The Virgin Queen by Jennifer Allis Provost

Author:Jennifer Allis Provost
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy
Publisher: Jennifer Allis Provost

Asherah speaks…

Having received an urgent message that all but demanded my presence, I made my way from the palace proper to the sola. It was slow going, what with denizens of Teg’urnan greeting me at every turn, and I certainly did not want to brush past anyone. When I first took the throne, I vowed to be accessible to my people, not secreted away in a tower the way Sahlgren had always been; but then, he was busily plotting our kind’s destruction. I suppose one needed privacy for that.

Well and so, since I strove to be a good ruler, the least I could do was listen to my people’s kind words. Besides, Aeolmar’s message hadn’t stated what was so urgent, only that my presence was required. Since he did not feel the need to explain himself, I did not feel the need to rush. I was, however, more than a bit intrigued.

Upon reaching the sola, I climbed the narrow steps to the gallery that overlooked the training field. It was where nuvi, those training to be hunters, were taught the varied arts of war and survival and where the Trial by Combat was held each spring. The legion once trained here as well, but Harek had moved his soldiers out as my hunters moved in. And the rift grew ever wider…

I sat upon the roughly carved bench, hoping a stray splinter wouldn’t catch on my gown, and surveyed the scene below me. Assembled before the First Hunter bearing looks ranging from anxiety to unabashed terror were the sola’s instructors, along with a frustrated Innetha and a rather relaxed Finlay. Aeolmar himself was stripped to the waist and had tied back his long hair, something he almost never did. He seemed to be teaching them how to work his fire-calling trick, something else he had never done, and his students were experiencing varied degrees of success. A few of the instructors had lone flames dancing upon their palms, but one bereft of both fire and good sense was arguing with Aeolmar.

“How can this be considered a weapon?” he demanded. “Demons may fear fire, but you might as well carry a flint striker for all the good these bits of flame will do.”

The man had a point, but Aeolmar, stubborn as a mule, refused any concession. Instead, he turned his back to the instructor and uttered a few words in the old language. A wall of flames higher than his head sprang to life. The instructor’s jaw dropped, and the others looked rather pleased at the man’s suddenly wordless state.

I clapped, alerting those below to my presence. Aeolmar extinguished his fiery wall and ordered the others to keep practicing, then leapt toward me and grabbed the gallery floor where it jutted out over the field. Apparently, taking the stairs was either too long or too mundane a route for the First Hunter.

Aeolmar swung himself up to the gallery in a feat of agility worthy of an acrobat. For anyone else, such a show of strength would be called boastful, but Aeolmar didn’t boast.

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