Coven Queen

by Jeramy Goble

  At first, the city was quiet. Empty markets and locked-up buildings encouraged the crickets to speak up and go about their own night-inspired escapades. The moon beamed down on the smaller towers and gave Jularra tiles of shadow to skip in and out of whenever she heard the occasional footstep or rattle of armor that signaled patrolling Bedrock.

  With each passing alleyway and alcove, more residential areas trickled into Jularra’s surroundings. The pure moonlight became contaminated by an increasing number of lit candles from open windows. The distinction between shadow and light became blurred, and as the vague syllables and muddled tones of conversations grew louder, the crickets became harder to hear.

  The shifting smells carried on the evening air warned her when she was close. When the cold mountain breeze with its light hint of soil mixed with the aromas of fire and smoked pork, then did she know her friends were nearby.

  The group lounged on logs encircling the fire. When they caught sight of her, they cheered and raised cups and flagons—mostly because they were empty, and needed her to fill them.

  It didn’t bother anyone that she was able to secure so much wine so frequently. True, it was a luxury to that crowd, and some might consider it curious, what with the state of the nation’s resources, except that she had told countless stories of how she had fought or robbed to acquire it for them. The unsavory group lapped up her tales as readily as her wine, and as long as she shared, they could not have cared less if they were true. The same unspoken standards were applied to whoever brought the food for the night. Once inside their little circle of hedonism, anything outside of it could rot.

  She replied to the cheers by holding the wineskins high above her head in triumph. She had won! They had won! They were, at the very least, going to get drunk tonight, and no one was going to stop them. Their pleasure came first. Their buzz came first. Their conversations, food, wine, and possible sex, were their only concerns. Again, all else in the world—for that night, anyway—could starve, or rot, or burn.

  She joined the group through a narrow gap in the logs, tossing one of the wineskins over the fire. Two more went to each side of her. Hands grasped and playfully fought with other hands to provide their owners with the first drink. Savili set his lute down and gulped as much wine as he could swallow. He wiped his mouth and caught his breath, then shouted, “Aleusa! Didn’t think you were going to make it tonight!”

  “Yeah. Bit of trouble with the wine tonight, but nothing I couldn’t overcome,” she answered.

  “I hope you didn’t have to spill any blood for it!”

  The group erupted with laughter.

  “Well, perfect timing,” Kinlarkas announced. “Pig’s about done!”

  “What about that pig, hmm?” Jularra asked playfully. “You’re no pig farmer!”

  Kinlarkas’ eyes stayed on the pig as his grin collapsed. Many around the fire looked at him as the silence expanded.

  “Well, we gotta eat, don't we?” he replied. His voice scraped with a mixture of regret and malice.

  The wrought iron spit scraped against the stands as he turned it. Some of the group stirred in anticipation and moaned with hunger. A few of the women, sitting on the laps of their lovers, turned and applauded. Others remained enthralled with the taste of their lovers.

  With rags wrapped around both hands, Kinlarkas lifted each end of the spit off the holder. “You hear about Her Highnass getting ambushed the other day?” he asked, eager to change the subject. He set the pig down on a burlap-covered stone.

  Jularra's disgust with Kinlarkas’ implication shifted to panic at being mentioned, which was quickly overtaken by her anger. Those fucking, gossiping lords!

  She made herself relax before answering. “Heard about that,” Jularra said, passing another wineskin. “I guess the bitch won.”

  A few of the others chuckled. Savili nodded. “She’s a tough gal, the queen,” he said as he reached for a plate of pork.

  “What makes you say that?” Kinlarkas wondered.

  Savili rolled his eyes with condescension. “Oh, I don't know. Queen, witch, Spire Commander…”

  Kinlarkas shrugged. “She had to use any of those skills, though?”

  “She killed the assassin, didn't she?"

  "Mmm, apparently," Kinlarkas conceded. “But what if she’d been killed?” he posed generally to the whole group. “What would’ve happened with that pact and all that?”

  Another in the group, Vilfarin, was fuzzy on his history. “What do you mean?”

  Kinlarkas stumbled along in his clarification. “Well, don’t all the queens need to… pass along their blood oath to their daughter, or something? What happens if a queen dies before that happens?”

  The fire popped and sent sparks into the air. No one had an answer, except for Jularra.

  “I heard there’s something in the pact that addresses that bit,” she began, after casually slugging some wine. “If she dies naturally, or by someone else’s hand before the deadline, that Void thing will kill a hundred Acorilinians for every moon between her death and the deadline, as a penalty.”

  Various members of the group gasped.

  “To encourage her to pop out an heiress sooner rather than later, I guess,” she added. “And even then, it’d still create a child out of her blood to continue the line. But if she kills herself or intentionally doesn’t meet the deadline…”

  All kissing, eating, and drinking came to a stop.

  “Acorilan gets destroyed,” she finished.

  “How?” Kinlarkas wondered.

  Jularra shrugged. The conversation was handed back over to the fire for a moment.

  “Well,” Kinlarkas said eventually, “I’m glad she killed that assassin.”

  Savili raised his cup in agreement. "I heard he had a doppelcharm.”

  Heads turned.

  “A doppelcharm?” Jularra repeated with false astonishment. When Savili slowly nodded, Jularra let her mouth drop a bit as she raised her eyebrows, wanting to get the attention off herself and let someone else lead the conversation.

  Savili continued nodding. “Yeah, some serious magic, that. Doesn’t it create a ghost, or something, of whoever's wearing it? When they die, the ghost attacks its dead master’s foe.”

  Jularra kept her eyes on Savili while Vilfarin affirmed Savili’s explanation.

  “Yeah, he’s right,” he said, looking around the circle. But his face wrinkled in confusion as he turned back to Savili. “Where is that kind of magic even found anymore?”

  Savili stood up and made his way towards a row of hedges, unbuttoning his breeches as he went.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said over his shoulder. “Hignriten? Messyleio, too. And, uh, Torguria, I think.”

  “Torguria?” scoffed Vilfarin. “They don’t know shit about magic up there.”

  One of the women peeled herself off her man’s chest.

  “Messyleio is just a fucking crazy cult behind that wall,” she giggled. “Now, Hignriten proper… there’s a lot of folks that still study that old Nurudian magic. It might’a come from there.”

  The speculation mostly ended there, with the conversation turning to less juicy topics. There was plenty of pork to go around, and despite having full stomachs, there was enough wine to do what it was meant to do. Later, as the group finished their food and drink, some crept off for a round of late-night sex while others wandered into the alleys, or looked for homes ripe and ready to be stolen from. The blackness of night seeped further into the group. After a while, they let it in. There were no additional logs added to the fire, and eventually, the embers were shoveled over with more and more of the surrounding ash and gravel. One by one, the revelers departed, and so too did Jularra.

  The smell of smoke had long left Jularra’s nose when she passed through the south gate. By that time, her mind rippled with a gentle wave of drunkenness. She had achieved her favorite stage of drinking. She was free and unencumbered. The air of the mountains filled her lungs and the moon lit
her way. As she trekked deeper into the woods, the tall trees seemed to bow slightly over her, as though approving of her debauchery. They encouraged her journey, and encouraged her to risk even more by wandering deeper into the forest.

  The night was her home. There was no light like that of the moon, and no other light made her feel as welcome. The only discomfort she felt was that of her warming skin. The wine was advancing on her. But like the easiest of decisions, ingrained and primal, she knew how to cool herself. She knew how to feel more natural.

  She skipped and giggled under the moon as she undressed. With each piece of clothing, another giggle would escape. The last few pieces were accompanied by yips and heartier laughter.

  At last, she was naked. She slowed her skipping and began to walk, savoring the breeze against her skin and closing her eyes. She lifted her arms up to the moon. She was free, and lost. Free to do as she pleased, and lost from anyone else’s awareness of where she might be. Throne, crown, magic, country, people—all together were lost for an idea of where she might be at that moment. Only the night knew. Only to the night and the moonlight did she have to answer.

  Her path was not a new one, nor was it aimless. Even without the moon—without her sight, even—she could have made her way safely. Each twig and pine needle along Wardenon Trail was known to her. She anticipated every dip in the dirt, every muddy mound. The trek was nothing like that of her first trip to the Vacant Grave with her mother so long ago. This hike always filled her with excitement and peace. It brought her power and confidence.

  Her destination was a familiar one, and one of her most treasured retreats. It was a site deep off the Wardenon Trail and was home to a grand fire pit, meticulously dug out and lined with stones. Nearby was a large pile of brush, kindling, branches and log chunks—steadily depleted and replenished over the years. The only other ornament to the area was a single log, worn on the top from sitting.

  This was her area. This was her spot. Her place. And though she was queen of the entire breadth of Acorilan, she never felt possessive of the country. The entirety of it belonged to each of its citizens as much as to her, but this fire pit was hers.

  As she danced along—arms flailing, hands waving, naked skin tingling—Jularra greeted each tree and plant with its own wink or grin. In between, she allowed a few random melodies to escape her lips. They trickled up from the dregs of her memory; by the time the morning came and she had sobered up, the notes would be lost again until her next communion with alcohol.

  But as with every visit, the primal carousing had to inevitably end. Even in her inebriated state, the weight of her arrival at the circle slapped a sense of respect into her muddled mind. It had been some time since she had last been visited by the Gift Gods, but this was one of her most cherished spots for focusing, learning, and communing with them.

  She stopped to examine the clearing. She fell freshly in love with it each time she visited, and as usual, she wanted to appreciate the moon’s light before her fire stole the show.

  She took a weighted and hasty step, but quickly corrected herself. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping night, she tiptoed through soil that eventually turned into a feathery floor of previous fires’ spent ashes. A jolt of energy ran up her spine and quickened her heart.

  Slowly, she walked around the stones of the fire circle, letting the powdery ashes spill over her toes. Once she had made her way to the opposing side, she broke off for the pile of fresh wood. Several trips later, she had dropped enough armfuls of brush, kindling and wood to start the fire. She walked to her sitting log and rolled it over to reveal a knife, flint and steel. She returned to the pile of wood, and between the excitement and the wine in her veins, she made quick work of it. A spark landed and caught.

  The fire started weakly, almost pathetically. It didn’t even pop or crack. It ran along a few leaves and pine needles in a hopeless race for more oxygen. It jumped to other leaves, other needles. And then, just as it was about to lose the race, it ran straight into a widely-spaced pile of tinder. The mediocre flame became an arrogant braggart. The fire jumped onto the dry tinder and overcame it. In seconds, the fire branched out, multiplied and seized control. The larger kindling succumbed next. The defenses leading to the larger logs had been beaten. The fire roared to life.

  Jularra stood on a stone along the fire’s outer perimeter and gazed at it with a stern affection. She wanted to lose herself in its light and movement, but needed to confirm that it had taken hold. Once she saw the flame soaking into the dry bones of the wood, she tossed a few more thin branches on for good measure, along with one more sizable log.

  She backed away from the stone circle and sank to the ground. A few leaves and acorns poked at her bare behind, but a bit of shuffling and some absent-minded swipes of her hands resolved that problem. She was free to bask in the warmth of the fire and watch it grow.

  And grow it did. The fire she had nurtured—previously silent, like an intimidated child—was now cracking the ribs of twigs, popping the knots out of logs, and sizzling with a ferocity that rivaled a bear’s roar. Jularra leaned back on her hands and claimed the stillness of the moment. It was just her and the fire and the energies of the world. Fire had lived long before her, and would live long after the embers of her own life had died out.

  As she looked into and through the fire, a familiar awe washed over her. Fire was such a humbling element, capable of amazing things. It fortified food, warded off predators, provided light, warmth, and comfort. But it also devastated. It could tear through forests. Obliterate villages, and burn the flesh of criminals, or those misunderstood and persecuted by the powerful. Fire, it seemed, just like humanity, was capable of any horror, and any beauty. It only depended on the type of fuel you gave it.

  Jularra’s heart slowed, close to its resting rate. The dissipating euphoria of the wine gave way to the peace of appreciation. She followed the climbing flames to their flickering tips, then further still, up along the trees to the canopy and then even further above. She craned her neck, then purposely fell back to her elbows and looked even higher until she found the stars. For all she knew, the stars looked down upon her and the performing flames. Do they approve of my respect? Do they care at all?

  The forest floor cracked, close enough to startle her. She flipped and spun onto her hands and knees, blinking in an effort to banish any remaining drunken blurriness.

  The shadows against the trees rose and fell with the fire as her eyes adjusted. She strained to peer deeper into the woods.

  She was naked, defenseless as far as armor went, and couldn’t gauge properly how liquored up her magical focus might be. She remembered her stash of items under her log. My knife!

  She whipped around, but before she could turn completely, a boot bashed into her chin. The force threw her back onto her elbows again. Her head tingled from the strike and mixed with the fuzziness of her lingering intoxication. The sensation of the blow started out as a cold pressure, but rapidly evolved into a series of stinging pulses. She cupped her bleeding jaw and looked up at Vilfarin with her still-disguised face of Aleusa.

  He loomed over her. She must not have appeared stunned enough for him yet, for he stepped around and kicked her in the ribs. She screeched in pain.

  Jularra dug her elbows into the ground and tried to scratch away from him, but he didn’t allow it. He followed up with another violent kick to her unprotected ribs. She screamed again and rolled to her side.

  She curled around the pain and tried to focus on her breathing. She started to cry. Each minuscule expansion and constriction of her chest sent blasts of agony through her body. A few bits of dirt flew up onto her mouth as she gasped and sobbed.

  Then came sounds of a fumbling buckle. Her mind somehow wrestled control back from all of her pain and fear, ordering her body to focus on the sound. Vilfarin undid his belt, calling attention to his intentions like a road sign directing Jularra to a destination of terror. She heard his pants flop to the ground.

&nb
sp; Don’t let him do this!

  Still coiled and lying on her side, her eyes remained shut while she tore her mind away from the pain. She felt the ground stir as he dropped to his knees. He gripped her locked knees and shoved, rolling her onto her back. She cried out again. Her side burned in pain.

  You can stop this! she said angrily to herself. Stop him!

  He parted her legs. Her mind, heart, and soul honed in on his one motive. Her pain got shoved off her attention’s cliff. When she felt his arm brush her leg—as he grabbed himself and prepared to enter her—she opened her eyes.

  He froze in place, unable to move. Jularra pulled a leg back and kicked him in the chest, throwing him onto his back. As she sat up, her taut hand that had rooted him grabbed at the core of his essence, while the other connected with the fire. She strained her arm’s muscles to bond with the conflagration—to re-establish the living respect she had for it before she was attacked. She spoke to it, and to the Gift Gods. As she focused on her control of Vilfarin and the fire, she allowed the enchantment of her disguised appearance release. Jularra’s true face stared across at her new captive.

  “Masters of the Gifts, and of this malady upon men, make me the mother of this flame. I will fan this fire and the knowledge of your power.”

  As she uttered her spell, her control over Vilfarin and the fire solidified. Her ability to manipulate both strengthened. Her extended left arm began to move, bringing Vilfarin closer to the massive blaze. He started to whimper.

  “Oh, fuck, please, Queen Jularra…”

  “You truly think speaking my name will earn you any mercy?” Jularra blasted.

  She stayed her arm for a moment and clamped down with her fingertips, crunching his ability to speak. He choked and gargled before clawing at his constricted throat.

  “No,” she said. “You will not speak. You will not distract or save yourself from this. All you will get to hear is the sound of your own skin baking.”

  Jularra snickered darkly and resumed swinging her arm in the direction of the fire.