Coven Queen

by Jeramy Goble

  “Right,” Vylas confirmed. “So, who are the suspects?”

  Jularra laughed. “Within or outside our borders?” she said, licking meat juices from her fingers.

  Vylas stopped eating mid-bite. “What? Who of our people would want you dead?”

  She sighed and finished chewing. She looked up to Vylas and back to her hands before answering.

  “Plenty, I’m afraid. It wasn’t always so, but it is now.”

  Vylas waited for her to expand.

  “The land is in a bad state. There’s sickness. Challenges to alliances. And, of course…” Jularra tossed her rabbit down. Her shoulders fell, and she slowly lowered her head into her hands. “I haven’t produced an heir.”

  Vylas continued chewing, but slowly. He lifted his eyes to the sky while silently doing arithmetic, then he placed his food down as well.

  “Oh, my,” he offered softly. He looked at the dirt, blinking quickly. “How long do you have to…”

  “About a year,” she said, deflated. “I’m twenty-seven, so… a year to get pregnant and produce a daughter that will be ten at the time of her ceremony. Ten years. Just when I’ll be getting used to being a mother, it will be time to leave her.”

  “Jularra,” Vylas attempted, placing his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t think about that right now. It serves you no purpose.”

  Jularra sat still, locked in thought, looking forward into a horizon of nothingness.

  “It’s all I’ve thought about since I watched my mother die. Ever since the crown passed to me, Vylas. Even when I brought you my reliquary to be blessed—not even a full day after emerging from the mountain—I was already cold and dark with the knowledge that I would have to go through that someday.”

  Vylas said nothing, but attempted to pat her shoulder again. She stood back up instead.

  “It’s not dying before my time, or even death itself that bothers me. That hasn’t troubled me since I was a child. What digs down to the core of my being is the knowledge that our people, our country—not just me and my descendants—are held captive by this unbreakable blood oath. We have no choice in a matter that was decided in haste by one person hundreds of years ago. Our people were saved once, then, but are still hostage to the Voidwarden. And what good has come of it? We are a diseased, poor state, a bankrupt land ruled by a queen who is held in contempt by many of her people and much of the world outside our borders!”

  Vylas rubbed his face and pinched gently under his eyes.

  “I understand,” he started. “I may not feel it from your perspective, but it all makes sense. Your feelings are justified.”

  He stood up and walked to Jularra. A strong gust of mountain air tore through the woods.

  “But you must hear me when I say,” he continued, “whatever was done then, and has taken place since, was not done in vain. You are here. Our people are here. Things may not be the best they ever have been, but you—and our people—persist. Our culture is respected. Our skills our envied. Our warriors are feared." He paused. "The sacrifices of your line are respected. Whatever happens between now and the end of our country, or the end of the world, will be supported. You have plenty of time to take action on the things you can control, and time to decide how you will face those things you can’t.”

  Jularra stared intently at Vylas as he spoke, simultaneously afraid of the future and reassured by his encouragement. Tears crept up on her, though she wasn’t surprised; for years, Vylas had smuggled stowaways of love and concern into her heart on clandestine wagons of wisdom and sincere advice. A bit of hope had opened the gate.

  Jularra blinked away the tears and looked back into the increasing darkness of the woods. Her mind had filled with the beginnings of action, but there were too many layers to the web of her thoughts. Her mind raced and her heart beat quickly. She was distracted. She missed the signs.

  ***

  Vylas’ first clue was the wind. The second sign was the wave of petrichor, the smell of rain making contact with the forest, that followed the breeze. Rain was coming. The final sign was the infinitesimal premonition of a lightning strike. Before his brain had finished registering the premonition, Vylas shoved Jularra out of the way and shot his hands towards the sky. He caught the bolt just above the forest canopy.

  As a practitioner of weather magic, Vylas could interact with the elements, and to a small degree, influence them. The energy behind a lightning strike was far too great for any weather magician to stop, but Vylas was able to slow it down, and work to redirect it away from the clearing where his home was. He couldn’t predict if it would have originally struck him, Jularra, or the house, but it was too close for comfort.

  The weight of the bolt felt like hundreds of pounds on his wrists. Closer and closer it came as it forced Vylas to his knees. Jularra, Vylas’ student and fellow practitioner of weather magic, scrambled up beside him and offered up her own energy in assistance. It still would never be enough to stop the bolt entirely, but it provided a pinch of extra time for them to decide their next action. The area, which had been mostly overrun by dusk just moments before, grew brighter and brighter with each creeping inch of lightning. The approaching rain had also arrived, pelting the leaves of the nearby forest, sounding like a gargantuan symphony made up only of little cymbals. The rip of thunder that followed the lightning remained sustained in the sky, growing louder.

  Vylas shouted to Jularra over nature’s noise.

  “Stand with me, and try to make it strike further to the south!”

  Jularra nodded. “Go!” she shouted.

  Vylas strained and forced a foot out from under him. Jularra matched his movements. The weight of the lightning was an extreme and powerful demonstration of nature’s energy, one that could never be beaten, never tamed nor completely controlled. They could only try to apply their best knowledge and respect to move the bolt, just a little.

  Every fiber of Vylas’ muscles was begging him to relent, but he finally got both feet under him.

  “Stand!” Vylas screamed. “Now!”

  Together, they began to move. Their hands, directing the majority of their energy up at the lightning bolt, were still pressed back to their shoulders. They continued to strain against the bolt. Vylas’ muscles were past burning and beginning to feel as if they were tearing. His energy reserves were nearly out, which meant Jularra wouldn’t be able to maintain much longer either.

  He shifted his footing for more leverage, but slipped on a patch of wet leaves and violently slammed to the ground on his side. Jularra fell back too, but somehow maintained her resistance against the bolt, now bearing the brunt of the entire lightning strike’s energy. With only one person fighting against it now, the speed at which it approached increased.

  “Vylas! I can’t hold it!” she grunted.

  He rolled over and back to his knees, refocusing his energy and rejoining the effort.

  “Summon everything you have, Jularra! We need to move quicker this time! Watch your feet and move!”

  They moved together. Leaning into the weight, they made it back to their feet. His lower back felt as if it was being crushed, but as he pressed to stand erect, Vylas screamed.

  “Push!”

  They shook under the weight, but started to slowly stand taller. They held their ground and pressed out their arms as they finished rising. Only when they had finished standing completely, extending their palms as high as possible, did completing the task seem even remotely possible.

  The lightning strike had passed the forest canopy and was brightening the area to almost daylight levels. They needed to redirect the bolt somehow. Jularra looked to Vylas to see who would begin the incantation, but he was already speaking it.

  ***

  His eyes were closed. If he was making sounds, Jularra couldn’t hear them over the rain, the thunder, and the growing hum of more approaching lightning. She couldn’t even help him. Incantations weren’t a team effort. They both could contribute energy, but incantations weren’t
cumulative. Jularra looked back to the bolt as she continued focusing her energy. Vylas continued the incantation, his eyes still closed.

  Jularra's body was begging her to let go. She was weakening, but as long as Vylas didn’t fall down again, she could keep up her portion. After reaching a consensus with herself, she saw the lightning’s path begin to change. She looked over to Vylas. His eyes were open. The incantation was finished.

  “Push it south! Push!” he yelled.

  Jularra looked through her extended arms at the woods. She focused on everything south of them: paths, roads, structures, countries, bodies of water. Everything in her mind and soul at that moment was south. Move it south. Move yourself south.

  Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Vylas take a small step. She took one also. They both paused to confirm their footing, and then moved again. Another step, and another. The path of the lightning began to curve away from the clearing. It was working.

  “Follow my lead!” Vylas screamed. “A few more paces, then speed up!”

  Jularra focused and said nothing, watching Vylas in her periphery.

  Within a few paces, they were jogging, and within seconds, Vylas gave the signal to release their tie to it.

  “Let go on three… two… one!”

  They gave the final push everything they had. As they released their hold on the friction, the rapid loss of resistance caused them both to stumble and slide on the muddy ground. As they slushed to a stop, the lightning, freshly freed, finally struck to the south as planned. The thunder, agitated from the delay, finally roared to an eruption, punching their chests with a concussive, satisfying boom. Jularra, panting and jellylike with fatigue, forced her head up to make sure the lightning would not cause a fire. Vylas had the same idea.

  “I’m sure it’s too wet,” he shouted over the rain.

  Jularra said nothing and continued to stare ahead. After a moment, she agreed.

  They slowly rose to their feet. They weren’t in a hurry, partly because they were already drenched, but mostly because their people loved the rain. Hearing it, seeing it, being caught in it. Rain was considered a blessing for sustaining their lives. Being inconvenienced by rain was not something in any Acorilinian’s mentality. And with the downpour being beyond a rare blessing in a sustained drought, there was an extra moment shared between the old friends. Together, they stood silently, looking up and blinking in the rain as it struck them, smiling and thankful.

  Once they were back on their feet, they leaned against one another and shuffled over to Vylas’ home. After stepping inside, Vylas fell into a chair next to the fire. Jularra sank to the stone floor.

  For a few minutes, Vylas’ home was filled only with the sounds of exhausted gasping and the steady downpour outside. The only interruptions came from the emboldened thunder and occasional sighs of laughter between the two old friends.

  Jularra’s nerves finally leveled out. Her breathing relaxed. It looked to be the same for Vylas. Conducting magic of any kind took energy, and such an effort to manipulate the lightning—such a rarely-needed act—had exhausted most of what they could muster. With just enough energy recuperated to do so, Vylas stood and walked over to Jularra, still sitting on the floor of the kitchen. He offered her a hand.

  “All right. Up with you.” Jularra sucked in a huge breath and then sighed. “Here we go,” he grunted as he helped her up.

  Jularra took his hand and rose to her feet. Vylas patted her on the shoulder and waved her towards a more comfortable seat. As she collapsed once again, this time into a chair, Vylas made his way to the hearth with a candle.

  “That was damned impressive, Jularra,” Vylas offered. “For a moment there, I didn’t think you’d be strong enough to help me with that.”

  Jularra sniffed, then laughed. “Thanks.”

  “I meant no insult. Only to say that we haven’t done anything together like that before.”

  Jularra held up a hand in understanding and nodded. “No, I know. I appreciate it, regardless.”

  Vylas winked at her, and after setting the candle alight, he brought it to the bank of candles on the nearby table and lit them as well. By the next rumble of thunder, the room’s light and shadows danced hand in hand.

  When enough candles had been lit, Vylas made his way back into the kitchen. He put some water on to boil and came to rest in the corner between the basin and chest of cupboards.

  “Did my mother ever talk about the ceremony?”

  Vylas shifted as he pondered how to answer. He slipped into the light as he moved, but then leaned back into the comfort of the shadows.

  “Do you remember?” Jularra asked.

  Vylas pushed away from the cupboards and slid the end of one of the dining table benches out with his foot. He sat down and stretched out his legs, looking to the kettle to see if it was starting to steam. He caught Jularra's expectant gaze and had to look back to the table.

  “The last time we spoke,” Vylas reluctantly began, “was when you and your mother visited to get your reliquary blessed. I understood the urgency. I knew what was about to happen.”

  The rain and rumblings reclaimed their command of the room, though the break in conversation was the loudest thing of all.

  “My dear Vylas,” Jularra murmured affectionately. “That’s not what I asked.”

  Vylas continued staring at the grain of the table in front of him.

  “I know,” he whispered.

  He slowly turned his head and looked at Jularra.

  “I don’t like thinking of her pain.”

  Jularra slumped over, understanding but frustrated. Trying to think of a different way to broach how her mother felt about the ceremony, Jularra began to absentmindedly pick at her fingers. But her lack of an idea let her mind wander. It found its way back to the assassin, and the web of potential threats. Before she could get too deep into contemplation, however, the break in conversation ended.

  “You think a lot like she did,” Vylas resumed. “She was angry at the obligation. The cycle of twisted devotion to that… thing that saved our people so long ago. She said many of the same things as you. But she didn’t resist much, save for a few conversations in private. No, she honored her part in the oath for the safety of our people.”

  Jularra intertwined her fingers and peered into the fire.

  “A ten-year-old female heir must be offered up before midnight of the reigning queen’s thirty-eighth birthday?” Vylas' voice was soft.

  Jularra let her head fall gently to the side. Her vision fell with it as she stared off into a dusty corner and nodded.

  “Well,” Vylas started. “That’s plenty of time to see about that assassin.”

  Jularra smiled bleakly as she repeated Vylas’ words.

  “Plenty of time.”

  Three

  The queen walked out onto her private terrace and caressed the ivy. She leaned over the worn stone railing and marveled once again at how high the persistent plant had climbed after growing steadily up the south tower for the past several months. It seemed just yesterday that it was still dozens of feet away from reaching the terrace.

  Jularra tickled the leaves, smiling at the vine’s audacity. Perhaps it was seeking a respite on the terrace to enjoy the last few minutes of predawn. The queen took a hint from her new verdant friend and looked to the peaks of the eastern mountains, squinting as the rising sun claimed the sky.

  Her eyes narrowed further as more light spilled over the mountains, but it was fleeting. A bruised blanket of clouds put the sun in its place almost as quickly as it had appeared.

  Jularra heard the dense slap of her curtains being beaten to the side. She turned, then relaxed upon seeing Korden. She took the chalice from his outstretched hand and immediately took a sip.

  “Mmm.” She offered the chalice a silent compliment with her eyes. “What is it today?”

  Korden stepped closer to the rail while struggling to remember.

  “Ah, I believe it’s a granatus cider. The
y’re preparing it especially for the council meeting.”

  Jularra leaned against the ledge. Korden smiled and took a sip of his own drink.

  “You there, with the flowers!” Jularra called down to the courtyard.

  A man with his arms full of flowers stopped and looked around. He stepped back and tossed his bundles back into his wooden cart before finally looking up. His crooked frown turned into a smile once he realized the queen was addressing him.

  “Ah, good morning, Your Majesty! How may I be of service?”

  “Those are the first flowers of the season. Don’t waste too many of them on the meeting today. Save plenty for your wife and customers!”

  “Oh, thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you very much indeed!”

  Jularra continued looking down, procrastinating on the return to Korden’s conversation, but he would have none of it.

  “You can’t avoid the council forever, you know.” He smiled again as he took another drink.

  “I am avoiding nothing. That man just doesn’t need to be wasting his flowers.”

  “I agree,” Korden returned. “But we still need to talk about the meeting.”

  “No, we don’t. I know what is going to be said, and I know how I will respond. Please let me enjoy the morning.”

  Korden sighed.

  “Well,” he succumbed, “this won’t be an easy day, despite knowing what will be said.” He threw back his last gulp and plonked his cup on the ledge before turning to leave. “I’m going to go see if Robain has arrived.”

  Jularra pointed at him sternly as she swallowed the last of her own drink.

  “Don’t you two go causing any trouble before the meeting."

  Korden bowed quickly before throwing the curtain aside and disappearing back into the tower.

  Jularra placed her own empty cup on the ledge and considered the ivy once more.

  “You persistent little thing,” she said with soft respect.

  “My lady, I have everything ready whenever you are,” a gentle voice called from behind the curtain.