Coven Queen

by Jeramy Goble

  Suspended and sliding along in mid-air, Vilfarin squirmed, kicked, and waved his arms wildly. The fire grew wider and higher. The base of the flames expanded to the edges of the stones, far out from the center of the fire.

  Jularra took her time bringing Vilfarin to the fire. She spoke to him as he grew closer, wanting to do all she could to sear as much terror into him before the fire did its own searing. She occasionally brought him to a stop, or moved him up or down.

  “Should your feet burn first?”

  She tilted him so that his feet were closest to the fire.

  “Head first?”

  She spun him the other way. Still he squirmed, like a stunned fly.

  Without warning, she began moving her arm again, faster. She leveled him out so that he was looking down on the fire and then pulled him through to the other side fairly quickly. Small portions of his skin bubbled up. His hair sparked as it was singed. His legs still flailed as he slapped at his smoking hair.

  After a few seconds, he had mostly recovered. He looked at Jularra and silently begged, mouth agape. But her right hand twisted in a circle, fanning the flames. They grew even higher.

  She whipped him back into the column of fire. This time, she kept him suspended over it for a few seconds before pulling him back towards her. She let go of the hold on his throat. His voice ripped the air in terrified pain and climbed to a grotesque scraping sound once he realized he could hear himself again. His feet and lower legs were burnt black. Blood burst through cracks and blisters all the way up past his navel. She waited until he had the presence of mind to look at her, and began to slowly inch him back to the fire. He could only get out one “No!” before his voice mutated into gargles of horror.

  She held him in the fire, with no intention of pulling him out again. As the flames made contact once more, she clamped back down on his throat—letting him listen to his skin cook, as promised. As he writhed in death, his hands and feet occasionally shot out from the core of the fire. But in the end, only the fire survived.

  Jularra stood in the shifting shadows of the moon and fire. Her arms dropped. She no longer needed to maintain control over the crackling remains of Vilfarin, or her allied flames. The roaring tower of orange and yellow began to speak softer and recede from the outer ring of stones. Jularra walked closer.

  She looked into the fire, tilting her head. She thought she spied the remains of Vilfarin's face, skull twisted in a grimace of agony. Guilt started to itch at her soul.

  She had felt it creep up a thousand times before. A leadership decision that led to the deaths of her people. Spiteful comments to her closest confidants; Vylas, or Korden. Violent retaliations to insult or injury. Abuse of her power. Abuse of people. Sometimes, the guilt grew and swallowed her. Sometimes, it vanished almost as quickly as it arrived. As usual, she raced through a myriad of assessments of her actions.

  Was I justified in killing that man? Did I really want to kill him? Did he deserve death? Should I have captured him and imprisoned him instead? Did he deserve to die that way? Why the fuck do I feel guilty? The bastard was about to rape me!

  Jularra slipped down to her knees and reached for her side as the awareness of her sore ribs returned. Her eyes watered. She was second-guessing herself, doubting her reaction to Vilfarin’s attempted rape, and then second-guessing her second-guesses. Something made her feel guilty for part of her reaction, which stained her entire reaction. Then she got angry at herself for feeling guilty. She started to cry, then looked at the fire and spoke to the Gift Gods.

  “If it was wrong,” she whispered, “you wouldn’t have let me do it. Right?”

  The fire popped and hissed, but otherwise offered no consolation.

  The night, always a comfort and friend, seemed to close in around her. She felt as if the forest mocked her for the unanswered question.

  Her eyes welled up and grew heavy. Her lips quivered and her nose twitched. She began to assume her guilt was justified.

  But abruptly, the fire popped upwards and out, flashing with energy. It threw Jularra back, away from the circle, and climbed twice as tall as it was previously. The stones around the fire began to glow.

  Jularra swiped her eyes with her wrists. Her chin dropped in astonishment.

  The fire climbed higher into the sky, its burning arms and hands grasping the night. Jularra’s eyes—dry now—flickered and danced in the unfolding event.

  The queen gasped in fearful wonder when the burning image of a figure scorched out from the mountain of flame and stood in front of Jularra.

  A Gift God.

  Jularra stood silently, unsure of how Vilfarin’s execution would be received.

  “The impetus for our visit, Jularra, is dark, but fateful,” it announced. “The use of your gifts to deliver such carnage demonstrates your ability to look past the idea that magic can be classified as good or evil. You instilled horror tonight. You became death, and it was right.”

  The stones around the pit glowed brighter. The fire lit up the clearing like daylight, and Jularra raised her hand to shield her eyes. With a flash, the fire extinguished itself, and the stones' glow died. As the bright silhouette of the Gift God faded away, the faintly glowing image of a Credellion replaced it.

  Jularra stood slowly, grimacing at her injured side, and eyed the beautiful shape of the Credellion. Her eyes welled up again, but this time it was for a different reason.

  Her question had been answered. Her doubts had been assuaged. Her judgment was sanctioned. She was not in the wrong. Vilfarin’s execution was right.

  She was right.

  Five

  After the Gift God's visit, the fire started to die. Jularra threw in an occasional leaf or twig, but let the flames slip away as she sat and reflected on the night. Though her judgment of Vilfarin and the manner in which she dispatched him was seemingly approved by the Gift Gods, something continued to scratch on her conscience. She swatted the mental gnat away and stood up.

  She brushed her bare bottom and walked back to the pit’s outer stones. With long sweeps of her feet, she raked over and kicked in a few waves of sand and soil to smother the embers left in the fire. She tried to stop herself scouring for any sign of Vilfarin’s remains, but still felt relieved when she saw none.

  As the bits of remaining fire disappeared under the earth, so too did her last sliver of guilt. Jularra pressed her fingertips against her face and, with a quick jerk, shook the semblance of Aleusa back into place.

  The trail home was lit by the earliest spears of light making their way through the dense forest canopy. An early bird whistled, capturing the morning's silence for himself. Jularra breathed in slowly as she walked. Like taking in a fine wine or a hot tea, she sampled the cool, damp air—part of a breath through her nose, and then the rest through her mouth. With the next breath, she would reverse the method. Other breaths, she would flick her tongue back and forth, rapidly alternating between breathing methods. On one breath, she smelled notes of earthy moss with hints of minerals. On other breaths, she could almost taste rotten logs and decaying leaves. These were the moments that cleared her mind of all else.

  Further down the path, however, was a reminder of reality. She huffed upon encountering the clothing she had strewn about the night before, returning her breathing to a less-enlightened state. She plodded along, half-ashamed and half-entertained by her own antics, picking up each piece of clothing as she came across them. Before too long, she was once again dressed and ready to get back for the second round of council meetings. An especially persistent beam of light poked through and taunted her over her previous night’s excess. She restored her face disguise with another quick touch of her fingertips.

  As Jularra approached the trailhead, the hints of soft light between the leaves were overcome with the growing silhouette of Morganon. After passing into the field adjoining the southeast side of the city, she stopped to take in its imposing might, lit by the pale blue dawn. The sun hadn’t yet crested the mountains and
it gave the city a wholesome hue of innocence and wonder.

  She took her time in admiring the city, in no rush to look away or get back to the residence tower. But the creaking and squeaking from the wagons of the morning’s first merchants broke her concentration. Reluctantly, she resumed her march to the walls.

  She loved traveling in disguise. It was so efficient. There was no needing to wait for the opinions and suggestions of escorts; no stopping and discussing things; no banter, questions, or need for decisions. No formalities. No greetings. She could just go from one destination to the next, without disruption, fanfare, or performance. Each person had their own business, and each person kept their business. She could be a nobody to others, and others were of no consequence to her.

  Her disguised face was trained on the ground as she ambled along. Not for fear of being recognized—her enchantment made that impossible—but because the freedom of anonymity allowed her to do so, to forego the pressures and concerns of her day-to-day responsibilities. She didn’t have to care about what was around her, or in front of her. She knew where she was by the sounds around her, as well as the condition and color of the dirt or stones beneath her feet.

  The market already had a bit of life to it, despite the early hour, but there were no entertainers yet. The lack of a crowd in the courtyard where musicians and storytellers would usually perform helped her keep her bearings. After a left turn and a stroll through the blacksmith’s corridor, there'd be just two more streets before she neared the residence tower.

  But as she prepared to exit the market courtyard, she stopped in her tracks, caught off-guard by two pairs of feet in her peripheral vision. Both were bare, and one pair was particularly small and dirty. She followed the feet up to the faces of their owners. A one-armed man sat on the ground next to a little girl. Spread across both their laps was an open sack containing only an apple, a small piece of dried ham, and a single copper rock. Though the Acorilinians had minted their coins with metal for centuries, Jularra recalled, they were still referred to as rocks, since early settlers in and around Morganon Valley used smoothed and chiseled river rocks as a form of currency.

  The man and his child were talking with a farmer who was pushing a wheelbarrow with a moderate amount of potatoes.

  “I might only have one arm, but I can still sling hay!” the man said. “And my daughter… she’s small, but she can work a field fast as any man!”

  The merchant was already shaking his head.

  “I don’t have the money for wages,” he said bluntly. “Here, take a few of these.”

  The merchant grabbed a handful of potatoes and tossed them towards the sack. As the man and his daughter flinched to catch the potatoes, the merchant lifted his wheelbarrow and continued on his way.

  “Well, good morning,” she said to the father and daughter. She placed her hands on her hips, playfully pleased at making the acquaintance of the little girl. The child snapped her head up, stunned but intrigued by the stranger’s greeting. The man’s eyebrows lifted in hope.

  “Good morning, miss!” he replied. His voice lilted with kindness and sincerity. “Need anything? Is there any work that needs doing, or anything at all we can help with?”

  “Well, I’m not in a position to employ anyone,” Jularra rushed to say so she could make her next point. “But I can certainly ask the master fletcher down the way. I’m his apprentice, and his wife!”

  The man shifted and started to get up.

  “Oh, my lady, that would be an absolute blessing!”

  The disguised queen smiled and motioned for him to stay seated. She then knelt.

  “Now, I can’t promise anything,” she said candidly. “But let me check. I’ll come back if we can make something happen.”

  “Thank you so very much! We’ll be right here!”

  Jularra stood. She brushed the hair of the little girl with her fingers and followed with a touch to her chin. After a departing wink, Jularra made her way down the corridor.

  She felt horrible as she walked. She had of course lied to them, and had no immediate ideas on how to find them work—at least in her current persona. And though she could, as queen, order some food to be given to the father and daughter, the fact that there was such destitution in her city made her stomach turn with a hollow regret.

  I need to get down here more. I want to know our people better.

  Pieces of the previous day’s argument with her council shot through her mind like shrapnel. Her country should not need to worry about food.

  Hundreds of queens before me didn’t give their lives to perpetuate a failed state, she thought angrily. Its citizens should not need to worry about food or work. And if we can’t provide either, then we must do what needs to be done to guarantee the health and prosperity of our people.

  Jularra looked back to her new friends. It took her a moment to place them again through the layers of foot traffic, but at last she saw them. The little girl was looking up at another passer-by, holding out the sack, hoping for another gift. Her eyes exuded the burden of a sadness she didn’t understand, and the humility of poverty that no child should know.

  Jularra’s chest began to heave as her adrenaline flowed, faster and faster. Her skin started to tingle. Anger thrust its way into her soul and shoved everything else out of the way, and suddenly her path became clear. She gritted her teeth and adapted to her new mindset, then turned and resumed her trek to the tower.

  The streets narrowed with people as she continued on her way, though there was still plenty of room for those who would make their way to the market over the coming hours. Jularra dodged the crowd as she marched back to the state tower, her confidence in the plan she was devising growing by the second. After navigating the subsequent streets and reaching the tower courtyard, the sun topped the mountains and began to melt down the previously shadowed eastern tower.

  She initially headed straight for the state tower, but remembered her disguise. She could return to her normal appearance easily enough, but her clothes would be hard to explain. With an abrupt swerve, she cut behind the eastern tower and started jogging for the residence. Hood pulled down, she shuffled through the portico and ducked into the alcove beneath the portcullis. She touched her face and closed her eyes. With a quick jolt from her fingertips, her normal appearance returned. As soon as the enchantment disappeared, she spun out of the alcove and skipped up the stairs.

  The few servants and guards she passed on the way made no effort to interrupt her or question her actions. Soon enough, she returned to her bedchamber, washed, changed, and set back out for the state tower.

  She brimmed with anger and the passion of her intentions as she made the familiar walk across the tower courtyard, where the reassuring calm of early morning yet remained. The merchants and entertainers hadn’t made their way to the tower area yet. Jularra took the few extra seconds' peace to further solidify her plan.

  Her pace quickened as she neared the state tower and saw Korden step out to meet her. His face was relaxed, but his head was tilted in curiosity. She watched him open his mouth, preparing to speak, but Jularra saw something in his expression that she didn’t like.

  “I don’t want to fucking hear it,” she snapped as she marched past him. Her anticipatory reprimand came with a pointed finger.

  “I’ve been awake for approximately seventeen minutes,” he said flatly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She shot a glance at him over her shoulder before admonishing him.

  “I saw that face you were giving me.”

  The distance between them grew as she marched on. She stepped up into the tower's portico while Korden rolled his eyes. He fell in behind her before replying.

  “Yeah, I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said with dismissive affection. “But I would like to discuss today’s meeting with you before we get in there.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  Korden jogged to keep up with her. “T
he plan for our food supplies.”

  “I have a plan.”

  Korden scanned the area aimlessly, looking for any unseen help with the conversation. “Yesterday, there was no plan,” he said.

  “Right,” she bantered back. “I was there.”

  Korden scratched his chin. “Yesterday, you wanted solutions, and directed the council to produce some.”

  “Correct,” she affirmed.

  “But you have come up with a plan since then?”

  “Correct,” she said again.

  “Wonderful. What is that plan?”

  “You’ll find out in a few minutes. Have the most recent figures on Acorilan’s armies brought to the meeting.”

  “Wait. What? Armies? I would very much appreciate it if you would enlighten me first, before we go up there!”

  “I don’t like repeating myself. Bring those figures.”

  Korden threw up his arms.

  They broached the top of the stairs together, with Korden slightly behind. Nothing else was said between the two before reaching the council chamber.

  The doors to the room swung open. Jularra swooshed in and immediately threw her hand up to stifle the greetings. As she did, she took in the demeanor of the lords. They were huddled in groups, speaking very little. Jularra took that as a sign of panic, and a lack of ideas.

  “My lords. Thank you, truly, for remaining with us an extra day.”

  Jularra glided to the other end of the table. She looked up at Detsepera before sitting down.

  “I want you all to know I appreciate the gift of your extra time, and have no desire to take up much more of it. So, let’s get to it. I have an idea of my own, but I want to hear all of yours first.”

  The lords exchanged uneasy glances, and only offered silence. Korden cleared his throat and broke the silence, entering the room and taking his place next to Jularra. The queen tore off a piece of nearby bread and motioned for wine.

  “Well, someone start,” she forced through her mouthful of bread.