The Oracle Queen

by Kendare Blake

  “Is there,” she said, and cleared her throat, “is there somewhere in particular you would have me fix my gaze?”

  “No, I— My apologies. I was staring. It is a heady thing to be so near the oracle queen.”

  “Yes. My crown blinds people to my faults. Maybe it will even blind your painter’s eye, and my portrait will come out looking gorgeous.” He looked down, and she felt guilty. What could he say to that? Flatter her and say she was beautiful? “An oracle queen is a queen like any other. Do not worry; I cannot spy into your heart and uncover your secrets.”

  “That is a relief. I must admit to knowing nothing about the sight gift. I have never traveled to Sunpool, and the gift outside of there is so rare.”

  “There is no shame in that. Being a poisoner is a mystery to me as well. All of the gifts are impossible to know to those who do not have them. You may ask me something if you like.”

  He paused in preparing his canvas and thought. “Did you always know you would win the crown?”

  “I did. By the time the Ascension began after the Festival of Beltane, I had already had a strong, clear vision.”

  “Of your sisters’ deaths?”

  “Of myself. Wandering the rooms of the completed West Tower.” She looked up at the Volroy, neck stretching back. She knew its silhouette well enough to see it with her eyes shut, where the unfinished tower ended and which stones jutted up like a gap-toothed smile.

  “That must’ve been comforting,” he said.

  “It was. And it wasn’t. The sight gift is many things, but I would never call it a comfort. Visions can be misinterpreted. They can be unavoidable, or they can be a warning.”

  Jonathan was silent a moment as his hand moved over the canvas and made small marks. His movements were exact and confident for an apprentice. Elsabet watched his eyes as they grew distant, studying the Volroy, and as they sharpened, focusing back on her face and gown.

  “I would have this be a joyful portrait,” she said. “A celebration of Midsummer. Nothing too dark.”

  “If you want it to be joyful, then you will have to smile.” He raised his brow at her and chuckled. “Or I suppose I could simply imagine what that must look like.” He stuck the handle of a brush between his teeth and went at the canvas with broad, dry-sounding strokes. Then he set the brushes aside and stepped back. “After you are set in the foreground, I will add things around you. Bushels of summer fruit and crops. I do a very fine set of playful hunting dogs.”

  Elsabet laughed. “You will make a naturalist of me.”

  “Not to worry. There is no mistaking an oracle queen in a portrait. Not with the aura of black shadow around her head.” The aura of black. It was the traditional way of depicting the sight gift in paintings. The stronger the gift, the darker the aura. For a queen’s portrait, it would be so dark it would appear to be a black orb floating just above her crown.

  “Jugglers, then, and the feast table. I promise I will make it seem a very merry occasion.”

  “Then you must feast with us,” she said. “So you may make an accurate representation.”

  Jonathan blushed, and Elsabet looked away. She had meant to get the measure of him, to find out why he had appeared in her dream. Instead, she was the one doing all the talking. More talking than she had done in years with anyone besides Rosamund and Bess.

  “Well?” she asked. “What say you?”

  “To an invitation from the queen?” He smiled, a pleased, befuddled expression on his face. “I can hardly refuse.”

  INDRID DOWN

  The house that the Arrons kept in the capital stood on the north side, proud and darkly timbered. It had been built atop a small knoll and in the rear boasted a small walled garden full of poison. There, it got the best of the morning sun and the best of the breezes coming from the north end of the harbor before the wind made it to the market and began to reek of mingling foods and people. Unfortunately for Gilbert, it was also the council house that was the farthest away from the castle, and by journey’s end on a warm summer day, the top of his forehead was beaded with sweat.

  “I don’t know why you won’t settle in one of the row houses on High Street,” he said as Francesca greeted him in the garden.

  “I don’t know why you won’t ride a horse,” she replied, and kissed his cheek.

  “I told you; I don’t care for horses. And my mount would too often be seen tied to your post.”

  Francesca laughed. “Your mount was seen often enough at my post when you first arrived in the capital.” She slipped her hand below his tunic and squeezed, making him smile and flush. Their tryst had been sweet but brief. Over now for years. She had set her sights on him the moment he stepped out of the carriage behind the new queen. Seducing him had been easy; Gilbert had never been with a girl as lovely as Francesca Arron. For nearly two months, she had listened to his troubles with his head resting on her chest. Just long enough to learn his vulnerabilities. And his darkest desires to capitalize on.

  Francesca shook her long, pale braid over her shoulder as he followed her to a stone table and flinched away from the plants.

  “Can we go inside? I feel as if I could die from a deep breath in this garden.”

  “We do not keep poisons like that here.” She bent to finish the letter she had been writing. “As long as you eat nothing and do not roll in anything, you will be fine.”

  “Roll in anything,” he muttered, and tugged his sleeves in tighter. “What’s that there?” He pointed to a small vine-covered stone set inside a tiny box of iron fence. “I’ve never seen that before.”

  Francesca glanced up to where he was pointing. “It’s a grave marker, of course. It’s usually obstructed and overgrown.”

  Gilbert walked closer and bent to read the engraving. Grave markers were rare on the island, as most bodies were burned on the pyre and the ashes scattered. Families kept woven shrouds as commemoration, or plaques, or engraved brick, but an actual grave was an uncommonly curious thing. Leave it to Gilbert to find it, with that strange manifestation of his sight gift.

  “It’s only engraved with the year. Who is it?”

  “A long-ago child,” Francesca replied. “She was legion-cursed and put to death in the temple here when she was nine. The poor thing. There are few easy deaths for a poisoner. Fewer merciful options when poison is not one of them.” She handed her letter to a servant, along with her ink and pen, then sighed, staring at the grave. “They took off her head,” she said, and Gilbert winced. “The family had her buried here unburned, holding it like a basket on her chest.”

  “Beheading is a cruel thing for a child,” he agreed. “But still far kinder than leaving her to grow into the curse and to run mad.”

  “To be sure.” She rubbed a bit of ink between her fingers and then clapped her hands. At a flick of her wrist, a silver vial appeared in her palm. “I have made it stronger this time.”

  “Stronger? Why?”

  “Why? How can you ask why? You have been at the Black Council meetings. You have been at the court. She is still not listening to us. Still taking no guidance from her advisers.”

  He clenched his fist on the vial. She could see that he wanted to throw it. But he would not. Much as Gilbert loved the queen, he knew that her free spirit occasionally went too wide of tradition. And besides, he would never go against Francesca. Not after she had used her poison craft to weaken his older sister so that his position on the council was secured.

  “Is it safe?”

  Francesca’s mouth fell open, her large blue eyes the picture of hurt. “How can you ask me that? Of course it is safe. A strong gift has made the queen too sure of herself. Too certain she knows what is best. With her gift muted, she will learn to rely on her friends. Really, it is for her own good.”

  “It’s not even her fault. The Goddess gave her the sight to put her on the throne. And now we play with that like it is not a sacred thing. We could be leaving ourselves vulnerable to attack!”

  Francesca c
lucked her tongue. “We still have your gift of sight.”

  “My gift is not the same as the queen’s.”

  “But it will do for now.” She pressed the vial harder into his palm and his hand down to his tied purse to hide it in.

  “It’s not forever,” he said, and turned to go.

  Not forever. Just until she learned to rely on her council. And on Francesca in particular. Francesca ran her tongue across her teeth and sipped a cup of unsweetened May wine. Poisoning the queen, even nonlethally, was a very dangerous game. And she was relying on soft-hearted Gilbert Lermont to play so much of it. With one hand, Francesca held the queen’s gift down, as if underwater. And with the other, she aroused unrest and directed it toward the queen, by stoking Sonia Beaulin’s warrior jealousy and whispering about the excessive costs associated with the construction of the castle. But still Elsabet did not turn to her as head of council. Still, that designation stayed vacant. And Francesca was running out of hands.

  Just as that thought crossed her mind, a new set of hands slipped around her waist from behind. She smiled as the king-consort nibbled on her earlobe.

  “Here you are, my beauty,” he said. “What did that milksop want?”

  “Never mind him.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. “But it was a good thing you were not seen. You should return to the Volroy soon, before she sends out riders to search for you.” Not that those riders would ever think to look at the Arron house, but she did not wish to press her luck. The king-consort had been spending more and more nights and afternoons. Too many. And even after long hours in her bed, he never seemed to want to leave.

  “If I were free, I would never return to her,” William said, his eyes bitter and faraway. “Not to a woman who had the gall to shame me before the court. Who put me on bended knee and forced me to beg and wheedle my way back into her bed! As if that were anywhere I wanted to be.”

  The loyalist in Francesca winced at the coldness of his words. He should not speak so of the queen. Not even a queen so foolish as this one. But outwardly, she smiled and touched his face.

  “You should not seek to anger her. We need your charms to brighten the court.”

  “My charms are what anger her in the first place. I am to give no girl the slightest bit of attention or Elsabet will breathe fire. That is over now, in any case. If I have you in my bed, I have no need of any others.”

  “No.” Francesca gently but firmly slipped out of his grasp and stood, her back to him. “You have an even greater need of others. You must spread your attentions like you never have before, in order to keep all suspicion from falling onto us.”

  “Of course.”

  Francesca smiled. The king-consort was Elsabet’s weakest point. Let him flirt right under her nose. Let him drive her mad with it. He could be the distraction Francesca sought, and with the queen focused on keeping her husband in one place, she would be far too busy to interfere with Black Council business.

  THE FESTIVAL OF MIDSUMMER

  Queen Elsabet presided over the Midsummer festivities from a high seat in the courtyard. It was her one concession to the Black Council, to keep up and away from the raucous, celebrating crowds, but even though it had been only one, she wished she had fought harder. She did not want to be seen so high, so aloof. She wanted to mix with her subjects in times of peace.

  “Wake up!”

  Both Elsabet and Bess startled at Rosamund’s voice. She was barking at one of the queensguard stationed just behind them.

  “I was awake, Commander,” the soldier said, and the sound they heard next was Rosamund cuffing the girl on the back of the head.

  “Not awake enough. Rotate out if you can’t be alert. On today of all days, when the queen is surrounded by strangers.” Teeth bared and grinding, Rosamund stepped into view, and Elsabet and Bess startled for a new reason. Her head of queensguard had gold and silver ribbons braided into her hair.

  “Rosamund!” Bess exclaimed. “You look lovely!”

  “Thank you!” Rosamund preened as her mood quickly shifted. “Though never as lovely as you, Bess.”

  Bess laughed, equally beautiful in a dress of deep green. Sometimes Elsabet thought she should find some new, less beautiful friends. Standing beside Bess and Rosamund constantly was certainly not doing her any favors.

  “You must have your eye on someone this Midsummer.” Bess scanned the crowd for anyone who might be watching Rosamund with particular interest, but nearly everyone was. Rosamund was never without admirers. “Is it serious this time? Could it be a husband? Or a blade-woman?”

  “I won’t settle until my service to the queen has ended. I can’t imagine looking after these soft soldiers and my own little ones besides.” She sighed. “Though I do sometimes yearn for soft little fingers curling round my own. And for the pain of childbirth!”

  Elsabet laughed. “Only the war-gifted.”

  “I wish I were war-gifted,” said Bess, “so I wouldn’t fear it so.”

  Rosamund chuckled and half turned to the soldier she had admonished for dozing. “Did you think I was in jest? Rotate out! And keep yourself off my detail for the rest of the month.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Elsabet gave the girl a sympathetic smile as she bowed and watched her tromp sadly down the steps. “You know they would favor you more if you tried a softer touch, Rosamund.”

  “They would. And also if I bribed them with luxuries, like Sonia Beaulin. Beaulin thinks it a popularity contest, but I don’t need to win their favor. These are your private queensguard. They are no mere army soldier; they are the best of the best! I expect so, and I will treat them accordingly.”

  “Even on a festival day, when I am in no danger?”

  “To a queensguard soldier there is always danger. And as for festivals, I keep careful accounting of service. That girl served this Midsummer so she will not have to serve again next year, nor ever for two high festivals in a row.” Rosamund straightened. “I am not unreasonable. And I don’t appreciate your questions before the soldiers.”

  Bess’s eyes widened, but Elsabet only laughed. “A queen may question what she will. But I am sorry, my friend. I should have known better.”

  She turned her attention back to the celebration, where the naturalists in attendance had begun to assemble their portion of the feast—the finest portion: gift-caught fish and a lovely roasted boar surrounded by apples so bright they appeared to be polished. Gilbert was directing which dishes would come to her in which order, his arms waving.

  But the queen’s gaze did not linger on Gilbert for long. She was looking for someone.

  Bess leaned in close. “Who are you searching for?” It could not be the king-consort. He had not left her sight line all day, after entering ceremoniously on her arm and promptly leaving her seemingly to court every pretty girl in attendance. The sight of him filled Elsabet with rage and shame. So she had resolved to ignore him.

  “I am looking for someone I invited.”

  “Personally?” asked Rosamund.

  “The painter. Jonathan Denton.” But she did not see him. Perhaps he had only been polite when he had accepted her invitation. Perhaps she had frightened him away. Honestly, she did not know why she cared. She cleared her throat and glanced at her friends to see if they had noticed. But instead, both Bess and Rosamund were scowling down at the crowd.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Bess blinked and forced a smile. “Don’t think on it, Elsabet. No doubt he is just . . . in his cups.”

  Elsabet looked into the crowd. It did not take her long to find him. William. He had one arm around a pretty blond girl and his other around a brown-haired beauty, his fingers pulling the shoulder of her gown nearly down to her breast. In his cups, indeed. It was early evening; he had probably had eight glasses of festival wine and none of it adequately watered. Whatever the excuse, there he was: laughing, kissing their necks, and gifting them the rings off his fingers.

  “Everyone can see this, can
hear this,” Elsabet murmured as her cheeks grew hot.

  “I could send a blade,” Rosamund said, taking a swallow of wine against her own vow of festival sobriety. “Just to nick him.”

  “Ignore it,” said Bess. “Pretend you don’t see. Or don’t care.”

  But it was too late for that. Already the whispers spread outward, until nearly every pair of eyes in the courtyard was darting between the king-consort and the queen. And what would they see? A weak queen who accepts her husband’s infidelity, right under her nose?

  Elsabet stood up suddenly. So suddenly that the girls in William’s arms shuddered and tried to get away. But they were not her targets. The queen waited as the festival grew quiet. The musicians halted and servers froze half-leaned across banquet tables.

  “William. My king-consort.” She stopped. Waited for him to bow, as he should. As he must. “I tire of these festivities. Will you come now and preside over Midsummer, as is your sacred duty?”

  “I will,” he said, and began to make his way up to her. But when he leaned close for a kiss, she brushed him aside and stalked through the already muttering crowd. When she came face-to-face with the girls William had abandoned, she lost control of her temper and roared for them to get out of her way, unable to stand one more moment of their quivering, remorseful lips.

  “Queen Elsabet,” said Rosamund. “Where may we escort you?”

  Elsabet grasped her arm. Already the anger and jealousy were leaving her, and without them, she could not quite remember where she had meant to go.

  And then she spotted him. Alone with a piece of bread in his forever paint-stained fingers, in the same clothes he had worn when she sat for her portrait. “There,” she said, and went to him at once.

  “Jonathan Denton,” she said when he bowed. “Will you come with me to my chamber? I would have your update on the progress of my Midsummer portrait.”

  “I should not have done that.”

  Elsabet paced across the floor of her chamber. Her private chamber, where she and Jonathan were very alone.