“In another life, perhaps,” Mathilde replies. “Or a less literal interpretation.”
Like when she was briefly “queen” by using her gift to impersonate Arsinoe’s hold over the bear during the Quickening Ceremony. Of course Jules does not mention that. The flames of this madness have been fanned enough already.
“The prophecies were clearer once,” Berkley pipes up, avoiding Jules’s eyes. “Before the bleeding Black Council started drowning all the oracle queens.”
Bitter mutters of agreement ripple through the room. It does not matter that it was an ancient council who passed that decree. Or that the same council may have been populated by those with the war gift. The words “Black Council” have become synonymous with the poisoners, and poisoners are easy to blame.
“I’m not . . . ,” Jules starts, and then louder, “I’m not your leader. I can’t be. I’m legion cursed. And it’s called a curse for a reason.”
“For a foolish reason. You have not gone mad.” Emilia tugs Jules closer. “What did you think you were here for? That enough time would pass, and we would move you upstairs with a patch to hide your green eye? That we would say you’re a cousin and Camden a pet cow?”
“I don’t know what I thought.” Jules’s heart pounds as she looks into the faces at the Bronze Whistle. The expectations there. The belief. Emilia touches Jules’s hair and gently tucks it behind her ear.
“I know you are broken hearted. I know you lost Queen Arsinoe and that boy and you feel like you are nothing without them. But you are wrong.
“Even if you are right, your destiny will find you anyway. Already our whisperers tell us the people have no faith in the poisoner, and the Arrons fight amongst themselves as if tugging on Natalia Arron’s bones. By the time we storm the gates of the Volroy, we will have spread tale of you, our Legion Queen, across the entire island. The people will scream your name. And we will take Katharine in chains.”
INDRID DOWN
Katharine oversees the setup for the welcome banquet herself. It must all be perfect. The food, the flowers, the music, and insofar as she can manage it, the company.
“We should have held this indoors,” Genevieve grumbles. “At the Highbern, like Lucian and I suggested. These clouds . . . What if it rains?”
“Then the elementals will enjoy it all the more,” Pietyr replies. He directs a servant as to where to place the chairs and which arrangements of flowers should go on the head table. “And stop scowling, Genevieve. People are watching.”
Katharine glances up and sees the curious faces half hidden behind shutters and curtains. She squeezes her scarred wrists and knuckles through her light summer gloves. They ache today, as they have not ached in a long time. As they sometimes do when the dead queens are dormant. She calls for a glass of water, and as she waits, touches the healed black band of ink across her forehead. Her permanent crown, tattooed in the old fashion.
Pietyr leans close to whisper.
“It will be all right, Kat. You are doing the right thing. You must not let the likes of Bree Westwood get to you.”
“It is not truly her that we have to worry about.” Genevieve takes the water from the servant and brings it to the queen. “It is the High Priestess. Luca is shrewd. Appointing herself to the council. Choosing the Westwood daughter just to make trouble.”
“If Natalia were alive,” Pietyr mutters, “she would never have dared.”
Katharine raises her chin. “It was Luca herself who administered the crown. Needles upon needles sinking into my skin. She cannot want to unseat that which she so recently bestowed. She only wants to crow and see if she can drown us out.”
“She wants to see how far she can push you,” says Pietyr.
“But I suppose . . .” Genevieve sighs. “That is how it always is after an Ascension. After any new appointment to the council. If we stand our ground, eventually she will give up.”
“Queen Katharine.”
A servant, hair covered in baking flour, approaches quickly and takes a knee.
“Pardon the interruption, my queen.”
“Of course. Speak.”
“The feast is prepared. And I was told to tell you . . . to inform you that the High Priestess is on her way. I don’t know why they sent a servant from the kitchens. We’re all just very busy and—”
Katharine touches the man’s head. “It is all right. Once the feast is in place, take your ease. Eat.” She looks up at the building before her and gestures to the faces ducked behind the windows. “All are welcome. As many as the square can hold.”
She steps onto the raised platform and stands before the head table, rubbing flour from the palm of her glove. Genevieve and Pietyr hurry away to see to last touches: the last of the pale ribbon hung from the lamps, the final sprays of pink and purple flowers. Her Black Council waits at the edges of the square and greets the first folk who wander in. Not something they are terribly accustomed to, and the strained expressions of pleasantness stretched across Lucian’s and Antonin’s faces make Katharine chuckle. Before long, the tables are full and so many people stand between that it is hard for the High Priestess, Rho, and Bree Westwood to make their way through when they arrive in their carriage.
In any case, it seems they are in no great hurry to reach the head table. Luca stops to offer blessing to every person she passes. Even Rho tries to woo the guests, though some will not come close enough for a handshake, and she is near unrecognizable when smiling. Luckily for her, Bree can charm enough for both of them. She is more beautiful than ever with her hair studded with opals. And her bright green summer gown highlights the fact that Katharine may wear only black.
“Wait.” Katharine stops a servant as she passes with a tureen of soup. She dips a spoon and tastes it. “The little brat had better eat something today. This soup is too good to miss.”
The banquet progresses as banquets do until someone notices a commotion near the harbor. Katharine has almost relaxed enough to sample the desserts when cries of alarm begin to rise.
Pietyr nods to one of the queensguard, and several soldiers push through the crowd. Everyone has turned toward Bardon Harbor. Even the guards. “Pietyr, what is it?” Katharine asks, and stands.
The mist has risen thick over the water. So thick it might be a cloud, if clouds were known to creep quickly and deliberately toward land. At the sight of it coming closer, those nearest the docks start to back up and then to flee, walking quickly up the hill for higher ground. Katharine glances nervously around the square. There are so many people gathered. If they are not careful, there will be a panic.
She thrusts out her arm and snaps her fingers at High Priestess Luca.
“You and I must go there now.” She walks around the table, and Luca is already out of her chair following. “Bring horses for me and the High Priestess,” she says loudly. “And clear a path to the harbor.”
“Make way for the queen! Stand clear!”
In moments, her queensguard has opened the road to them. Katharine’s black stallion is ready for her, always nearby and saddled in case of emergency. She half leaps and is half thrown onto his back.
“That was good work,” Luca says when she is mounted and riding beside her. “Nothing curbs a panic like the courage of a queen. Natalia would be proud.”
“I am too distracted just now to wonder whether you mean that,” Katharine replies. Her eyes are ahead, on the approaching mist. She hears, behind them in the square, Pietyr and the Black Council mounting horses to follow. As they ride to the docks, she holds her stallion to a canter to keep from trampling anyone near the shore, but she need not have bothered. Her figure on horseback is enough to clear a path, hair a black flag and black gown billowing, and the gathered folk part like butter to a hot blade.