“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
