The herald proclaimed the Queen’s entrance with a sequence of three flute notes, and a boldly intoned repetition of her titles and honours. Enormous wooden doors carved from the bright red wood from the Elder Jungle were pushed open by the servants, and her escort of guards went through first. The throne in the room ahead of them was built of the same vibrant wood and set atop a two-tiered stone stage.
Zanna walked quietly along the thick parchment runner that carpeted a line of floor from door to throne. It was a scroll covered in writings about the law and the rites of leadership. She only reached the throne by standing on the literal law of their people. In her right hand, she carried a tall spear painted gold. It was identical to one used by a guard or a hunter, save the shiny gilt layered across it. Still, it was not a sceptre. It was a weapon.
“Look,” said Rel, a short man that walked as close behind her as the train of her long, dark blue robe. “An ambassador from Varravar.”
Queen Zanna the Just didn’t look where her aide has suggested, not yet. With heeled black sandals, she stepped up each step toward her throne. A polished metal plate in the tall chair’s back read “Ruler of Maga” in an exaggerated script. It gleamed in the sunlight, but Zanna glimpsed her reflection anyway. Her dark face looked back at her, framed by smooth purple hair and the checkered tattoo that hung down her forehead like the front of a hood. She spun, and rested on the spear for a moment longer as she regarded her court.
Twenty of the lords and ladies in the throne room represented the upper class of Maga—they wore full linen dresses with tall collars and stylishly faded, off-white colours. The ambassador from Varravar was a man, with skin as dark as any Elder Coast ethnic; he wore an open-chested robe, and red tattoos were visible near his shoulders. His staff were adorned with feather mantles or rough leather skirts; many of the men were shirtless and the women wore not much more. These were the people of Varravar, a humid cesspool of jungle travellers and feral fighters. The embassy of Tal’lashar was also represented here, by Whiteleaf, a huge man of olive complexion. Sergeant Kieb of the Crimson Highway leaned casually on a wooden bench along with two of his red-badged guards.
Zanna lowered herself onto the edge of her throne, leaned the tall pole against the armrest, and pushed herself back against the throne’s back. Rel stood nearby, behind the corner of the throne; Zanna’s guard stationed themselves at the corners of her dais. It was the middle of the month, her second audience this Moon. The Queen clapped her hands gently, and waited for the next procession to complete.
A chord of flute notes echoed through the silent court once more. “The Priests of Maga and Pralla Maga-sha,” the herald declared. The doors eased open once more and four of the white-robed priests entered. Against their night-black skin, the robes looked blinding. The old woman between them walked sternly with them into the great hall. Zanna had known Pralla since childhood—the distinguished magician had been 94 years old when the reigning queen was born. Now Pralla was a 110. She was weak, but walked with confidence.
Once Pralla and her pacifist Priests had taken their positions to the right of Zanna’s throne—Pralla had her own throne on the lower tier of the stage—Zanna stood again. “Who hails from Varravar?” she asked. Their Maga basin sister-city were tense allies as always; as such, they changed ambassadors frequently and without notice to the monarchy of the Eye.
“Your highness,” intoned the man in the open front shirt. He lowered himself to one knee until Zanna bid him rise. “My name is Mathor. I am grateful for your hospitality, as well as your continued health.”
Pralla stifled a sound, probably a laugh.
Mathor was clearly inexperienced as an ambassador. No one commented on Zanna’s health. She bathed in the Eye of Maga’s healing waters once a month. She waited for Mathor to continue, his slurred accent unhesitating despite his lack of expertise. “The High Priest of Varravar has fallen ill and we seek a bargain for his well-being. Please allow him to submerge in the Eye of Maga and become well once more.”
Zanna quickly considered his request. It was quite a favour to ask, for the healing waters of her city were known throughout all the lands of Radregar and Numa’nakres. The lake was large enough to be fished, but instead was surrounded by white-painted palisades and dexterous guards, known as the Sight Benders. Only Zanna and the Priests had access to it at will. Some argued that was how it should stay.
“The Eye of Maga must remain sacred for the highest of needs,” Zanna declared. Pralla gave her a nod, but the rest of her court seemed surprised by her choice. “In Varravar, your own Priests invoke your Ancestors. They may heal him if it is their will.”
Mathor shook his head and lowered himself to one knee. “Queen the Just, please,” he begged. “My master may die if he is not healed and has done nothing to offend you or your magnificent city.”
Zanna shook her head. “Do not overstay your welcome, Mathor-sho.”
The man stood to his feet tentatively and started to back up. “Please, your highness, be merciful. High Priest Arriso would come here to beg also, if he were capable.”
Rel stepped forward to order the guards make him leave, but Zanna raised her voice once more for all the court to hear. “Let him die,” she declared.
A sigh went through the audience, and Mathor bowed his head. He said no more and walked away with dignity he had left. There were a few more matters for Zanna’s attention, but for a moment everyone in the throne room murmured to those near them or looked at the Queen in surprise. Let them look, Zanna thought. She was leader by right and by favour. She looked at the gold spear near her and then at Rel. Her aide gave her a reassuring smile and stepped back to his post at the back corner of her throne. Zanna held public audience thrice each Moon, on the fifth day, the ides, and the fifth last day…
After her harsh words, she fully anticipated visits from her magistrates before her next audience. She rested further back into the big seat and waited for the next matter to be brought before her.