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
