Coven Queen

by Jeramy Goble

  They crested the steps and marched down the corridor towards the entrance to the state reception hall. Jularra spoke up so that only her men could hear.

  “Make more noise,” she said. “Let them know we’re coming.”

  The few lords lingering outside the reception hall looked to the group and dipped back inside. Jularra laughed to herself.

  As they approached the hall, the majority of the Bedrock kept marching past to the lift, having fulfilled their obligation as escort. Only Korden and two pairs of the most trusted Bedrock remained behind. They followed Jularra into the chamber. She wasted no time in getting to business.

  “I don’t have the usual amount of time for today’s council,” she said as she strode to the head of the table. “I’d request that we stick to only the most pressing business.”

  The rest of the council stood silent next to their chairs, waiting for the queen to take hers. Korden and the four Bedrock guards settled into their positions to the side and behind her. Jularra took a handful of requests to be reviewed from a waiting scribe, and sat down.

  She started flipping and thumbing through the papers, skimming them for anything interesting before the rest of the council’s chairs had finished sliding into place. No one spoke.

  “I said I don’t have the usual amount of time. What’s the first order of business?” she asked jaggedly.

  Robain spoke first. “Is the reason for the urgency something that can be shared, Your Majesty? Is everything all right?”

  Jularra looked up from her jumble of papers and quickly scanned the room.

  “It can’t still be a secret, can it?” Jularra allowed a chuckle at the thought while Robain searched the table for any expressions of understanding.

  Finding none, Robain raised his eyebrows and shook his head in what appeared to be innocent ignorance.

  “Someone tried to assassinate me several days ago,” Jularra spat abruptly. Her eyes dropped back to the papers. She casually resumed shuffling through them.

  “What?” Robain said, his mouth agape. “Were you harmed? Were they captured? Killed?”

  “I killed him,” she confirmed.

  Latham’s surprise matched that of Robain.

  “Who was it? Were you able to determine if he was working for someone?”

  “Nothing conclusive,” she answered through an impatient sigh. “But the fact is that, exceptional fighter though he was, I overpowered him and his doppelcharm.”

  “A doppelcharm?” Latham gasped. “Where would someone get something like that in this day in age? Could you tell where it was from?”

  “I wasn’t able to discern anything identifiable,” Jularra casually replied. “But I assure you: I’ll find who was behind it, and I will deal with it.”

  Maccail began to speak, pausing and looking around the table before turning back to the queen.

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but what does the attempt on your life have to do with your limited time to sit with us today? You obviously survived, and appear to be in good health.”

  As Maccail spoke, Jularra reflected on the hanging portrait on the other side of the room. It was one of the few still left in the state tower—most of the others having been sold off. This painting was a portrait of Detsepera, the first queen in the line of the Voidwarden’s pact; the queen who sacrificed everything for the safety of Acorilan.

  The room, which usually entertained scooting chairs, coughs, sniffs, or side conversations, suddenly fell deathly silent in the wake of Maccail's pointed question. Jularra stared at the papers in her hand and set them to rest softly on the table. Her immediate inclination was to respond with a fiery tongue-lashing, but she drew a card of calm from the deck in her mind. Maccail was the only noble at the table in a position to be flippant; Rebenos was the largest of all the counties, with the most extensive fortifications and personnel.

  Jularra did not allow the awkward silence or Maccail to upstage her.

  “Well, after killing the brigand, and his doppelcharm, I had to rest and care for the wounds I sustained. I had to postpone some of my commitments from last week, which unfortunately impacts my ability to devote my usual time to this meeting.”

  Maccail worked to feign concern, but Jularra saw through it. Their contempt for each other was palpable.

  “Well, in that case I completely understand. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say we will, of course, endeavor to help you finish your business with us today as quickly as possible.”

  He added a bow of his head as a bookend to his comment, which Jularra reciprocated with the flair of a veteran actor. The opening round of political sparring had no clear winner.

  At the end of the table opposite the queen, Barosain, the bluntest and most spirited of the country’s lords, cleared his throat and gestured for a cup of wine.

  “In the interest of keeping things moving, Your Majesty, I wonder if we might discuss this year’s crops,” he proposed.

  Jularra extended her hand, welcoming the change in topic.

  “Thank you. Now, as I’m sure some of you are aware,” he continued, “the region suffered a significant drought this year, which has forced us to deplete our vegetable reserves by an amount larger than normal. Pinon County was the most impacted, I believe, and I was hoping to negotiate a trade of our small amount of surplus wheat for any available vegetables.”

  Jularra gestured at her agricultural advisor to start digging up the relevant figures.

  Barosain leaned in, sarcastically straining to hear any potential responses. A chair creaked.

  “I’m not asking for a loan of coin, or a gift of food,” he said with a note of irritation. “Merely a trade.”

  Ualar spoke up, gesturing with sympathy.

  “To speak for myself and my lands, Barosain, we are in a similar predicament. Our stores are low, and our people are having to prematurely seed the fallow land.”

  The room started to rustle and grumble as excuses began to bubble up.

  “Yes, our fields had a terrible showing. We’re having to repeat crops on much of our land,” Latham added.

  “Wait, wait,” the queen ordered. She tapped a candlestick on the table like a gavel and turned to her agricultural advisor.

  “What is the status of Morganon’s food stores?” she asked.

  The advisor began running his finger down the most recent entries.

  “Yes, Your Majesty. For grains, we have two tons of wheat, and one ton each of barley and oats. Vegetables—we have a half-ton each of potatoes and carrots, five hundred pounds of cabbage, and a few hundred pounds of various herbs and other assorted vegetables. There is also one month’s worth of smoked pork and two months' smoked fish.”

  The advisor fell silent and stared at Jularra for a reaction. Those in the room were temporarily encumbered with arithmetic and logistics.

  Maccail spoke first, voicing the conclusion everyone else had reached.

  “Even if we distributed our collective stockpiles, Acorilan would be out of food by next winter.” He only barely obscured his satisfaction at the observation, and stopped short of outright blaming the queen.

  An ominous silence swept across the room before the inevitable eruption.

  “We must act!” Drumean shouted. “Why have you not done anything? How dare you jeopardize…”

  Each of the other lords started shouting, quickly overpowering Drumean in volume. Some jumped to their feet. The Bedrock snapped to defensive postures and stepped to Jularra’s side as she was berated by each of the lords with varying degrees of severity.

  Jularra looked up again to Detsepera’s portrait in a vain appeal for inspiration. Calmly, Jularra reached into a pocket and produced a small pinch of something that she then placed just inside her mouth. After a second of letting it dissolve, she spat at Drumean. Instead of expelling a wad of saliva, however, the magically intensified burst of air launched Drumean away from the table and threw him against the wall, pinning him in place. The power behind the exhalation was
such that even the edges of it caused the rest of those around the table to stumble. It even blew open the nearby window shutters.

  The lords scrambled to get back to their feet and drew their swords. The queen remained in place with her hand extended, holding Drumean in place against the wall.

  Korden quickly took stock of the men and their postures.

  “Guard!” he shouted.

  More Bedrock ran in from the corridor. Korden motioned for them to wait for his next direction.

  “Before you accuse me, try me, and hang me for neglecting our people,” Jularra said, growing in anger and volume, “you will let me respond!”

  Jularra held up her open hand and drew in her fingers, releasing Drumean from his invisible restraint. He slid down slowly to the floor. She then turned and motioned for the closest Bedrock to sheathe their weapons.

  “It’s quite bothersome,” she said calmly, “to have to remind you of my devotion to our people. I, and my ancestors before me, have literally lived to die—for you!”

  She slung her hands at the group in disgust.

  “To keep our country safe! To keep our people from harm. And that’s just to allow our country to exist! Is there anyone here who needs that explaining? Beyond that, I, and the queens before me, have sacrificed much of the wealth of this city to benefit our people. To feed them. To bolster their villages and roads. To put them to work, and provide them with a living. Haven’t you noticed the great halls and walls of Morganon becoming less and less adorned with extravagance? I have always put this country’s people first, and I will continue to put them first. Every resource and option will be exhausted to ensure their future. Can you all say the same? If I were to visit all your keeps, would I see signs of similar sacrifice?”

  As evidenced by the silence, no additional clarification was needed. Surprisingly, Maccail was the first to return his sword to its scabbard, though everyone else soon followed suit.

  Korden nodded at the additional complement of Bedrock, signaling that they may return to the hall. The queen rubbed her face and sat back down.

  Wooden chairs skidded across the stone floor as the others followed suit, and Drumean stretched his sore back before returning to the table.

  “My deepest apologies,” he offered. “I panicked, and made assumptions.” His body and ego were clearly bruised, and his words were momentarily interrupted by a grimace. But his apology—and his embarrassment—seemed sincere.

  Jularra nodded dismissively and raised a finger at a nearby servant.

  “Let’s refill drinks,” she began. “Then we can discuss our options.”

  Korden leaned down and whispered, “I’d say it’s going well so far.” She gave him a sidelong glare in return.

  “All right, then,” she started, once everyone was settled. “What suggestions do we have for bolstering our food supplies? What about pooling our resources and trading them in bulk to a neighboring country?”

  Latham replied first.

  “Well, if we don’t have enough supplies to trade internally…”

  Maccail anticipated the ending to Latham’s thought.

  “We won’t have enough to trade externally,” he concluded.

  Drumean, having been reminded of his place, politely refused his wine refill. “Food, no,” he affirmed, “but what about gold? Gems? Linen? Wool? Anything?”

  The conversation sprung to life. Each of the nobles sparred on the possibility of trading textiles, materials, metals, or anything else that wasn’t food.

  Jularra let the conversation unfold, listening for anything meaningful. Each side conversation spiked and trumpeted with various concerns and worries.

  Jularra leaned forward and stood up slowly. The noise quickly dissipated.

  “If what I’m hearing is the consensus, trade is not an option,” she surmised. “There are simply not enough resources of any type that we can afford to trade.”

  Another uncomfortable silence took the room.

  “Then we must take what we need by force!” Maccail finally blurted.

  Jularra rolled her eyes at Detsepera. “War?” the queen snapped. “You must be joking.”

  “Not at all.” Maccail added with confidence, “If we cannot trade for what we need, and do not have the capital to buy what we need, then we must take what we need.”

  “Necessity does not justify war, Maccail,” Latham said bitingly.

  Robain disagreed with Latham. “I’m sorry, but when your people are faced with famine, war to feed them is most definitely an option.”

  The conversation was escalating again. Jularra raised her voice.

  “You must be feeling faint, gentlemen, if you think trading famine and food shortages for war’s death and destruction is any kind of feasible option. With no guarantee of victory, we could potentially exhaust what little food we have even sooner.”

  “If a war is waged swiftly and decisively by expert commanders, then the impact of war can be minimized, and spoils maximized,” Maccail retorted.

  “There are countless variables in war, Maccail! Neither you, nor Robain, nor anyone else in this room has the ability to absolutely ensure such an outcome! Are you truly insisting that war is a viable option?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I am! Unless you have an alternative suggestion? Perhaps the queen might marry and secure us some resources that way?”

  Jularra stormed towards him, ready to kill.

  “Your Majesty,” Korden warned. He snapped for the Bedrock outside to come back in.

  Jularra huffed a partial laugh and forced herself to halt. The red rage in her vision faded as she forced a few breaths in and out to calm herself; to talk herself out of committing murder. She looked up once again to the portrait of Detsepera before letting her eyes drop to the floorboards. Still thinking, and still smiling, she looked back up to Maccail.

  “If you know of a suitable man, with suitable resources, who would agree to marry a cursed queen of a failing land, then please, have this person—whom I have already scoured the continent for—arrange to make my acquaintance.”

  Maccail’s eyes grew wide. He swallowed and said nothing.

  Jularra let her stare marinate Maccail’s soul for a moment, his open contempt capping off the evening’s displeasure. She then whirled to face the rest of the room, deciding that she'd had enough for one day.

  “Gentlemen, please stay in Morganon tonight. Think on our options. We can meet in the morning to decide on our course of action. I will not consider war to be an option. Is that understood?”

  The men around the table stared up at Jularra. No one offered any additional comments, their frustrations and anger held back by Jularra’s earlier display of rage against Drumean. After a quick look to Korden, Jularra stomped from the room.

  Four

  As she had so many times before, Jularra told her staff and her evening complement of Bedrock that she was going out into the city, and that she would not be followed. And as she had so many times before, she refused to reveal why or where she was going. She owed no one any answers, and no one expected any, nor did they take offense. It was simply understood that she would share what she wanted to, when she wanted to. Tonight, she would be sharing nothing.

  Jularra tried to reserve partying with the drunks and thieves for the most stressful of times, but sometimes, she just wanted to disappear. Venturing out in common clothes and with decadent motives, she blended into the night and took refuge in the darkness. She created anonymity with her incantations, scarves and cloak—not from fear, or shame, but from a desire to set down the burden of her crown for a time. By inserting such a jagged interruption into her normal obsession with the business of Acorilan, she found she could focus and devote that much more of herself through the rest of the week.

  She needed to not care about her crown. She needed to not care about the city, the country, or the people. She needed to be indifferent. For a few hours every week, she needed to enjoy the bliss of apathy.

  This time, she
couldn’t wait. She wouldn’t wait.

  The routine was a familiar one for Jularra. Off came her day-to-day clothes. After grabbing a cloth and dunking it into a basin of lavender-scented water, she would rush through a wash of her armpits and between her legs before drying off. On went clean but boring wool garments with only a leather belt and boots to differentiate. A quick word to Keleah and the Bedrock outside her bedchamber and she was on her way. Only when she reached the shadow of the portico would she unfurl the cloak stowed under her arm. Once properly cloaked, with a sheer scarf wrapped around her mouth and chin, she whispered her usual enchantment and emerged into the moonlight in the guise of an older blonde woman.

  Jularra walked around the residence tower, then jogged over to a crate inside the booth of her favorite florist. She reached down to unlock it and left a bag of coins inside before coming up with a jumble of strings, each tied to a wineskin. The arrangement between her and the florist saved her from having to bring wine with her from the tower. Now in possession of both anonymity and wine, she darted out of the booth and continued west to the rear of the city, where Teburn stretched the width of Morganon Valley.

  With its cramped tenements crowded with laborers, cooks, and artisans, Teburn was the humblest part of the city. Along with those scratching to sustain a living, there were also those who flourished in the art of giving up. But as Jularra walked closer to the shabbier section of Morganon, her load lifted. Her shoulders became lighter, her steps springier. The time for guilt had long since passed, and Jularra no longer even tried to deny to herself that she deserved it.

  It's for the benefit of the country. I work hard. I put up with a lot of shit. I need to lose myself from time to time. Her steps bounced, and her smile stretched. I’m allowed to escape. The taboo of acting in a way contrary to society’s standards made adrenaline playfully pinch her nerves.