The Oracle Queen

by Kendare Blake

  “Did you see their eyes? Hear their whispers? They fear me. They think me volatile.”

  “They revere you. Fear and reverence can appear much the same.”

  Elsabet shook her head and did not pause her long, upset strides. “You are good to say that. But this is not the first time they have seen me lash out at that—that—!” She growled and threw up her hands. “And I shouted at those girls. As if it was their fault.

  “And now, what will they say of you, Jonathan? Here, alone in the queen’s chamber?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Let them say what they like. I am happy to be of whatever use to my queen as I can.”

  “No. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I will make sure they know. That we were here discussing the portrait and nothing more!” She gestured vaguely toward his body. “I am not the kind of queen who takes revenge for infidelity by compelling some poor young man to . . . to . . .”

  He chuckled. “It is all right, my queen.”

  She sighed and walked to her dressing table for a goblet of Gilbert’s tonic, left over from that morning. The sight of William with his hands all over someone else had given her a headache.

  “Is the wine no good?” Jonathan asked when she grimaced at the tonic’s bitterness.

  “It is not wine at all but a healing draught. I am well,” she said before he could inquire, “but I sometimes get headaches.”

  Jonathan stepped toward her, sniffing the air. “May I?” he asked, and held out his hand. “I am a poisoner, as you know, and have a natural curiosity about the healing arts.”

  “Oh! Of course.”

  He stuck his nose in the cup and inhaled deeply, then took a sip, swirling before swallowing. He was silent for a long moment, staring into the last of the liquid. Then he frowned. “Where did you say you got this?”

  “My foster brother, Gilbert Lermont. He has brought it to me for months. Why? Do you detect some interesting ingredient?”

  “No.”

  “Or, with your interest in healing, would you recommend a different treatment?”

  Jonathan looked at her. His eyes were troubled. “I would recommend that you stop taking this,” he said.

  Elsabet snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. Gilbert assures me—”

  “At least let me take a sample.”

  He seemed so insistent, and she saw no harm, so she nodded. “Take whatever is left. I suppose, as a poisoner, you would know better than I.”

  “But with your gift of sight, surely you would know everything.”

  Her eyes widened, and so did his smile. “If only that were how it worked. Alas, I cannot even see whose bed my king-consort is falling into at night.”

  “He is a fool.”

  Elsabet cocked her head, and Jonathan lowered his eyes.

  “Begging your pardon. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What’s said is said. Is that what all the people say? Do they think him a fool? Or me the fool for being wooed by his pretty face?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t hear much court gossip, with my nose inches from a canvas. The painting is coming along splendidly, by the way. I hope to be able to present it to you within a matter of weeks.”

  “Perhaps you could show me its progress.”

  “I would like that.” His eyes took on a curious slant. “So you really don’t hear all the gossip, then? I had heard that some oracles were able to hear the thoughts of others.”

  “Some can. The sight gift is varied and not well understood. We are so rare. Even with me on the throne, the sight-gifted will never be as prolific as the naturalists or the elementals. What good would we be? The Goddess knows how best to balance her gifts.” She motioned for him to take a seat and joined him, pouring some watered wine for them both to get the taste of Gilbert’s tonic out of their mouths. “Sometimes the sight gift comes as nothing more than seeing cold spots. Violence and places of bloodshed.”

  “I know of that. I have read of it. ‘Death leaves an impression as a cold stain upon the ground.’” His brow furrowed. “Is it like that for you?”

  “Not only that, but yes. I can tell you the near-precise location where every queen before me died, for what feels like four generations. The places where my sisters died may as well be splashed with blood.” She looked out her window. “How is your history? Do you know of Queen Elo, the fire breather, who burned a fleet of Selkan ships in Bardon Harbor?”

  “I do. They say she put an end to foreign invasion, and in impressive fashion.”

  Elsabet smiled. Invasions would come again as new kings sought to leave their marks through conquest. But she had seen none coming during her time.

  “I can hardly bear to look out into the harbor some days, depending on the wind,” she said softly. “The churning ghosts are still so thick.”

  Jonathan swallowed and followed her gaze as if he might catch a glimpse of them himself.

  “I don’t tell that to many people,” Elsabet said. “Bess knows. And sometimes I think Rosamund and Sonia—the war-gifted—can sense it. But I have never told them outright.”

  “Why not?” he asked, but then shook his head. “Forgive me. That was a foolish question. Seeing ghosts and scenting graves are shunned even in a fortune-teller. Of course they would be shunned in a queen.”

  “A queen is expected to yield grand prophecies. Not grow faint passing unmarked graveyards.”

  “Well. I find it a useful skill and would welcome you as a fellow traveler along unfamiliar roads.”

  He raised his cup to her, and Elsabet laughed.

  “Every time we meet, I mean to find out more about you and instead give away more of myself. Do you inspire such candid conversation in everyone you meet, Jonathan Denton?”

  “I’m sorry, my queen.”

  “Do not be sorry. Just do not become my enemy.”

  THE VOLROY

  Queen Elsabet and Bess walked along the rows of roses on the west side of the Volroy. To anyone watching, it would have looked like an idle errand: the queen accompanying her friend as she pruned. But those who knew her best knew that Bess was often the queen’s eyes and ears, when she could not be seen to be looking or listening herself.

  “You need better spies than me,” Bess said quietly. “It is too well known I am of your household. No one speaks when I’m nearby.”

  “But who else could I trust? Only you and Rosamund.” Perhaps Jonathan Denton, one day. But she did not say so out loud.

  “Catherine Howe is loyal. And I am sure her household has very good spies.” Bess clipped a rose and teased the petals back and forth beneath Elsabet’s nose. “There was one rumor that was too loud to be hidden.”

  “What?”

  “That Jonathan Denton is the queen’s new lover.”

  Elsabet laughed. “New? As if there have been others.” She had known that was what people would think. What she did not foresee was how much the idea would please her. “Poor Jonathan. He will have no peace.”

  “Poor Jonathan?” Bess smiled. “Is he coming back to the Volroy soon?”

  “I think so.” She prodded Bess in the hip when she laughed. “To show me my painting.”

  They walked together around the castle, and two servants stepped up and bowed.

  “What’s this?” she asked, and they held out a long, formal cape, soft and shining black. Threads of silver had been sewn into the collar.

  “A gift for you, from the king-consort,” one of the boys said.

  Bess ran her fingers along the collar, thumb rubbing the silver. “It is very fine.”

  “He sends me gifts instead of returning to my bed. He sends me gifts with one hand while the other is inside some other woman’s bodice.” Her anger returned quickly. Her words took shape inside her head until she could see them, hear them, and she clenched her fists together and tore the cape along the seam.

  “Take it! Get it away from me!”

  The servants bowed their heads and ran, mumbling apologies.

&nb
sp; “Elsabet.” Bess put her hand on the queen’s arm.

  “Forgive me, Bess. I need no spies to know what the people are saying about me. And what new things they will say about me now, following this outburst.” She took a breath. “But I would know where my king-consort is spending so much of his time. Would you and Rosamund be kind enough to find out for me?”

  Jonathan met Elsabet on the top floor of the West Tower as she spoke with her master builders about the progress of the construction. It was a hive of careful, deliberate activity as always, the air full of moving ropes and brick and stone. The clumsy poisoner boy nearly tripped twice and almost had his head taken off by a swinging board. Elsabet could barely contain her laughter as she watched him from the corner of her eye.

  “This is coming along nicely,” he said when he reached her, and bowed. He ran his hand along one of the interior walls, up the arch of the doorway to squeeze the keystone with his fingertips. The door led to a large chamber with several windows. “Will this be yours?”

  “You could say the West Tower will be all mine. All of the queen’s apartments contained within.” She peered with him into the new space, still dusty from construction. “But no. My personal chambers are a floor below. Already complete. Perhaps I’ll give these to my king-consort. Or perhaps not. I’d rather not hear him creeping past my floor on his way to . . . somewhere or other.”

  “In any case, the king-consort’s rooms should be beneath the queen’s.”

  Elsabet smiled. “What have you brought me?”

  At the question, Jonathan ran back into the hall and returned with the covered canvas. He studied the light quickly before placing the easel to catch the soft afternoon sun. Then he uncovered the portrait.

  Elsabet could hardly take it all in. It was as if he had taken Midsummer and made it tiny, such was the exactness of his rendering. The food piled high on the banquet table looked good enough to eat. And she even remembered seeing those exact familiar-dogs, brown-and-white with curling tails, a pair of them seated with great composure to one side, awaiting scraps.

  The Volroy rose up in the background, a dark, majestic giant, even as the black stones were kissed with summer light.

  “You have placed me down among them, not high up on a dais,” Elsabet said.

  “I thought you would prefer that. It—it suited the composition.”

  She nodded. It was the most accurate representation she had ever seen of herself. No great beauty. He had not embellished or softened her features. Yet somehow he had captured the air of her, the spirit. He made her eyes warm and sparkling, her expression confident and capable. She was, in his eyes, a handsome queen.

  “The Volroy is unfinished, as you can see. I wanted to await your instruction, on how it should be depicted.”

  “Good,” she said. “In due time. There is no hurry.” Her fingers floated above the canvas. He did not need to ask whether she was pleased. She had not smiled so broadly in weeks.

  “My queen, there was something else.”

  “Please, Jonathan, call me by my name. I give you leave.”

  “Queen Elsabet,” he amended, and blushed. “There was something else. Have you . . . Has there been any noticeable weakening of your sight gift?”

  “What?”

  “Forgive me,” he said quickly. “It is just that I have been evaluating the ingredients of the tonic you take, and I believe it may be harmful to you. And your gift.”

  Elsabet turned away from the painting. “That’s not possible. The tonic comes from Gilbert. I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

  “Of course. Though perhaps he is as well? He is not a poisoner; he would not know. Do you know where he got it? Would you allow me to investigate the matter further?”

  Elsabet blinked. It made no sense, what he was saying. Gilbert would never harm her. Her gift was sacred to him. And he was her foster brother. Her only family. “There must be an explanation.”

  “Of course.”

  “And my gift is not gone,” she said, lowering her voice. “I had a vision, not long ago. Well, not a vision, I suppose. But a dream.”

  “A dream? Is that common?”

  “No. But it has proven true, and that is all that matters.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “I dreamed of you, Jonathan Denton. I knew you before we met.”

  INDRID DOWN

  When Rosamund opened the door to her family home, she found Catherine Howe, her head covered by a dark hood.

  “Is the maid here already?” Catherine asked as Rosamund motioned for her to come inside.

  “She is. Though we didn’t expect you to be so quick.”

  Catherine took her hood down and shook out her pretty brown-gold curls. “When someone asks for information from the Howe spies, it is never long in coming.”

  “Very well,” said Rosamund. “Bess is waiting down this way.”

  They had taken only a few steps when three little girls ran squealing past, batting at each other with small wooden swords, and knocked Catherine up against the wall. They were so frenzied and focused on their battle play that they clogged the narrow hall, and Rosamund had to scoop up the smallest one and put her on her shoulders in order to let them pass.

  “My apologies,” Rosamund said, and then laughed as the little girl beat her about the head with the wooden sword butt. “It is often this way in an Antere house.”

  Catherine squinted up at the little girl as she bashed Rosamund’s skull. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “A little.” Rosamund reached up and prodded the child in the ribs until she surrendered in peals of laughter. Once they cleared the hall, the girl slipped down and tore off in the other direction to rejoin the game. Rosamund gestured through a doorway. Inside, Bess was already waiting, seated at a table before a bottle of whiskey and three cups.

  “Shouldn’t you close the door?” Catherine asked, looking behind them.

  “Are you so afraid of a few little warriors?” Rosamund chuckled. “Never mind about the door. My mother is resting and my brothers are deep into a card game in the kitchen with their wives. And besides, all are loyal.”

  “To you or to the queen?”

  “To both,” Rosamund said, her voice sharp. “So we may speak freely.”

  “Sit, Catherine,” Bess said, and poured her a cup. “Take some to ease your nerves. Or would you prefer wine?”

  Rosamund placed her hand on Bess’s shoulder and planted her in her chair. “You sit. You are not a serving maid here, Bess, but a member of a ring of spies.”

  Bess exhaled and pressed her cheek against the warrior’s fingers. “I know that. But we should still make her feel at ease. She is quite distressed.”

  “I’ve noticed.” Every candle in the room had been burning higher since Catherine entered. And having known Catherine since even before her time on the Black Council, Rosamund knew that her talent was for the element of earth. She must be nervous indeed to affect the flames so.

  “Come now, Catherine. You can’t have found anything that troubling over the course of so few days!”

  Catherine’s lips pressed together. “But I have. And it was not only over the last few days. My spies have been moving for months.”

  “Months?” Bess gasped. “But why?”

  “We elementals are better at detecting shifting sentiments upon the air,” Catherine replied. “Since I came to the Black Council, I have always kept a bird or two circling. I would always know what is being said of the queen.”

  Rosamund drank and refilled her cup. “And what is being said?”

  “At first, that the queen was frivolous. Changeable. That she did not listen to her advisers, which in truth, she does not often.”

  “The queen follows her own mind,” Rosamund snapped.

  “Yes. In everything. And it has not gone unnoticed. The people, and the Black Council, have become accustomed to war queens, who command raids and battle and leave the governance to those better suited to it. Elsabet has taken some of that back.”
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  “Is that not her right as queen?” Bess asked.

  “Whether it is her right or not, it has embittered the council. I suspect that someone has been planting rumors amongst the people of the queen’s foolishness. I even suspect that the king-consort may have a role to play, driving her to jealous outbursts in public.”

  “To what end?” Rosamund asked. “To make her unpopular?”

  “To undermine her. I do not know, truly, what their aims are. But I fear for the queen’s reputation and the recklessness of those whom I suspect.”

  “Out with it, then. Whom do you suspect?”

  Catherine’s delicate features pinched together. Her complexion was just a bit too tan to ever show a flush, but had she been only a little lighter, Rosamund was sure her whole face would have appeared bright red. “I am using measured words,” she said, speaking slowly as if Rosamund were hard of understanding, “because I am not sure. But if I am right, then I am also sure that there is no limit to how far these people will go.”

  “What people?” Bess leaned forward and grasped Catherine by the hands. When Catherine still hesitated, Rosamund slammed her fist down, rattling the cups.

  “What people? Enough games. We came to you. You know we can be trusted.”

  Catherine drained her whiskey and set the empty cup aside. “Last night, two of my spies were in the king-consort’s party of an evening.”

  Bess’s eyes widened. “Your spies lay with the king-consort?”

  “Many of my spies have lain with the king-consort,” Catherine said. “I keep many comely spies.”

  “Unimportant,” said Rosamund. “What did they see?”

  “They retired with him in an inn, seemingly for the night. Once there, he proceeded to get them more and more intoxicated on ale until they fell asleep. One of them awoke when he crept from the room, and followed him.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Not far. Another room. The girl was able to spy inside and able to listen. According to her, what was taking place inside the room was unmistakable.” Catherine paused so the three of them could trade sour expressions. “She waited, hidden, until nearly dawn, when the king-consort and his paramour left. The woman was dressed commonly, but my girl swears that beneath the common serving clothes was none other than Francesca Arron.”