“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 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.