The Young Queens Page 5

  “More ale?” she asks, and snaps her fingers for the serving girl. She does not call the High Priestess by her title, as she has come dressed in simple white-and-black temple robes that any priestess might wear. She does not even call her “Luca,” her name, which is known the island-over.

  After the ale is poured, High Priestess Luca regards her with sharp blue eyes.

  “How is everything in your household, Sara?”

  “Lucky to be standing, truth be told,” Sara replies. “Thank the Goddess for reinforced roofs. They are most resistant to being torn off.”

  Luca chuckles. “You are being dramatic.”

  “High Priestess, I am not. The stronger she became, the more difficult she was to control. We have”—she pauses, ashamed—“we have taken to keeping her shut up in the basement.”

  Inside, belowground and away from windows, Mirabella is manageable. But they have still had to brick over the fireplace. And the nailed-down shutters on the exterior of the windows are not fooling anyone.

  “A queen? Locked up in a basement?”

  “We are failing her. We were not prepared.”

  Sara takes a large swallow of ale. They will do better. The Westwoods’ time is just beginning. The Arrons will fade, and the Westwoods will rise, building up their homes and the city until Rolanth rivals the capital city of Indrid Down. If only they can shepherd this queen.

  “There have been rumors,” says Luca. “They say that she is a handful. But surely your letters were an exaggeration.”

  “I am not in the habit of exaggerating. And certainly not to you. She has not forgotten her sisters.”

  “A queen always forgets. Give her time.”

  Luca’s voice is soothing but dismissive. She will seek to put Sara’s mind at ease and leave her with no more than a pat on the head, if Sara lets her. And Sara has written too many letters, and pleaded with too many interim priestesses, for that.

  “The people wished for an elemental queen,” she says, her voice bitter. “They feared that there was nothing left to the Goddess but poisoners. And now that they have an elemental, they whisper that she is a handful. She is more than a handful. And we will fail if someone does not help us.”

  “At first, the strong queens are always difficult.”

  “It has been three years.”

  Luca takes a long drink of her ale and crunches through a baked, salted cracker. “How is she other than that? Does she look you in the eye? Respond to your emotions?”

  “Yes. There are times when she is almost sweet.” Sara knows what the priestess is asking. Madness in a queen is not to be borne, and would mean Mirabella’s instant death. “She shows no sign of madness.”

  “The island can never have another Elsabet,” Luca says, referring to Queen Elsabet, a sight-gifted queen who, upon foreseeing an assassination plot, had three whole houses of people executed without evidence.

  “Never.” Sara makes a pious gesture to the Goddess of the island. “But what do we do now? Is there anything that can be done?”

  Luca grunts. “There is always something to be done. Fostering a queen is never easy. Did you think it would be? The temple must be neutral, Sara. I don’t know what you would have of me.”

  Sara bows her head, and Luca sighs, as if she cannot take a moment more of Sara’s pitiful face. “Do you really think she is a chosen queen? Our queens win their crowns through killing. People have their favorites, but if she truly is as strong as you say, her victory would be near assured.”

  “She is that strong. She is chosen. And she needs the temple to guide her. As all queens do. Surely you would go to the aid of any of the young queens in this way.”

  “Surely,” Luca says.

  Sara keeps her eyes on the table as the High Priestess mulls it over, weighing tradition against rightness, faith against action. But Sara knows that Luca hates the poisoners as much as she does. Though they may not have murdered Luca’s grandmother, they have done even worse in wresting power away from the temple.

  Luca wipes her mouth on a napkin and drops it beside her ale. “Well. You had better take me to meet the queen. Let us let her prove it.”

  When the door to the basement creaks open, Mirabella blinks curiously into the shaft of light. It is not the hour for lessons or feeding. Though it is difficult to tell in the darkness of her confines.

  Bree’s feet come slowly down the steps. She has even dared a small candle to light her way.

  “Queen Mirabella,” she says. “We are bringing you to meet someone very important today. Will you let me help you get dressed? We have prepared a bath, and a beautiful new gown, and I will style your hair if you like. . . .”

  The stubborn part of Mirabella, that same part that grips on to memories of her sisters with slippery fingers, wants to flare Bree’s candle up into her face. But the other part, that part that has rarely seen the sky in three long years, wins out. Besides, Bree’s gift has shown with an affinity for fire. Maybe she is already strong enough to hold back the flare.

  With a gentle touch, Bree leads her up the stairs, into the day. The light hurts at first, stinging her eyes. From the grimaces on the servants’ faces, she must be hurting their eyes just as badly.

  “Into the tub, Queen Mirabella.”

  They have dragged a deep copper tub into the center of the kitchen and filled it with hot, perfumed water. Two maids strip her of the filthy rag of a dress she wears until she stands in her underclothes, her limbs streaked with dust and her hair hanging in oily strings.

  She steps into the tub and submerges immediately, the heat and weight of the water pressing down like a blanket. Water has always been her worst element. The most elusive. Almost playful in its propensity to ignore or disobey. But today is different. Today she can tell that it has missed her.

  Mirabella surfaces and lets Bree and the maids wash her face and scrub her fingernails. It is nice to be touched. Nice to be warm. And after the bath, they wrap her in a soft dressing gown, and brush and brush the tangles out of her hair.

  “Who is here?” she asks as they pull a dress of fine black wool over her head. “Who am I to meet?”

  “No one is here,” Bree replies. Over the last three years, Bree has grown lovely. Her chestnut hair is twisted into buns on the back of her head, and she wears a light blue skirt edged with black ribbon. “We must travel to meet them at Starfall Lake. You are to meet the High Priestess of the island. High Priestess Luca.”

  It takes a long time for High Priestess Luca and Sara Westwood to reach the end of the rocky, sloping path to the shores of Starfall Lake, but when they do, only Sara is out of breath.

  “It surprises you.” Luca stretches her arms. “You likely thought I would be old and soft. You have only seen me from afar, riding in fancy carriages and eating from silver platters on the festival days.”

  “I am impressed but not surprised. Have you ever been to the lake before?”

  “Of course. Though not for several years. Starfall Lake. Named for the starfalls reflected in its waters, still commonly visible in the winter skies on this side of the island. It is lovely, is it not?”

  “Yes, lovely,” says Sara, her voice like a waving hand. The lake is not important. The only thing that is important is the small girl making her way around the shore opposite. Several Westwoods form a circle around her. It would look like protection had Luca not already heard about the queen’s erratic behavior.

  The Westwood party arrives and pays respect to the High Priestess. Some wear temple insignia around their necks, and bow to her with unusual fervor, perhaps touched by the Goddess to become priestesses one day. Luca nods and lays distracted blessings upon their heads. Her focus is on the queen, as theirs should be, but the moment the Westwoods saw Luca, they flocked to her in relief and left Mirabella’s side to hide behind the High Priestess’s robes.

  Queen Mirabella, meanwhile, has stepped into the lake up to her ankles.

  “Mirabella,” Sara Westwood says. “Will you come
and meet the High Priestess?”

  Other Westwoods begin to gather cautiously around the lake, closing in on the queen in a half circle, but Luca shakes her head. Mirabella walks closer, alone, and silly Sara feels the need to whisper, “Take care. She learns new tricks every day she is allowed outside.”

  Luca pays no mind. She slides out of her shoes and walks into the lake, up to her ankles in cool water on the warm, summer day, shoulder to shoulder with the queen.

  “It is lovely here,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “Nice. Quiet.”

  “Yes.”

  Mirabella is a queen of few words. Or perhaps she is only shy, like Queen Camille, and will chatter on and on if given the opportunity, in private. Luca looks her over quickly, from head to toe. A beautiful girl with even features and a firm set to her mouth, even at nine years old. Dark, determined eyes. She does not seem like the wild thing that Sara described, though that is perhaps because they have groomed and disguised her in thin black wool, and an airy veil.

  “Do you know who I am?” Luca asks.

  Queen Mirabella glances at her.

  “You are the High Priestess. That much they have told me. But I know what a high priestess is. From my teachings. You are the leader of the temple.”

  “That is right. And who was your teacher?”

  “The Westwoods teach me now. Sara and Uncle Miles. But my first teacher was . . . Willa.”

  “You remember her fondly?”

  “I remember,” Mirabella says, but Luca sees through her clenched teeth to the truth. The truth is that she remembers Willa, only not as well as she used to. And she remembers the other queens, though she remembers them even less so. The fight in her has become a fight against forgetting. That is where the anger stems from.

  “It is all right to remember,” says Luca. “You will not be punished for remembering.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Luca cocks her head. She kicks a little, playfully, at the water of the lake.

  “I go where the Goddess wills me.” She smiles at the queen. “As we all must. As surely you do. Someone with a gift as strong as yours must feel her with every beat of your heart.”

  “The Goddess,” Mirabella murmurs thoughtfully. “Willa said she was my . . . our mother.”

  “The Goddess is mother to us all. But to you, especially. You are her body, here, on the island. Her hand. As I am her ears and eyes. And her voice to the people.”

  “Why are you here?” Mirabella asks again, brow furrowing, and the lake shudders suddenly, the entire surface contracting, as if an earthquake struck someplace down deep.

  “To meet you, of course. I am here because you are sad.”

  “What is that?” From the shore, Sara points down into the water. Luca cannot see what she means, but from the way everyone backs away, it cannot be good. “There’s something in the lake!”

  Mirabella draws the creature out of the water, and Luca gasps. The translucent, liquid body is oddly beautiful as it hovers above the surface. Perhaps it is the water spirit of Starfall Lake, given form. But if it is, then Mirabella can do something no elemental has been able to do in recent memory.

  “I am not sad,” Mirabella says, and Luca looks at her and sees dots of perspiration on the little girl’s forehead. “I am angry.”

  “Queen Mirabella—”

  “Give me back my sisters!”

  The water creature dives onto Luca, stabbing watery fingers into her eyes and into her nose and ears. She hears the Westwoods screaming as the water forces its way down her throat. Luca wishes she could scream, but all she can do is flail, and fall to the ground, and get her arms wet as she tries to fight.

  “Mirabella, stop!” Sara shouts. But the queen will not. There is steel in her spine, and ice in her heart that will not be melted by one dead priestess. But Luca knows that her murder will force them to say Mirabella is mad. The people will storm Indrid Down and demand she be put to death.

  With a gargantuan effort, Luca wills herself to stop panicking. She looks at the queen with compassion. She holds out her hand. For a moment, she thinks it will not work, that the burning in her lungs will increase until her vision goes dark. But then the water splashes to the ground. She coughs it up until her throat is raw and her muscles sore, but she can breathe again.

  The Westwoods circle around Mirabella, ready to drag her from the lake and lock her back where they found her.

  “No!” Luca shouts in between her coughing. They back away, and Luca looks up at the queen fondly. “No one touches our chosen queen.”

  WOLF SPRING

  Arsinoe follows Jules as Joseph leads them on a merry chase through the woods. Try as he might, he cannot leave them behind. Both are still as slim-hipped as he is, and what Jules lacks in length of leg she makes up for in quickness. All three run for the sheer childhood delight of running and never seem to tire, though their cheeks are flushed red. It has been three years since Arsinoe joined them, and while she is still far more serious than Jules or Joseph, she will laugh now, and a mischievous, sarcastic edge has crept into her voice. She is happy. Jules and Joseph have become her friends, and if some part of her remembers that they are not to be replacements for others . . . Well, that part has fallen very quiet.

  “Joseph, not so fast!” Arsinoe shouts from the back.

  Joseph cackles and yells, “Faster!” He twists his head to look. She and Jules are right on his heels, and he smiles as though proud of them. Ahead, the path leaves the woods and broadens into the tall, sunlit grass of the meadow beside Dogwood Pond. Jules takes her chance, surging ahead of Arsinoe, short legs flying. She overtakes Joseph at the last moment and bursts through first, into the daylight.

  “That’s practically cheating!” Joseph says, and Arsinoe laughs. Her strides slow, and her muscles relax to weak-kneed slackness.

  “She does it every time. You ought to know by now. You ought to expect it.”

  Arsinoe slaps Joseph on the back. But he does not reply or slap her in return like he usually does. He has stopped dead behind Jules, and both are staring at something across the field. Arsinoe blinks against the summer sun and puts a hand up to shield her eyes.

  It is a young woman. A beautiful young woman in a vibrant green dress, and golden brown hair loose to her waist. Arsinoe thinks she knows this woman somehow, from somewhere, though she is certain she has never met her. And something about the way Jules is staring sets Arsinoe’s teeth on edge.

  Across the meadow, the woman holds out her arms and calls, “Juillenne!”

  “Mother!” Jules shouts, and runs to her.

  Caragh stands at the kitchen sink, scrubbing tender, fat carrots from her garden. This year, she and Jules have spent more time than ever in the fields coaxing crops, and the entire harvest is strong. Jules’s gift has almost reached fullness. Ellis teases that when she is grown she will be able to feed Wolf Spring all by herself.

  “Here, let me,” says Caragh’s mother, Cait, elbowing her way in. “You’re too slow. Should be done already.” Should have been done hours ago, while Caragh was out doing who-knows-what with that Sandrin boy, is what Cait means. But stolen hours with Matthew are worth all the snide comments that her mother wants to make. “Where’s Juillenne?”

  “Where she always is,” says Caragh. “Playing with Joseph and Arsinoe.”

  “You should mind them. Nine is a mischievous age.”

  “So it is. And it goes too fast. They might as well have a bit of fun.”

  Cait scowls, a beautiful woman turned handsome by the years. She is tall, like all the Milone women save for Jules, and her bones are straight and strong.

  “Is that what you’re having with Matthew? A bit of fun?”

  Caragh pours more water into the sink. “No. Matthew is different. Matthew, I intend to marry.”

  “Different,” Cait says sadly. “Like it was for my aunt Phillippa. Like it was for my sister Rosaline.”

  Caragh squeezes the carrots al
most hard enough to break them. Phillippa and Rosaline. She has heard those names so many times. Whispered in another room, or spoken right to her, as if she was them. Phillippa, who married Giuseppe Carlo. She threw herself off Hawthorne Bridge in the middle of winter, and her body cracked like a champagne flute against the ice. Rosaline, who married no one but could not face the fertile womb of her sister Cait, and died alone in Portsmouth on the eastern coast.

  The unlucky Milone sisters. The cursed ones who bore no children. No one knows where the curse came from. They only know that it is the curse of all Milones. Two girls are born each generation. And one is barren. Sasha and Phillippa. Cait and Rosaline. Madrigal and Caragh. And Madrigal has already had Juillenne.

  “It’s not the same for me,” says Caragh.

  “It’s not,” Cait agrees. “Because you’re a Milone. A naturalist. And barrenness for us is”—she takes a quiet breath—“like tearing our hearts out.”

  “It’s not the same for me because I have Jules,” Caragh says. “I have Jules, and I’ll be fine. Matthew loves her like she’s his own.” She does not say that she loves him. It is too much of an admission, and Caragh has always kept her feelings to herself.

  “He’s too young to be a father to Jules.”

  “He loves Jules,” says Caragh, her voice far away.

  “He is only a boy. He doesn’t know what he loves.” Cait scrubs the carrots hard, and Caragh knows that her mother is only saying these things because she is afraid to lose her to madness and solitude—or worse, to the ice beneath a winter bridge—when she has already lost one daughter to the mainland.

  “You’re so sure, are you?” Caragh jokes lightly. “Have a bit of the sight now, like little Joseph?”

  “We all do on Fennbirn,” says Cait. “We just blind ourselves to it when it suits us. When we need it most.”