Queens of Fennbirn (Three Dark Crowns 0.5)
Kendare Blake
PROLOGUE: THE BLACK COTTAGE
The day of the birth of the queens who would come to be known as Mirabella, Arsinoe, and Katharine was still, unremarkable, and without omens. There was no great wind to howl the arrival of an elemental queen. No bloody fish kill against the rocks to signal the coming of the war gift. All across Fennbirn—from the capital of Indrid Down to the smallest villages—elders and the dwindling number of seers cast divinations and downed trance potions, only to pass out drunk and see the oracle bones lie on the ground in nonsense patterns. The triplets were born, in silence and in private, with only the queen, the king-consort, and the Midwife to bear witness.
Three black witches, the mainland would say. Born to a descending queen. One would rise to become queen in her place. Perhaps the strongest of the three. Perhaps the cleverest. Or perhaps it would be the girl born under the best shield of luck.
“It was an easy labor,” said the Midwife. “You were lucky, Queen Camille.”
“Easy,” Camille said, and scoffed, “Easy for you to say, Willa.” But even though she hurt, and ached, and could barely keep her eyes open, she knew it could have gone worse. From the moment her pregnancy was known, her foster sister Genevieve Arron had filled her head with tales of births gone wrong. On Camille’s last day at the Volroy, just before she departed for the Black Cottage to give birth, Genevieve spoke of so much blood and screaming that Camille had nearly passed out. She had stopped short and stood frozen, as if standing still would somehow stop the triplets from coming. She did not move until her eldest foster sister, Natalia, had taken her by the arm and walked her to the coach.
“Do not let her frighten you, Camille,” Natalia had said. “Queens have birthed the triplets for thousands of years.”
“But not all have survived,” Genevieve had continued to taunt. “I was only trying to prepare her, so that she might see the signs of it going wrong. So that she might fight for her life.”
Genevieve. Younger than the queen and completely spoiled, and always as mean as the snakes they kept to adorn themselves with at parties.
Camille lay back in the birthing bed, remembering her last days at the Volroy, as Willa pressed a cool cloth to her forehead.
“Well,” said Willa, and brushed the queen’s black hair out of her eyes, “you are breathing, aren’t you?”
Camille looked at the bassinets across the room, each with a sleeping queen inside. The firstborn, Mirabella the elemental, had come in such a rush, with such electricity to her that Camille had shouted her gift before her name. Elemental Mirabella. Arsinoe the poisoner had arrived not long after; Willa had barely gotten Mirabella washed and settled into her blankets. But sweet little naturalist Katharine had given her a rest, taking so long that they feared her sisters would start to fuss.
“I did it,” Camille said as her eyes began to close. “I survived. And now my reign is over.”
When she woke, the three bassinets were gone, whisked away by Willa to the nursery down the hall. In their place was a chair, and slumped down on it, snoring softly, was her king-consort, Philippe.
Sweet Philippe. He had won her hand in the Hunt of the Stags, when she could not choose her favorite from the suitors that the Arrons approved of. Sometimes she thought it was the only bit of luck that the Goddess ever gave her. Though he had little power in the face of the Arrons, he had loved Camille well, and a life away from the island with him was all she had ever looked forward to. When her triplets came after only seven years of her rule, she was overjoyed.
They would leave now, and trade the island for the world. Out there, she would be just a woman, free to make her own path. All she had to give up was her crown, and that she had already torn off her head and thrown during the births.
Camille looked around the room. Willa had done a fine job of cleaning while she slept. The bloody cloths and trays of sharp knives were gone, the cloths burned and the knives returned to storage in case the next queen’s birth was not so lucky and the triplets needed to be cut out. Mellow incense smoke cleared the stench of sweat and labor, and she had set a warm, crackling fire in the fireplace.
Outside, the December night was dark—only the faintest hint of moonlight reflected across the snowdrifts. Camille gingerly swung her leg over the edge of the bed and winced. She took a moment to collect herself, held her sagging, empty belly with one arm and swung the other until she stood. Her vision wavered, and for a moment, she feared Philippe would wake to the sound of her collapsing on the floor. But the weakness passed. She slipped a blanket about her shoulders like a shawl, and walked out.
“Where are you going, my love?” Philippe, more awake than she had thought, grasped her wrist softly as she passed. “You should be resting. We have a long journey tomorrow.” His eyes lingered on her pale face, and then on the floor, and on the small trail of dripped blood she left behind.
She patted him, and he let go. His heavily lidded eyes blinked shut. He was, even after years on the island, still a mainland man and trusted that she must know best about these women’s mysteries.
“I am only going to look in on them.”
“Shall I go with you?”
She shook her head. Philippe was a strong consort, but he was too softhearted for this. If he saw the triplet queens, he might want to hold them. And if he held them, he might start to feel that they were his instead of Fennbirn’s.