Page 90 of Six Wild Crowns

The oracle returns Elizabeth to her and goes to a pile of provisions at one side of the space – blocks of incense, wood for fire, and several large buckets of smoking liquid. She hefts a wooden pail onto one shoulder and brings it to the font.

“Wine from the trees of this island,” she explains as she pours. “They have grown here for many thousands of years, and will continue to grow for many thousands more. They know the past and can see the future.”

She takes a knife and shaves a single spike from her hair, dropping it into the liquid.

“The practice of true magic is a delicate balance. We must give as well as take, or the earth and sea take matters into their own hands. The creation of many magical elements and creatures is due to the improper equilibrium of magic. With each of these elements, I adjust the scales of my spell.”

A series of herbs follow, and a glutinous substance from a small glass bottle. Finally, she turns to Boleyn. “Last, a drop of your blood, Queen.”

Boleyn holds out one hand. The oracle cuts deep into a finger and pushes the blood into the font. The pleasing pink of the liquid grows murky. The ingredients swirl. The blood sits in oily spheres on the surface.

The oracle dips a finger into the mess and flicks Boleyn’s face with it, then her own. Then she dips a wooden goblet in, filling it to the brim, and drinks the potion as though she has not seen water for weeks.

“I see,” the oracle says. It’s an incantation rather than a statement. “I see. I see.”

She swipes a hand through the font’s contents, and it rises into the air between them, the incense holders swinging through it, trailing molten smiles. The oracle waves her hand, and the liquid arranges itself into shapes: the silhouette of Brynd, a thunderstorm raging above it. The faces of the six queens who once were interred in the cave beneath the castle.

“You herald a storm, Queen Boleyn. A storm that seeks to lay waste to everything.”

Boleyn’s breath catches in her throat. She had been holding on to some notion of redressing the injustice to herself, Elizabeth and Seymour alone – a quiet gift of power that would allow every other part of her life to continue as normal. Of course, though, she had always known that it could not be. Is she truly ready to overturn Elben’s entire religion?

“Yes,” she says, holding Elizabeth closer.

“You cannot wield the storm alone,” the oracle says.

“I have allies.”

“Not enough.”

“How many do I need to turn the tide against the king? To set us free and reclaim the goddess’s power? How many allies?”

The oracle stares at Boleyn, her white eyes seeing beyond her. The lamps around the room flicker and dim. Another power is present. An ancient power, older even than that of the goddess that Boleyn felt in the cave of queens. A power that roves across Boleyn’s skin, neither malicious nor kind. The oracle’s outline glows in the darkness, crackling with ethereal energy. The incense pots sweep faster and faster, spreading the potion across the room in wild arcs. When the oracle speaks again, her voice seems to come from another era, echoing through centuries.

One rebel storm

Two perfidious diamonds

Three little deaths

Four queens everlasting

Five united in victory of

Six wild crowns.

The prophecy is repeated. The words rove around the space, but instead of dying out they grow louder with each repetition. Elizabeth wakes in Boleyn’s arms and begins to wail. The oracle’s skin grows brighter, like the sun, but Boleyn does not look away even as her eyes burn. It feels to her as though if she were to do so, the power of the prophecy would disintegrate.Five united.Something glittering beyond the oracle’s words tells her that the woman means not simplyfive alliesbutfive queens. Elizabeth’s screams rise and rise, matching the echoes, until the sound disappears entirely, the oracle collapses to the floor, and with her Boleyn’s strength leaves her and she, too, crumples to her knees. The candles flicker to life again.

Boleyn is left on the flagstones, near blind from staring at the light, with only Elizabeth’s cries to tell her that she is still here, still alive, that this really happened. She latches onto four words. A lifeline.Five united in victory.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Seymour

Seymour’s first sighting of Cnothan is when she sees the donkeys. From her vantage point out of the carriage window, they look as though they’re wearing coats, which is odd given the air is golden and full of the promise of summer. Since crossing the Fietherford into Queen Cleves’s territory, she has already passed many hundreds of herds of animals – sheep, cows, wild horses and the occasional centicore, spotted leaping across hilltops, using its goatlike hooves and horns to climb impossible slopes. But this is the first time Seymour has seen any of them wearing anything manmade.

As they approach, the picture becomes even more confusing. The donkeys’ coats appear to be full of pockets, and in each pocket sits a lamb. The sight is so ridiculous that Clarice and Seymour can’t contain their giggles, and the whole convoy comes to a halt as guards, servants and courtiers alike crowd around to inspect the curiosity. Seymour spots a woman in shepherd’s weeds, her red hair shorn to just below her ears so that it frames her heart-shaped face rather fetchingly. She looks to be around Seymour’s age. Her sleeves are rolled all the way up her arms, revealing tanned muscles that speak of hard labour. The shepherd is marching across the hill towards them, gesturing wildly.

“You’re going to scare them! Move away! Move away now!” she shouts, in a heavy accent Seymour can’t place.

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