Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)(46)

Elsabet looked at him sharply. “Now that I do not doubt. Covered in a heavy cloak in the early light of morning? Having just left Jonathan’s apartment? Mistaken identity, indeed. That arrow was meant for him, and it found her instead.”

Gilbert’s lips trembled around his words, cautious, as if he feared whatever he said next could lead them down dangerous paths. “Who? Who would dare? Have you seen something?”

“Seen something? No, I have seen nothing.” Elsabet closed her eyes, then opened them, fixed upon his face. “Though perhaps I could, if I were to have more of your tonic.”

He twitched but did not speak. He did not confess. And that hurt her as much as anything else.

“Did you know, Gilbert? All this time that you were poisoning me, poisoning my sight gift right out of me, did you know?”

His lower lip wobbled, and he closed his eyes. “I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Elsabet exploded. “No choice but to betray me? Your own foster sister? Who has loved you since we were children?”

“I had to. Francesca poisoned my way onto the council, and she swore she would poison me, too, or reveal my secret—”

“Francesca Arron does not give commands! I give commands! Francesca Arron does not rule! I rule! And you should have known better, Gilbert.”

Gilbert dropped to his knees. He clasped his hands together. “Forgive me, Elsie. I never wanted to—”

“Be silent.”

He tried to obey, though he began to weep. “What would you have of me? What can I do?”

“I don’t know yet what I am going to do with you,” Elsabet replied. “For now, get out of my sight. Return to your rooms and stay safe. Stay there under guard. Until this is over.”

“This?” he asked.

“Go!” she roared, and he scurried from the room, so afraid of her that she would have laughed, had she not been so angry and heartbroken.

Finally, it was only she and Rosamund.

“What now, my queen?”

Elsabet looked at her friend, her warrior, her hair so blazing red and her reputation so fierce that rumors persisted of her dyeing it that way with madder root just to make it look like blood.

“You know what now,” she said. “Now you take your queensguard and arrest Francesca Arron. Arrest her and throw her in the cells on charge of murder.” Rosamund nodded grimly, and Elsabet bared her teeth. “Now we end it.”





THE VOLROY

“That is not going to happen.”

Sonia Beaulin stepped into the throne room with a number of queensguard soldiers. They spilled in through the open doors and spread until they lined the walls and blocked every possible exit. And over Sonia’s shoulder, Elsabet saw more. More and more, armed and ready to fight, clogging the castle with their black-and-silver armor.

“What is the meaning of this?” Elsabet demanded. But no one answered.

Rosamund strode forward. Her mere movement was enough to make the closest soldiers shrink back, though she had not even drawn her sword. “What do you think you’re doing, Sonia?”

“What I must. What you could not. We are arresting a dangerous and murderous queen.”

Elsabet’s mouth dropped open. “Murderous? Who did I murder?” Her voice grew angrier and louder as she spoke. “Bess? Do you mean to pin the assassination of my own dear friend on me?”

“Do not listen,” Sonia ordered the soldiers. “The queen is unwell. Take her into custody now and into the West Tower. There she may be kept safe.”

“Safe? Safe from whom?” Elsabet began to tremble as the soldiers swept past Rosamund. She was as still as stone until they first took her by the wrist, and then she erupted, screaming and cursing them, throwing herself back and forth.

“Safe from yourself, my queen,” said Sonia as they dragged Elsabet past.

“You cannot do this to me! I am your queen! I am the Goddess’s chosen! Rosamund!” She craned her neck, able to see her commander standing a head above the others, the expression on her face still and full of anger, disbelief, and shame as she watched her own soldiers take her queen away. “Rosamund?”

They moved her quickly, through the castle and up the many staircases to the newly furnished queen’s apartments in the West Tower.

“Why do we not go to my chamber?” Elsabet asked. “I have not yet moved to these rooms!” She searched their faces. None spoke. All were afraid. But they did as they were told. They followed their orders. Only they were not meant to take orders from Sonia Beaulin or the Black Council. Not without Elsabet’s approval.

When she saw the open door, she knew it for what it was: a finely decorated prison. She dug her heels hard into the stones and struck out at the nearest queensguard, her vision blacking in and out with panic as they pushed her toward it.

“No! No, let me go!”

But they would not. They shoved her through the door so hard she stumbled and nearly fell to her knees, and by the time she turned back, the heavy wood was already swinging shut.

Rosamund stood silently in the middle of the throne room. Her eyes focused on no one in particular until she could no longer hear Elsabet’s cries. Then she turned to Sonia.

The look on the other warrior’s face nearly drove her to strike. So smug. So pleased with herself. She was proud of putting Rosamund in her place. Proud of being a traitor.