by Jeramy Goble
“Well, I came looking for you. I ran into Latham, who said you had gone walking,” he replied.
“Latham?” Jularra repeated, puzzled. “Oh, he must have heard me talking with Keleah.”
Korden merely grunted. Jularra pulled away and glared at him.
“What?” she pressed.
Korden took in a deep breath. “I always follow you,” he said.
Jularra’s ire ripped through the woods. “What? Are you joking?”
“No. I stay nearby, just in case.”
“Just in case?”
“In case of something like this.”
The queen flailed her hand back towards the dead assassin. “I obviously handled the situation, Korden!”
Korden chuckled while guiding Jularra around Prader’s Mine, a landmark denoting the interior edge of Acorilan’s southern forests.
“Obviously. Still, when I heard the commotion, I came running. I never stay too close.”
“Every walk?”
“Most of them.”
Jularra fell silent, mollified by the fact that she knew Korden didn’t think her weak or incapable. She took his word for it—that he only wanted to be nearby. Just in case.
“After I killed him, I had to fight his ghost. He was wearing a doppelcharm.”
Korden whipped his head around. His eyebrows drew together. “A doppelcharm? Not the sort of thing a typical assassin would have.”
“No, it’s not,” Jularra agreed. She sighed as the implications already began to wear on her. “That kind of enchanted item more than likely has significant support and funding behind it.”
Anticipating Korden's next question, Jularra added, “I didn’t find any insignia, crests, letters or anything else. I have no idea who he was, or who might be behind it.”
“We’ll find out,” Korden assured her.
He tripped, jostling Jularra. She winced, but bit her tongue, reminding herself that there were worse pains. The tight, scarred skin on her back itched in response to that thought, and her mother’s slit throat floated in front of her mind’s eye.
“Sorry,” Korden said, apologizing for stumbling.
“It’s fine,” she whispered back.
The trail grew steep and rocky. The conversation dwindled mostly to Korden saying things such as, “Watch that rock,” or, “Over here,” allowing her memory to take over. As it so often did, it plunged her back, deep into the Vacant Grave.
***
“I am the Voidwarden.” It snickered as it rose from its condescending bow. The pitch of the creature's voice fluctuated up and down between a masculine baritone and a feminine alto.
“Your mother is dead. She has played her part, just as generations of queens before her. Just as you will, too, someday, in repayment of Detsepera’s debt.”
Jularra’s shock settled into resolve, but though she was without fear, she didn’t know what to say.
“You will come here to this pool during every hunter’s moon, so that I may refresh my hold upon you. If you do not, I will destroy your people. Your descendant promised ownership of your line to me in exchange for saving your realm from the Nurudians. You are simply the next to oblige.”
The Voidwarden paused. Jularra turned her head stiffly and caught sight of one of the spirits that had carried her and held her down in the pool of blood. The spirit’s head was tilted down in shame.
“Now go to your people, Queen.”
The entity let loose a mocking guffaw that rippled throughout the hall.
“Your people will be waiting for you. They will know what has transpired here. They will have answers to your questions.”
Once the Voidwarden finished speaking, the four spirits who had carried Jularra backed away to the doors of their respective tombs and faded back into them.
She slowly stood up, instinctively clutching for clothes that weren’t there. She wanted to turn and look directly at the creature, but stopped when the nasty thing registered in her peripheral vision. She could see its malicious grin growing from her curiosity. It would not have the privilege of her full attention, but she did desire to speak to it.
“Do not count on this ritual happening again, Vacant filth.”
She stepped out of the pool and marched from the hall, but not before another condescending eruption of laughter.
“If the mountains on Acorilan’s crown had a peak for every time I’ve heard that,” it found breath to shout, “your head would be crushed from its weight!”
She said nothing else, increasing her speed with each step. The Voidwarden’s laughter followed her up countless flights of stairs back towards the surface.
She was weak from her lost blood, her lost mother, and lost adrenaline from her lost fear. She'd shed energy along with tears; tears for the unknowns of what had happened to her, and what was before her. Still, she climbed hard at a steady pace, caring for nothing but reaching the mountain’s door and breathing the purifying outside air.
She climbed alone for the longest time before finally passing some of the strangers she and her mother had seen on their way down. They paid no attention to her on her way back up, focusing only on their mourning, sheltered by the shadowed crypts and tombs carved deep into the upper halls.
At last, Jularra saw the flickering of the guard’s brazier above her at the mountain’s entrance. Silent tears started to fall, though she had no lump in her throat or desire to cry. It was simply a release.
“Guard!” Jularra called. Her voice was strong. It surprised her.
By her next step, he was at the entrance, looking down at Jularra. Before she could think of what to say, she reached the top and was stunned by what she saw.
Lining the edges of the path, out from the mouth of the mountain to a point somewhere down the trail, were lines of Bedrock and Spire, Acorilan’s male and female honor guards, respectively. Her honor guards. A light layer of snow on their armor suggested they had been standing there for some time. At their head stood her mother’s Chief Advisor, Braddon—a most welcome sight. Korden stood to his father’s side.
Braddon leaned over to his son and pointed him towards Jularra. As Korden ran over carrying a cloak, Braddon shouted to the guards, “Hail our new sovereign, Queen Jularra!”
The guards responded crisply. Their shout seemed to carry on forever through the frozen forest and mountains.
“Hail, Queen Jularra!”
Korden unfurled the hefty cloak and wrapped it around her. “Your Majesty,” he whispered. “Please let us return home so that we may steal you from this cold.”
She looked out at the guards and down the path, feeling no sense of urgency.
“If I survived that,” she responded with a small flick backwards of her head, “then I will survive the cold.”
Korden swallowed and immediately nodded.
“Yes, Your Majesty, of course.”
Jularra swallowed her annoyance and nodded appreciatively at Korden.
Still, she felt anger boiling up within her. She looked at Braddon with a stern gaze, leaving no ambiguity in her feelings.
“Why did no one ever speak of this to me?”
“It was an order of your mother’s, my queen. We served at her pleasure, and her command, just as we do yours, now.”
Her anger remained, but it was aimless. She dropped her eyes from Braddon and shivered beneath the cloak. The lingering cold made the wound along her spine throb. She was now bound against her will to something terrible, and understanding was as foreign to her at that moment as when she was in the belly of the Vacant Grave.
She looked back to the guard and his brazier. He must have known where she and her mother were going, and what would happen to them both. She stared at him. She needed him to look at her. She would not surrender her lost innocence to him, or anyone else. She turned completely, slowly, to make it plain what she wanted. She stood, and stared.
“Queen Jularra…” Braddon pleaded.
She did not acknowledge him. She continued to
stare at the guard. She was his queen, and he would look at her.
Finally, his eyes flicked towards her, so quickly she thought she might have been mistaken. But just as his brazier’s fire flickered, so too did his eyes. This time, they held hers. He looked back at her, noticeably collapsing in on himself with regret. Jularra waited until she knew he had been weakened; waited until she saw the power leave his eyes. Then she turned back to the path, to Braddon and his son.
“Very well, Braddon. Let us go home.”
“Yes, my queen,” he replied.
Korden wrapped an arm around Jularra and escorted her to a horse Braddon had waiting for her.
“Bedrock! Spire! Fall in behind your queen!”
While the two groups assumed their escort posture, Jularra looked over at the great cedar. Hanging from its largest branch was the companion of the man whom the guard had killed to stop from entering the mountain.
Jularra stared at her, wondering if her body was still warm. She could not take her eyes off her. She was desperate to see some sign of life—not out of a fear of death, or from being fazed by the woman's fate. No, she just needed to know whether she was truly dead yet. The seconds passed with no evidence, and as the realization that all life had seeped from her became more and more apparent, a thought grew louder in her mind.
Jularra envied her.
Beneath her, the frozen mud, previously a worrisome challenge, was now laughable to Jularra. The path back home would be far less intimidating than the trek here. She'd entered the mountain a child, but had emerged a queen.
***
While Jularra entertained her memories, the trail back to the capital leveled out. She realized Korden had been trying to talk to her.
“What?” she asked.
“What’s got you so distracted?” Korden wondered.
The trees thinned. Morganon’s outer walls could be seen through the branches.
“Oh,” she said, shaking her head, “it’s nothing.”
Two
Three days later and the slice in Jularra’s leg still seeped.
Fresh out of the bath, she prepared a new strip of cloth for it. She bent over and wrapped a few loops around her thigh, tucking an end inside the bandage. Good enough.
She reached for a tunic and dropped it over her head, pausing to consider the rose, plum, and blueberry bruise across the left side of her rib cage. She had to touch it, of course. A small wince was the price for checking the pain level. She let the tunic fall and finished dressing.
Today's destination was the home of one of Jularra's most revered treasures. Vylas, a trusted teacher of magic, was a vanishing rarity. The art of magic had been falling out of favor in Acorilan ever since the pact was begun, and the motives for practicing magic were shifting. Fewer and fewer were those who sought to serve something greater than themselves. Fewer still were those who held a proper appreciation for magic. It was no longer used as a means of growing closer to someone or something in the world, but to cater to the trivial and material.
Vylas did not practice that type of magic. He and his arts were grounded. While not unique in his empathetic motivation, he was the only respectful practitioner Jularra knew of for many hundreds of miles. Learned in the ways of harmony and respect, his knowledge and power were rooted in the humble awareness that his body would one day return to the ground from which he sought inspiration in life.
Jularra arrived at his home, equidistant from the Vacant Grave and Honor's Crest, late in the afternoon. A few ribbons of direct sunlight were still winning against the highest western peaks, but the temperature had already dropped. With a paranoia that was equal parts irritated and amused, Jularra looked around for Korden as she threw a leg over and hopped off her horse. A quick but sharp jolt of pain surprised her as she landed, and her knees buckled. She straightened up with a grimace before leading her horse to Vylas’ humble corral.
Through the open windows of Vylas’ home came a voice, hearty and scraping.
“Ah! I thought you had forgotten where I live!”
Jularra smiled as she strolled toward the house, brushing her fingers against the rain-smoothed stones of the front wall. The planters along the base of the wall and under the window were empty now, but Jularra knew they would be filled with herbs and flowers when spring came; the same herbs and flowers that were there every year, for as long as she could remember. She loitered outside, listening to the clank, clank, ting of Vylas’ kitchen tinkering.
“What are you up to in there?” Jularra called curiously.
Vylas cackled innocently but didn’t answer.
Jularra leaned over a spit with two roasting rabbits and danced her nose through the smoke. Her empty stomach stole most of her attention as the dying fire and homegrown spices seduced her senses. She pulled away, reached for a small log, and placed it on the fire under the rabbits. As she did, Vylas appeared at the front door, slapping his hands dry. Jularra kicked a larger log over and rolled it a few feet closer to the fire. She tipped it up and took a seat.
“Mmm, those are about done.” Vylas walked over to the fire and sat down across from Jularra. He wrapped a worn rag around the end of the spit and turned it to confirm his suspicions.
“Let’s get this side a little crispier,” he said, tossing the rag away. He turned his attention to Jularra, sitting awkwardly with her wounded leg stretched out straight in front of her.
“What’s that all about?” Vylas asked casually. “Been practicing a little too hard with the Spire?”
Before Jularra could respond, he shot back up as though suddenly remembering something. “Do you want some tea?”
“Please,” she said with a grin.
Vylas gestured at her to continue talking while he jogged back inside.
“No, actually,” she started, speaking a bit louder. “I was out walking a few days ago and got attacked.”
“What?” Vylas shouted from inside. He reappeared in the doorway, frowning, and sat back down beside the fire after handing Jularra her tea. “I assume you won, then. Who was it?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. “We didn’t have much of a conversation.”
“And how's the leg?”
“It’s still bleeding a little, but it’s mostly stopped.”
Vylas grunted and stood back up. This time, he went to the open kitchen window and reached inside for a jar, which he handed to Jularra.
“Salve,” he said, sitting back down. He sipped his tea before continuing. “Was it a robber? Or something else?”
“An assassin. He was fairly skilled, had a nice sword, and... well…”
Jularra trailed off. She twisted herself away from Vylas, opening the jar of salve and stretching her leg wide to reach the dressings. She pulled them back just enough to expose the receding wound.
Vylas sat his tea down on a neighboring tree stump. “'Well', what?” he asked gently.
“He had a doppelcharm of some kind,” the queen answered, still somewhat disbelievingly.
Vylas nearly choked on his tea. “What? A true doppelganger?”
“Yes, I’m fairly certain,” Jularra replied. She tucked in her bandages after securing them again. “I killed the man, then moments later a spectral clone emerged from his body and continued the fight. It wasn’t as skilled as the living man was, but—”
“Did it speak? Was it fully formed from head to toe? Eyeballs, or energy?”
Vylas couldn’t contain his excitement at such advanced magic.
“It never spoke, but it was a complete, human shape from head to toe. With full eyes,” she answered.
Vylas looked off into the woods, considering the information.
“I just don’t see how that’s possible nowadays,” Vylas said, his brow furled in confusion. “What kind of assassin could have access to that kind of magic?”
“Surely there are still people who know of such things?” the queen prompted.
Vylas sipped his tea while nodding. “I’m sure,
but they would be extremely few and far between, I would say. I’ve spent my whole life studying; I have dozens and dozens of Credellions, but even I don’t know how to conjure anything like a doppelganger. Whoever had a hand in it is extremely skilled, at least in conjuration.”
The queen shrugged and turned back to face Vylas. She then rubbed her hands on her trousers to rid them of any remaining salve.
“Is it possible the assassin created it himself?” she wondered.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Vylas allowed, “though I would wager that his weapons were supplied from elsewhere, in which case his methods are secondary. Someone powerful wants you dead. That would be my main concern.”
Jularra slowly climbed to her feet, testing the ground with her wounded leg. She looked to Vylas and nodded.
“Feels better.”
Jularra meandered away from the fire. Her hands were on her hips as she strolled in and out of the nearby clover, tilting her head from side to side. The fire popped as Vylas took the two rabbits off the spit.
“Rabbit’s done,” he said.
Jularra didn’t respond immediately. She continued her contemplative pacing. When she spoke next, it wasn’t about rabbit.
“You know, there are half a dozen countries that would benefit greatly from my death,” she said. Her voice was light and pragmatic.
Vylas chuckled through a bite of rabbit. “Oh, is that all?” he asked.
“Well, I’m just trying to think of possibilities. Someone obviously wants me dead, and I need to start taking action.”
“Mmm-hm. Well, as far as the magic goes,” Vylas began before swallowing, “I don’t see how that could have come from within our borders. I have a good grasp on the magic being done in Acorilan, and that kind just hasn’t been practiced in these lands in generations. I would think that your best chance of tracking that down would be in the coastal countries. Maybe those with the busiest ports. Messyleio, perhaps.”
Jularra nodded as she made her way back to the stump. “Or, like you said, I could chase motive, and look in to who might have hired him.” She sat down and started pinching at her cooked rabbit. “The assassin’s origins are probably unrelated to his employer's.”