The Spirit of the Realm

by Rachel L Brown

  The man let out a startled gasp as the magic within him settled down and the glow was gone from his eyes. He jumped up and ran over to Sade. He knelt next to her and clung to her tattered skirt.

  “I am so sorry Holy One, I did not know you were one of the faithful.”

  “Get off me! Now,” Sade snapped, and she shoved the rune back into her pouch. The man eyed it with reverence, but he let go of her skirt.

  Sade heard a slow clap from behind her, she whirled around expecting to see Vestral Marius. Instead, a tall man wearing a black cloak that covered his face was leaning against the side of a building.

  “Well done, Attrius; your visions were correct,” the man said, his voice low as a few townspeople walked past. They were too busy arguing about crops to pay them any mind.

  Visions? Sade could not recall any text about those unrefined to the God of Magic having visions. The Goddess of Fates was the one who granted such things.

  “Who are you?” Sade asked, unable to keep worry from her voice.

  “Do not worry stranger, there are those who will always be faithful to the God of Justice,” the man said.

  “What do you mean?” Sade asked.

  The man smiled and bowed his head. Vestral Marius walked past them, he was no longer holding a statue. He was being harassed by a pair of angry townsmen, yelling about some failed enchantments they had received from him.

  Sade turned back to the man but found both him and Attrius had gone. She looked around but saw no trace of them.

  Could this be a sign from the God of Justice? She wasn’t sure, but how else could she explain what happened?

  She felt a renewed spring in her step as she made her way back to the workshop.

  7

  The Blood Oath

  EMIRA SAT ON THE MAKESHIFT throne which creaked as she shifted her weight. She’d been there since the sun peaked over the mountains. Though it was only her third day in the city, the High Vestral had insisted she perform her first Rite of Petitions, where anyone, noble or common, could come before her and plead their case. The Rite was supposed to be done every two months, but the late King hadn’t done one since last year.

  Despite her protest of not being ready, Emira was assured she didn’t have do anything, but listen and she could bring any issues before her soon to be formed Royal Council.

  As was tradition, the nobles got to go first, so Emira had spent the morning listening to most of them complain about taxes: some felt they were too low, and others felt they were too high. Others had silly requests, such as the return of a hairbrush and the lack of feasts. Emira had done her best to assure all of them she would investigate the most serious of complaints. The more frivolous ones she rejected outright.

  When the sun hit midday, the nobles were done and now it was time for the commoners. Once the lords and ladies had left the hall, the doors to the throne room opened. Emira braced herself for what she was sure would be a large swarm of people.

  Footsteps echoed through the hall as a lone petitioner walked down the long corridor.

  Emira glanced at Svendir, a Vestral to the God of Knowledge, who was writing all the requests down. The elderly man was bent over a small table; his gray beard was splattered with ink.

  “Do not worry Majesty, solo petitions are quite common for the regular folk,” Svendir said, his voice steady. The man didn’t need to use magic to make Emira feel at ease. “The damn nobles make it hard for anyone else to be heard, so most others choose a spokesperson that will bring forth their most dire needs.”

  “I see,” Emira said, turning her attention to the petitioner when she heard their footsteps stop. A man in threadbare clothing stood in front of the steps to the throne with a bowed head.

  “Speak, Petitioner, and we shall listen,” Emira said in the formal Royal Speech. Lady Ethelbright had given her a hasty lesson in it the night before. She claimed it was meant to show Emira was not only the representative of the Crown, but also the living embodiment of Sodervia itself.

  To Emira it was nothing more than a tongue twister. Thankfully, she only had to use it on formal occasions and not in her everyday speech.

  Emira’s heart nearly stopped beating when the petitioner lifted his head. With his dark brown hair and firm jaw, he looked nearly identical to Thomas, though his eyes were brown instead of Thomas’s hazel ones. A long scar ran the length of his forehead.

  Gods, get ahold of yourself. She could not continue to look for Thomas in every face.

  “Your Majesty, I come before you on behalf of those who wish to see our great nation prosper,” the man said.

  Svendir let out a curse. She looked over to see he had knocked over the jar of ink. He waved at the man to continue as he dipped his quill in the spilled ink.

  “I have come before this very throne countless of times, and I have always been turned away.” The man paused, like he expected to be dragged out at any minute.

  “Good sir, do not fear, you shall be allowed to state your petition in full,” Emira said, hoping the man would get to the point before sundown.

  The man held out a small scroll. “I have studied the farming techniques used by our farmers and have discovered the solution that might lift the famine that has fallen upon us.”

  He handed it over to Svendir who read through it in silence. The man’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Emira.

  “I would have liked the Queen to read the document herself.”

  “I am afraid I never learned how to read; it would have taken too much time away from the fishing boats.”

  Svendir let out a cough, and the blood drained from Emira’s face when she realized she’d slipped into more casual speech. The man did not seem to notice. In fact, his expression became eager. Thank the Gods, the High Vestral or other nobles weren’t around; she shuddered to think what would’ve happened. Thankfully, Svendir had vowed to not say a word to anyone outside of the petitions. Her mistakes would be nothing but a memory.

  “It is quite simple, Your Majesty. The farmers are trying to grow plants that are not native to our country, and Vestrals are using magic to do so.” The man pulled out a small, worn rune from a pouch on his belt. “This is a rune used to keep plants alive; in theory, it should work, but it’s causing an infection that kills any plant near it. The infected plants die and spread spores, which in turn infect more plants.”

  “You think stopping the use of magic to grow the crops will help?” Emira asked, trying to wrap her mind around it. She wasn’t like Rupert; she could barely identify herbs.

  “I believe our young friend here might be suggesting the foreign crops be forbidden from being grown. The Goddess of the Harvest might be insulted we are trying to grow things using magic in areas she never intended,” Svendir said as he set the scroll down.

  “Exactly, Your Majesty. If you could just give me an area where I can conduct my experiments next planting season, I would be most grateful!” The man dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

  Emira glanced at Svendir who shrugged.

  “It might work; we’ve tried everything else.”

  “Then if the farmers will agree, you may do as you wish.”

  “We do, however, want progress reports once you have begun your experiments,” Svendir added.

  “Thank you! May the Gods make your reign a happy one!”

  The man leapt to his feet and ran from the throne room. Emira could not help but smile at the man’s glee. She turned to Svendir, who was shaking his head.

  “You realize you will catch the High Vestral’s ire for this?”

  “Nothing else has worked so far, and I fear the Gods, not the Vestrals. Anything I do will make someone angry.”

  “Fair point, Your Majesty,” Svendir chuckled and made a slight note on his scroll.

  “Are we done?”

  “Yes, we are done with the petitions. You have done well, though if I may offer some advice?” he paused then continued when she nodded. “You have only just begun your reign. You w
ill make mistakes. You cannot make everyone happy, and there are those who are always going to hate you no matter how hard you try. You can learn all the etiquette in the world and there will still be whispers you are not enough. Do not let those whispers break your resolve. Always remember the Spirit chose you and not them.”

  “I still wonder why the Spirit chose me,” Emira said.

  “You will spend a lifetime worrying about something you have no control over. It is better to accept it. Give yourself some time to grieve your previous life and then do your best in your new one.”

  “Sometimes I fear others are more concerned about things I consider to be frivolous.”

  Svendir’s brow furrowed and he tapped his quill on the parchment. “My dear Queen, you might find something to be frivolous when it means the world to someone else. For instance, the hairbrush that one noblewoman had lost might seem a waste of your time, but have you considered it might be a family heirloom or something that was given to her by someone dear?”

  “I have not,” Emira said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Do not take this with shame, Your Majesty, it is something most rulers have struggled with,” Svendir said while he rose. “It is time for you to go meet with the Dowager Queen and choose your council members.”

  “Thank you, Svendir. Would you like to be on my Royal Council?”

  “I thank you for your offer, but I am afraid I cannot spend too much time away from my duties. You may come and ask me anything you like whenever you wish.”

  Svendir gathered up his scroll and headed out of the great hall. Emira sat on her throne for a moment longer. The only sound Emira could hear was the wind howling outside. She closed her eyes and imagined she was back home.

  THE COUNCIL CHAMBER was at the very top of the northern tower. It was a large, circular room with arched glass windows that reached from floor to ceiling. The floor had small fire runes that kept the stone floor warm as winds blew outside. In the center of the room was a circular stone table, Emira wondered how they had carried such a heavy item up the winding flight of stairs.

  The windows allowed a view of the countryside, and Emira noticed a shining lake nestled in the northern side of the valley. It was the most water she had seen since leaving the coast. She would have to get Lady Ethelbright to take her there soon.

  Seated at the table were the Dowager Queen, Lady Ethelbright, the High Vestral, and two noblemen. Emira struggled to remember their names while the herald announced her presence.

  All were dressed in black with no hint of runes to be found on their clothes. Emira glanced down at her skirt, with the white runes embroidered on the dark fabric. She felt a tad overdressed.

  “I would like to introduce to Your Majesty, Lord Greensdale, former treasury advisor to the late King,” Lady Ethelbright said. She inclined her head to a nobleman wearing a flat cap on his head. With his almond-shaped eyes and sharp features, he looked to be of Litengullen descent. He smiled warmly at Emira.

  “It is an honor to be here your Majesty,” he said.

  “And Lord Dovesbane, former diplomacy advisor to the late King.”

  Lord Dovesbane rose and gave Emira a bow, sweeping his cap off his balding head. He did not have the smooth complexion of his companions around him. Instead, his skin was wrinkled from the sun and there was a large scar on his right cheek.

  “I was told that I must choose my council today?” Emira asked. The High Vestral and the Dowager Queen shared a glance.

  “Your Majesty is correct in that a Royal Council will be formed, but we decided it would be best if we chose the ones who would advise you,” the High Vestral said.

  “It would be cruel to have you choose a council from lords and ladies you know nothing about,” the Dowager Queen added.

  “I thought we had agreed upon a list of candidates the Queen could choose from,” Lady Ethelbright hissed, her dark eyes seemed to glow a bit and Emira could have sworn she felt a flutter of magic.

  “We did, until it was decided by the Spirit of the Realm that most of the candidates were not suitable,” the High Vestral shot back.

  “How convenient then, that the entire council comprises of those from the late King’s council. What have they done for this kingdom? Except line their own pockets?”

  “The Spirit has allowed you to be on this council Lady Ethelbright. Hasn’t that been your goal since you married Lord Ethelbright?” the Dowager Queen asked. A history that Emira was not privy to, created an invisible wall around the three women.

  Lord Greensdale rolled his eyes. “Ladies save your grievances for later. The Queen does not need to listen to your bickering.”

  “Yes, yes, we have many matters to discuss,” Lord Dovesbane said and turned to Emira. “Your Majesty, do you have anything that you wish to discuss from the petitions? Are there any decrees you have made?”

  While Emira told them of the plan the man had given her, the High Vestral’s face darkened with outrage and Emira didn’t dare meet her gaze. The others nodded their heads as they listened. When she was finished, silence swept across the table.

  “Well... it’s an unorthodox idea,” Lord Greensdale said. A serving boy entered the room and filled their goblets.

  “Bordering on blasphemy,” the High Vestral snapped.

  Svendir’s warning rang in Emira’s ears.

  “Tell me then, what has been done to combat the famine?” Emira asked, unable to control the anger that wove through her words. “You have kept the grain stores locked tight!”

  “We have offered prayers and countless sacrifices to the Goddess of the Harvest, yet she continues to disfavor us,” the High Vestral said her tone became colder than ice. “If we open the grain stores before the worst of the famine has begun, then we doom us all.”

  “People are dying in the streets!”

  “People die every day!” the High Vestral shot back, “does anyone have anything else to add?”

  “I think the peasant is correct and it won’t do us any harm to try it. We’ve done everything else,” Lord Dovesbane said.

  Another wave of silence came over them, and Emira resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. The High Vestral studied her goblet for a long moment before looking up at Emira. Her eyes were still tight with anger as she spoke.

  “Before you make any other decrees, the Spirit of the Realm needs to be consulted to ensure it is what’s truly best for the kingdom,” the High Vestral said. Emira started to reply, but Lady Ethelbright shot her a warning glare, so she took a drink from her goblet instead.

  “Now that the decree is settled, did you have a list of candidates for Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting?” Lord Greensdale asked the Dowager Queen who nodded and handed a paper to Lady Ethelbright.

  Emira took another sip from her goblet while the two women bickered over names she did not recognize. She thought they would spend their time working to fix the kingdom, but they were arguing about who would follow her around every day. Neither Lord Greensdale or Lord Dovesbane could get a word in while the two women shot down each other’s suggestions.

  She would have to ask Lady Ethelbright why they had so much hatred between them.

  Emira signaled for her goblet to be refilled, the door flew open and a short red-faced man stormed through. A guard ran after him, but the man shoved him away and stormed over to the table. He slammed a small scroll onto it with such force that Emira thought he might have broken a bone. A herald meekly proclaimed him to be the Ambassador for the Western Marshes.

  “Ambassador Hemsmark, what are you doing?” Lord Greensdale shouted, but the Ambassador paid him no mind as he looked at Emira with pure rage.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” the ambassador shouted. “I would have thought someone as lowborn as you would have avoided such vile practices!”

  Emira blinked and shared a confused look with the others at the table.

  “Forgive us Ambassador, but what in the hell are you talking about?” Lord Dovesbane asked
.

  “Your bloody army burnt an entire town to the ground and has taken a noble family hostage!” Hemsmark’s face turned an even darker red, and Emira’s body went numb at his words.

  “The Queen has only been in the capitol for three days!” Lady Ethelbright shouted, turning to the Dowager Queen, who had become paler than the white threads on Emira’s dress. “This must have been someone else’s doing!”

  “I seem to recall that Prince Felix was in charge of a small force in the north,” Lord Greensdale said.

  “I do not care who did it, this is an act of war!” Hemsmark shouted before freezing in place when a swirl of white fog surrounded him.

  “Ambassador, please calm yourself. Prince Felix acted on his own accord without the knowledge of anyone else here,” the High Vestral said, letting the fog dance around him for a few moments before it disappeared. The ambassador’s face was no longer red, though his skin had a slight greenish tinge to it now. Likely a side effect of the magic she used.

  “Did you know anything about this?” Hemsmark asked the Dowager Queen. She shook her head.

  “No, I have not heard from him since before his father died.”

  Emira took a deep breath to quell the rising panic within her. Famine was one thing but dealing with a rogue Prince and a potential war was something she was not even close to being ready for.

  “Still the issue stands that men from your damned kingdom sacked one of our towns and have taken unlawful prisoners!”

  The Dowager Queen’s eyes narrowed. “You know very well the reason my late husband exiled my son to the borderlands. It was because your people kept looting, burning our villages and farms. Where is our compensation Ambassador?”

  “You started it when you cut off our trade route to Littengull!” Hemsmark sputtered and splotches of red reappeared on his face. He eyed the High Vestral when she held up a small rune and his expression calmed somewhat.

  “Because your men kept harassing our merchants!” Lord Greensdale shouted.

  “Gentlemen and Your Majesty, we can argue semantics all day, but the fact of the matter is that serious grievances have been allowed to fester for far too long, and now both of our kingdoms are suffering for it,” Lord Dovesbane said.