Bride of War: Battles of Eyenwar, Book 2

Chapter 8- Summer Court

Drawn by the girl's scream, a couple of palace guards round the corner, armour and swords clanking with each heavy footfall. Not wishing to linger any longer next to the horrible scene in the hallway, I take the poor servant girl under my arm and lead her back towards the royal suite. She is trembling terribly, and dots of vomit speckle her clothing and shoes.

Despite her clear state of shock, the girl still manages to protest once it occurs to her that the Queen is leading her down the hall.

"Your H-highness," she stammers through her shaking lips, "You shouldn't-t be- I am such a m-mess!"

"Hush now," I command. I haven't the energy for the Skevetic penchant for elitism.

The two of us slip through the doors of my room. It occurs to me that whoever killed the steward was very very close to Garen and myself. I shudder a bit at the thought, but having a panicked stranger to take care of serves as an effective distraction.

"Take off those ruined clothes." I order.

The girl does as I ask, although she is shaking and blushing the whole time. I make no move to help her, although it would make the process much faster. Instead I dig out a modest brown dress from one of my trunks and toss it to her. Technically it is one of Perdy's, which is fortunate as this girl is significantly shorter that me and would never be able to fit her significant endowments into the bust.

"Thank you your Majesty." She whispers. I turn my back to her so she may dress herself.

"Put your soiled clothes in the corner. Perdy will tend to them later."

She does. I sit down on the divan located next to the window and motion for the girl to join me.

"What is your name?" I inquire.

"Gertrude."

How unfortunate for her, "Gertrude, you are in no trouble so long as you do not lie to me. Be honest and open with me, and I will have the guards escort you home. Lie to me or withhold anything, and I will have them escort you to a jailhouse cell. Do you understand?"

She nods vigorously.

"Very good. Now tell me, what exactly did you see when you came across the poor steward?"

Gertrude's lower lip quivers and I fear she will begin crying again, but she manages to maintain composure, "He was already on the ground like that when I found him, but there was this figure, dressed all in black walking away. It-"

She stops for a moment, her face paling.

"Complete honesty Gertrude." I remind her in a sing-song voice.

She swallows, "Forgive me your Majesty, you'll think me a silly girl for saying this, but I think the figure was Death himself."

I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose, "Why do you think that?"

"He was wearing a black robe, the hood all drawn down over his face. The cloth was darker than anything I've ever seen before. And his hands, they were bone while and nearly as thin." She replies earnestly.

"I thought you said he was walking away? How could you possibly have seen his hands with such detail?"

Gertrude looks down at her hands. "He- he wasn't far away. Indeed, he was so close I felt certain he would turn and kill me too. Instead he just walked away while I screamed."

I feel I might get something else useful if I push just a little harder, "He was walking away? How did he escape before we arrived? How did he escape the guards coming from all directions?"

"He disappeared," Gertrude answers reverently, "in the blink of an eye."

"Interesting. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?" I ask, suddenly eager to draw this interrogation to a close.

Gertrude shakes her head.

"Very well, then I shall have you escorted back to your living quarters." I stand, lifting the poor girl lightly by the elbow so she rises with me. I find guards stationed outside the door, five of them, in fact. Clearly Garen has decided that over precaution is the correct course of action. I agree completely.

"Could one of you handsome men please take this poor girl back to her living quarters? She's been traumatized enough for one day, so do be gentile." I make it perfectly clear that there will be no refusing.

The smallest volunteers to take her.

That handled, I return to my room to wait for my husband. Again. It seems my life here at the summer palace will have some similarities to life in Cantabrar.

The second I return to my seat at the divan, a knock sounds at the door.

"Who is it?" I call, far too stubborn to see for myself.

"One of your guards, my Queen. A messenger has come claiming The King requires your presence at court."

Court? It's been a mere half an hour since the murder. Court cannot possibly be my husbands current priority. Still, it is nice to be required. It is not as if I could possibly refuse.

"I will come presently." I respond. Before I am presented to the court I change quickly into a more formal gown, drape my neck and ears in gaudy jewelry and sweep my hair into a golden net in order to keep it from my face.

"I am ready," I call, alerting my guards before I pull open the door and step into the hall. They fall into an immediate square formation. It is admirable how well trained they appear to be.

And quite luckily for me, we'll use to the twisting halls and endless extravagance of the summer palace. I would have become lost faster than a dove in a thunderstorm had I been forced to navigate them myself.

The throne room, I discover quickly, is hidden deep in the heart of the building, indicated by the subtle change in masonry. It is well hidden, but upon close inspection it is clear that the stone walls here are a darker grey than the pearly blocks of the newest wings of the building. Everything is darker, for that matter, as windows are replaced by torches.

"My queen," the guard in front of me turn and bows abruptly, "this door in front of us will take you into the upper court seating. From there, it is easy to get to the Royal Dias. I'm afraid we cannot enter the throne room with you. Best of luck."

I'm tempted to ask why not, when it occurs to me that Skevetics take much more stalk in bloodlines than my home country.

"Very well. You will wait for me until I emerge." I command.

They break from formation and allow for me to see the small, but elaborately decorated door made of some unknown metal. Dragons soar over imposing cliffs and crashing waves in the faded painted engravings.

"Would you be so kind as to get the door for me?" I inquire to none of them in particular.

A gloved hand reaches around me and pulls open the door. The edge of it passes an inch in front of my nose.