinoe by the shoulders.
“Does she know that you are planning to kill me?”
The priestesses force Arsinoe facedown onto the rug. Jules shouts, and Ellis holds Camden tight by the neck to keep her from leaping.
“Does she know?” Arsinoe shrieks.
“Kill her,” Luca says calmly. “The escape cannot be pardoned a second time.” She motions to the priestesses, and they draw their knives. “Take her head and her arms. Cut the heart separate from the body. And throw it all into the Breccia Domain.”
Arsinoe struggles as the priestesses move upon her. They pin her down. They raise their knives. The council looks on in shock. Not even the poisoners were ready for this. The only one not slightly green is war-gifted Margaret Beaulin.
“No!” Jules shouts again.
“Get her out of here,” Natalia says. “For the girl’s own good, Cait. She does not need to see this.”
Cait and Ellis struggle with Jules and drag her out of the tent. Mirabella steps forward and takes Luca by the arm.
“You cannot do this,” she says. “Not here. Not now. She is a queen!”
“And she will have the death rites of a queen, though she dies in disgrace.”
“Luca, stop. Stop it now!”
The High Priestess pushes Mirabella back gently.
“You do not have to stay either,” she says. “Perhaps it would be better if we escorted you out.”
On the thin rug, Arsinoe is screaming as the priestesses tear at her, pressing her down, pulling her limbs to lay flat. It seems that she is crying red tears, but it is only that the stitches in her face have begun to stretch.
“Arsinoe,” Mirabella whispers. Arsinoe used to chase Katharine like a monster through the muddy bank. She was always dirty. Always angry. Always laughing.
One of the priestesses places a foot on Arsinoe’s back and yanks her arm hard to pull it out of joint. Arsinoe yelps. She does not have much fight left. It will not be difficult to saw through her arms and head.
“No!” Mirabella shouts. “You will not do this!”
She calls down the storm almost without knowing it. Wind bows the sides of the tent and tears at the flaps. The priestesses upon Arsinoe are so focused that they do not notice until the first bolt of lightning shakes the ground beneath them.
The Black Council scatters like rats. Before she can send the flames from the candles after them, or lightning comes straight for their heads. Luca and the priestesses try to reason with her, but Mirabella brings the storm down harder. Half the tent collapses beneath the force of the wind.
In the end, they all run.
Mirabella gathers Arsinoe into her lap and brushes salty, filthy hair from her sister’s cheeks. The storm calms.
“It is all right now,” Mirabella says softly. “You will be all right.”
Arsinoe blinks her tired black eyes. “You’re going to pay for this,” she says.
“I do not care,” says Mirabella. “Let them execute us both.”
“Hmph,” Arsinoe snorts. “I’d like to see them try.”
Mirabella kisses her sister’s forehead. She is weak and feverish. The knotted wounds that line her face are swollen and slightly torn. Every bit of her must sing with pain. Yet Arsinoe does not wince.
“You are made of stone,” Mirabella says, and touches Arsinoe’s stitched-together cheek. “It is a wonder that anything was able to cut you at all.”
Arsinoe struggles out of Mirabella’s arms. That too is like the sister she remembers. Always a wild thing, not made for cuddling.