Free Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) by Patrick Siana Page A

continent of Agia,
Galacia long suffered a precarious position, and had need of all the allies she
could muster.
    “Lord Oberon,” she said, “I sympathize with your concerns,
however, I feel they merit further consideration before any action is taken. We
will wait until more intelligence is gathered.”
    “But, my Queen,” Oberon said, glancing around the room to
indicate that he addressed the entire assembly, “It is unthinkable to allow
Ittamar’s trade treaty with Aradur to go unopposed. By allowing the savage
North to engage in commerce freely with our allies, without even so much as a
formal complaint, we are condoning their infringement into southern lands, and
a possible alliance with a nation that has long been known for its
litigiousness. Furthermore, competition with the North could drive up the price
of Aradurian goods.”
    “Dear Lord Oberon,” Eithne said with a warm smile, “I know
how much you enjoy curried chicken, but I don’t think you have need for worry.”
She paused a moment to allow her other advisors to chuckle at her joke. “Aradur’s
vast deserts do not allow for much fertile ground. They will always need our
grain.”
    Oberon’s face colored and his lips pressed together in a
scarcely concealed grimace, which gave her a small rush of satisfaction.
    “We’ve had two decades of peace with Ittamar,” Eithne
continued, “and I will take no action that could be construed as hostile unless
absolutely necessary.”
    Lord Geoffrey Oberon nodded stiffly. “Yes, my Queen,” he
said and then took his chair, joining the other High Lords at the ovular
mahogany table that sat Galacia’s High Council.
    “That,” said the queen, “concludes the Council of the Six.”
    The five Lords, each the head of one of the original five
ruling houses of Galacia, stood and waited for their queen to exit the audience
chamber before filing out themselves.
    Though a few may have shuddered involuntarily, as if walking
through a patch of cold air, their subconscious minds perhaps registering what
their physical senses could not, none noticed the invisible presence that
hovered near the door, watching them intently.
    †
    Eithne enjoyed a rare moment of solitude in her private
chambers. She raised a glass of wine to her lips with a delicate hand and
sighed deeply. After a heavy draught of the potent red, she placed the glass
down on her gilded, ebony dressing table. Eithne removed the slender circlet of
platinum that served as the symbol of her office with care, so as to avoid
snagging her chestnut tresses.
    A knock sounded at her door. Eithne closed her eyes. “Who is
it?” she said, affecting her most regal tone.
    “It’s Ogden, Your Grace,” a familiar voice announced.
    A smile lighted her delicate features. Ogden had been her
father’s Steward, favored advisor, and confidant, so few found it surprising
that he fulfilled the same role for Eithne. As much an uncle as advisor, she
relied heavily on the venerable Ogden’s counsel. She rose and opened the door. “Come
in Ogden. What brings you to me?”
    “A matter of some importance, I’m afraid. This has just
arrived via Aradurian messenger.” He held out a letter in his gnarled hand.
    Eithne took the letter gingerly, as if it were a coiled
viper. The envelope read in a spidery hand For the Eyes of Eithne Denar,
Queen of Galacia . She turned the envelope over and her eyes widened. The
letter may have been delivered by an Aradurian courier, but it bore the seal of
the royal house of Ittamar. Galacia had not received official word from Ittamar
for some twenty years, since the tenuous peace treaty had been drawn.
    Eithne led Ogden into her sitting room. She looked her
dearest friend in the eye. He met her gaze and nodded. Though aged, his eyes
still smoldered like the blue steel of a Marshal’s Shield. Galvanized, she
broke the seal.
    Eithne Denar, Queen of all
Galacia:
    I write to inform you that my father Istvan Rachman, High
King of Ittamar, is