Queens of Fennbirn

by Kendare Blake

  Elsabet pursed her lips. They were getting nowhere. “I have heard your objections to the festival feast and will consider them. But Midsummer is in two weeks, and we had best begin making the castle ready.” She pushed away from the council table and ignored their sour faces as she led the way to the Black Green for an afternoon of games and refreshment. Rosamund swung the door open, her face like a storm cloud, and bowed as Elsabet passed. Her bow was good, one hand hidden in the fold of her cape, and had the queen not been searching for it, she would not have seen the hilt of Rosamund’s drawn dagger.

  “Walk with me, Rosamund,” she said, and dragged her along. “And sheathe that knife. I won’t have you slicing into Sonia Beaulin today, no matter what she said.”

  They reached the Black Green without incident and dispersed onto the lawn, where tables had been set with food and drink. William was already there and greeted Elsabet with a kiss on the cheek. He had been attentive since their reconciliation. He came to her bed every night the first week after, and even corralled her in the castle halls, leaning her against a tapestry and tormenting her with kisses until she could hardly think. But his ardor faded, as she knew it would. As it must. She suspected he was sneaking out with girls from the capital again. He was certainly flirting again. But at least he curbed his impulses when she was right there watching.

  The queen sat with Gilbert at a table in the shade, and Bess poured them cooled wine. Elsabet drank hers and nearly spat it out. It had been laced with Gilbert’s bitter tonic.

  “Bleagh.”

  “Apologies, my queen. It was by Gilbert’s order.”

  Elsabet patted her foster brother’s hand. “And I appreciate it. But I have already taken a dose of tonic with my breakfast. So now, Bess, I would have plain, watered wine.”

  “Yes, Queen Elsabet.” Bess curtsied. Gilbert frowned but did not argue.

  “A few petitioners have come,” Bess said as she poured. “I think they hoped you would be sitting for petitions in the afternoon.”

  “How many?”

  “Only a few. None with contentious concerns. It is mostly about the festival. A baker with samples for the feast. A painter.”

  “Send them to me, then.” Elsabet waved her hand toward the rear of the green, where she spied several figures lingering in the shadows. “The whole Black Council is here anyway.”

  She was only half paying attention when the boy stepped in front of her and bowed. There was nothing remarkable about him. Nothing to catch the eye. It was not until Francesca Arron read his petition that Elsabet really looked at him. And then she could not stop staring.

  It was the young man from her dream. From the mussed, dark blond hair to the paint smudges on his fingers. He was real. She could still hear the exact sound of his voice from that night, when she heard him say her name.

  “Queen Elsabet, this is Jonathan Denton. An apprentice painter studying beneath a master in Prynn.” Francesca paused to look him over. Prynn was the poisoners’ city. No doubt she was trying to ascertain whether she knew him or whether he shared any Arron blood. “State your business to the queen.”

  “Queen Elsabet,” he said, and she nearly gasped. “I would like to paint your portrait. For the Midsummer Festival.”

  She made no response.

  “The queen does not care for having her portrait painted,” Francesca said. “She was made to sit for one when she was first crowned. I see no reason to submit her to it again, certainly not so soon.”

  “I would—” Jonathan Denton faltered. “I work very fast.”

  “Thank you. But we do not need to pay for another portrait just so some young apprentice can make a name for himself.”

  His mouth hung open. He nodded and bowed again, looking up helplessly into the queen’s wide eyes. “Thank you, my queen,” he said, and turned to go.

  “Wait!” Elsabet half rose from her seat. Francesca Arron looked at her sharply. “I will sit for this painter. A portrait of the first Midsummer Festival held inside the castle grounds would be a welcome addition to the Tower walls.”

  THE VOLROY

  Elsabet truly did hate sitting for portraits. Her face had twitched nearly the entire time she sat for her first one, and she hated the finished piece, even if the artist had been kind and made her cheeks smooth and jawline delicate and softened the crook of her nose. So she did not know what she was doing when she met the painter Jonathan Denton in the bright, open courtyard that stretched before the Volroy’s western side. She knew only that she had seen him in a dream, and she was determined to discover why.

  “Queen Elsabet.” He came as close to her as he dared and bowed. “I’m honored that you would sit for me. I promise that the portrait will be exactly as you wish. My renditions of buildings are very strong, I am told. The Volroy would make for a fine backdrop, with you seated in the foreground. Or perhaps—”

  “That will be fine.”

  He readied a chair for her and she sat, holding patiently still as he adjusted the fall of her gown and even touched her face, moving her this way and that, to better catch the light.

  “How long will this take?”

  “Not long.” He smiled, a little shyly. “If you are still.”

  “Am I free to talk?”

  “Of course! I—I’ll tell you when it comes time to work on your . . . expression.”

  She watched him as he went about his business, readying brushes and cloths and paint.

  “You seem nervous.”

  “I am nervous.”

  “But you were bold enough to come to the queen and ask to paint a portrait for a special occasion.”

  He smiled again, easier this time. “I suppose I am bold, for my art.”

  Elsabet sighed. Her assessment of him remained unchanged. There was nothing extraordinary about him. He was a boy of average height and build. Her age perhaps or a few years younger. Could she have been mistaken? Was her recollection of the dream flawed? Or perhaps the dream had been only a dream. Perhaps she had seen him somewhere before, in the marketplace or in the square, and her mind had simply conjured his face from her memory, for no reason at all.

  Except the dream had been so vivid. And she was not in the habit of dreaming of strangers.

  “Jonathan Denton,” she said. “Amuse me while you work. Tell me something of yourself.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Anything. What you usually tell someone upon first meeting them. I have never heard of the Denton family,” she said when he seemed to be struggling. “You apprentice in Prynn, but are you from there? Are you of the poisoner gift?”

  “I am. We are, though I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard of us. The Arrons are the only poisoners that anyone seems to know.”

  “That is because they share blood with every poisoner line, or that is what they say.”

  “It’s true.” Jonathan raised his brush. “Every poisoner in Indrid Down has a little of the Arrons in them. But I don’t have much. My hair is nowhere near blond enough.”

  She chuckled and looked at his clothes: dark gray hose and tunic. The cloth was of good quality, and it was well-made, but it was simple and had no fur edging in sight. It was probably the finest he owned, worn especially for this occasion on the Volroy grounds. He straightened and studied her face so intently that she blushed.

  “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 tr
aveled 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 clucked 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.