They stopped at a naturalist stall and watched a man ripen strawberries by palming them with his hands. Elsabet purchased a basketful. “For pies,” he suggested as he took her coins.
“A strong gift for a man, ripening those berries with a touch,” Rosamund commented as they walked. “He must be a Travers.” The Traverses were the strongest naturalist family on the island. Most of the fruits and vegetables that made it to the Volroy were grown and ripened by them in their city, Sealhead, on the southwest shores of the island, for theirs were the best.
Bess twisted her neck back to get a better look at the naturalist. She was always curious about the strongly gifted, as she had no gift herself. To their right, a woman called out to them with a cup of cool wine for the queen, and Rosamund nearly knocked it out of her hand. Bess paid the woman and thanked her, giving Rosamund a look.
“You war-gifted,” she muttered. “To you everything is a threat. Everything is a challenge.”
“Would you have me be less vigilant with the safety of our queen?”
Bess placed her hand on Elsabet’s arm. “Who would think to harm the queen? But of course not. I would simply have you overreact less. Stop seeking a battle. We have had two queens of war out of the last three, and now there is no king anywhere who would move against us. If one did, he knows what he would find: strong-gifted warriors whose arrows never miss. And who embrace death.” She touched her fingers to the bottom of Rosamund’s jaw, and Rosamund swatted her away with a grin.
“We do not embrace death. We only know we’re unlikely to meet it.”
They wandered down the row where two men haggled over the price of pretty colored fabrics, and Elsabet ran her hand down the hanging cloth.
“I also wish you sought less of a battle, Rosamund,” she said. “At least with members of my Black Council.” She looked at her commander sternly so her meaning would not be lost. Too often Rosamund and Sonia Beaulin nearly came to blows. At the palace, Gilbert had said they were like dogs. But they were more like wolves. Two packs of them: the Beaulins and the Anteres, and if anything were to truly start between them, it would end in blood. When Elsabet became queen, she thought to appease both families by appointing Sonia to the Black Council and Rosamund head of the queensguard, but now it seemed that she had made a mistake and each would have preferred the other position. But then who could say? Perhaps it was their fate to be always at odds, and there could never have been any peace between them.
“I will try, Queen Elsabet.”
“Good.” She linked her arms in each of her friends’. “We must all try to set examples for the people. And your reputation is fearsome enough. They still say that you dye your hair red with madder root just so it will look like blood.”
“Ha!” Bess barked, and covered her mouth.
“But we do not always have to set good examples.” Rosamund lowered her voice and nudged Elsabet with her shoulder. “Not with those we hold most dear. We can see that you’ve been troubled.”
“And I thought I was so good at disguising it.” Elsabet sighed. Bess and Rosamund were her closest friends. She was closer to them even than she was to Gilbert, whom she viewed as a brother. Bess had been with her since they were both young girls and Bess’s mother had been in service to the Lermont family in Sunpool. Elsabet and Rosamund had been much thrown together over the course of the Ascension Year, and Elsabet had taken to the gruff soldier immediately. If she could not trust them, she could not trust anyone.
“You know they say I am unwell,” she said quietly.
“The people fear you are unwell,” Bess corrected, though to Elsabet there did not seem to be much of a difference. “That’s why they talk. They worry.”
“I think they are right.”
“Right?” Rosamund turned to the queen sharply and looked up and down her body. “What’s the matter? What is the ailment?”
Elsabet smiled. “Nothing you can see from the outside.”
“Is this about your rake of a king-consort? Give me leave to beat him. I won’t leave any marks.”
“Rosamund!” Bess exclaimed, and the commander quieted. “Tell us, Elsabet.”
“I think my gift is failing,” Elsabet said flatly. And there it was. Her secret fear, harbored for nearly a year. A year of gradually lessening visions, and increasing coughs and headaches. “I have not had a vision or felt any touch of the sight for a very long time.”
Rosamund and Bess looked at each other gravely, their steps slowing in the midst of the bustling marketplace. Elsabet shook them gently by the elbows. She should not have told them there. They will stand out in their sadness.
“How long?” Bess asked.
“Months. Many, many months.” She did not mention the strange dream she had after speaking to the moon outside her chamber window. The dream of the boy with paint-smudged fingers. That was only a dream. Nothing at all. “And what is an oracle queen without a gift?”
“She is the Queen Crowned,” Rosamund said. “And besides, how do you know your gift has weakened? It was strong when you needed it to Ascend. You must not have need of it now. The people should be glad that you have no visions. It means they are safe.”
“But surely”—Elsabet blushed—“surely it would have warned me about William’s . . . wandering.”
“Why would it?” Bess blurted. “The Goddess need not send a vision for something that is so glaringly obvious.” She gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth again. Elsabet’s mouth hung open, but then she laughed. Loudly and genuinely, her head thrown back to show her large teeth.
“Thank you, Bess. That actually does make me feel better.”
THE QUEEN’S CHAMBER
When William slunk into Elsabet’s chamber, she had already determined to be angry. Cold. Perhaps even aloof. It had been three days since she had caught him flirting with that girl in front of her entire court. At first, it seemed that he stayed away out of fear or perhaps courtesy. But as days went by, it began to feel more like a punishment. As if she should be the one to seek him out to beg forgiveness.
I am a queen, Elsabet thought. I have been a queen since I was born, and there is no begging in me.
But that was a lie. The moment she heard his footsteps at her door, she knew she would drop to her knees and plead, if only he would stop. If he would come back. If he would love her.
Bess let him into the room and squeezed Elsabet’s hand before dropping a curtsy and leaving them alone.
“Well, my dearest?” William asked. “Is it time for our quarrel to end?”
The resentment in his voice broke her heart. Surely he should try to appease her. Take her hand. Not stand there straight-backed and glaring.
Elsabet breathed in slowly. “Do you want to be set aside?”
“Is that a threat?”
“Take it how you like. Do you want to be set aside? To be king-consort in name only? I am happy to furnish you a house in the country. A small estate where the hunting is good. I will make no excuses for you, but you may disappear from the capital.”
He had not expected that. He looked positively bewildered. “Disappear from the capital? Into the countryside? And what will my cousin the king of Centra think of that?”
“He will think nothing of it. We will still be married. The alliance between Centra and Fennbirn is fixed, for a generation.” She waited and watched him think, forcing her face to remain impassive.
“And what will you do?” he asked. “When I am gone?”
“I will do as I like. I am the queen.” She was the Queen Crowned, the embodiment of the Goddess on earth. Yet that was not enough to make him look upon her as he looked upon that pretty girl in the throne room.
As she stood there silently, William started to fidget and his posture lost stiffness. “But . . . what about the triplets? The new queens?”
“You will visit my bed during every Beltane.” Elsabet swallowed. “Your sacred chore.”
He ran his hands roughly across his face, and at once
the hardness there was gone, and he came forward and grasped her wrists. “Elsabet. Darling. Has it really come to this? Over such a small thing?”
“You shame me before my court. It is no small thing.”
“I know.” He kissed her face. “I know; you’re right. I was thoughtless. I was carried away.” He kissed her neck, her hands, her lips. He used what power he had to weaken her resolve until her arms were around him, and her gown around her waist, and he moved her to the bed.
MIDSUMMER
With Midsummer approaching, the capital was a bustling, jovial place as the crown and the citizenry prepared to celebrate the festival. Elsabet intended to open the grounds of the Volroy and hold the festival feast in the courtyard instead of in Indrid Down Square. It would be open to commoners and rich, gifted families alike. A show of unity and peace after decades of war games and raids. Of course the Black Council was against it.
“The sanctity of the castle would be violated, and your own security would be impossible to assure.” Sonia Beaulin scrunched her face. She did not say outright that the queen was a fool, but her exasperated expression made her feelings plain.
“Rosamund will see to my security.”
“Rosamund Antere is weak-gifted at strategy. She manages the queensguard with no more competency than a child.”
Beside Sonia in the Black Council chamber, elemental Catherine Howe tugged at her sleeve. “You know she can hear you. She’s right outside.”
“Do you think I care!” Sonia slammed her fists onto the table, and the entire table shook.
Elsabet winced. Sweet Catherine, so mild and calm for an elemental, with so little understanding of the other gifts. She meant no harm, but she often made everything worse.
“Holding the festival in the Volroy grounds will also allow the people a closer look at the construction of the towers. I can announce that the West Tower is nearly complete. And recount the history of the build so they will remember that it was not I who ordered such an expensive castle. I have heard enough of their grumbling when I pass through the marketplaces. They think I’m bankrupting them.”
“Preposterous,” said Gilbert, and smoothed his wispy yellow hair away from his forehead. “The flow of materials has been steady, near constant since before we were born.”
“I know that, and you know that, but the people forget.”
“The people are restless,” Sonia muttered. “They’ve been too long without war and raids. They are looking for things to grumble about.”
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.