I HANDED QUEEN CYNDRA her goblet and stepped back, my eyes demurely downcast. She didn’t spare me a glance and never had.
As assistant to the apprentice cupbearer, I was invisible in a royal court filled with advisors, courtiers, and clerks all squabbling to be seen. I floated from the shadows when my duty required it and gladly faded back into them whenever possible. I never spoke.
But I listened.
Count Volkov stood to the right of the throne, his arms crossed, enveloped in black silk robes, a look of bored disdain on his sharp features. The Queen herself was curled up with her feet tucked beside her, watching with indifference as a girl danced before her. Queen Cyndra nibbled on a freshly-baked scone and sipped her wine.
In the middle of the vast throne room, surrounded by spectators, soldiers, and sycophants alike, a young woman spun and swayed in time to a drum played by her younger brother. She wore bells at her ankles and tiny brass cymbals on her thumbs and first fingers, which she played deftly as she moved. She wore a flowing garment of the sheerest multi-colored fabric, cinched at her waist with a bright green strip of silk. Her feet were bare and made no sound as she danced across the cold stone floor. A small gold band circled each bicep.
Her movements were pointedly erotic, clearly designed to lift and shift the garment at key moments of musical climax so the Queen — and everyone else — could see she wore no undergarments. She moved as close to the throne as possible without risking death, bending and weaving to give Queen Cyndra the best possible view of all her assets.
Cyndra brought the goblet to her lips but hesitated when the girl ripped her top open as the song reached a crescendo. A sheen of sweat on the girl’s brow and breasts reflected the torchlight, and she smiled triumphantly as the Queen nodded to someone in the crowd.
A crossbow bolt suddenly burst through the young girl’s chest just below her left breast, shoving her forward before she dropped to the floor dead. The drumming abruptly ceased and a yelp of anger was cut off as her brother’s head landed in his lap, the bloody sword returning to its sheath almost immediately.
There should have been screams and shouts throughout the crowd, but no one said a word. This wasn’t the first time, and as far as they knew, it wouldn’t be the last.
“I hate not being charmed,” the Queen said, glancing at Count Volkov.
“She was thirty-seven.”
“You jest. She didn’t look a day over twenty.”
“Sorry, I meant she was the thirty-seventh dancing girl you’ve executed.”
“And this upsets you?”
Volkov paused for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. “Not in and of itself, no. I merely wish to see my queen satisfied, and at times like this, that feels like a near-impossible task.”
Cyndra gave the Count a wry smile over the edge of her goblet, then took a large swallow.
“You’ll see, Volkov. One day, I’ll find her. I have no doubt.”
Volkov turned to the Captain of the Guard. “Clean up this mess please, Sarbo, and when you’re finished, send the next girl in, if you will.”
“Yes sir.” Sarbo motioned to two soldiers who, in turn, pulled servants from the far corners of the room to haul bodies and scrub blood from stone.
Queen Cyndra coughed into her fist and started to speak again. Then, a thick, hacking cough doubled her over and her face and throat began to flush. Seconds later, she vomited red down the front of her jeweled gown — wine or blood, we didn’t know — and toppled from the throne and onto the stones of the dais. Volkov and three servants all sprang forward to attend to her, Volkov screaming for someone to fetch a healer. I doubted they would arrive in time.
As chaos ensued, I stepped out of the shadows and crept toward the growing mass of concerned citizens surrounding their dying queen. At 15 years old, and small for my age, I easily slipped between the panicked courtiers and servants and dropped to my knees to crawl to the center of the crowd.
Cyndra lay on the cold stone, vomit staining her dress and clinging to her chin. Her perfect makeup ran around her eyes as tears of pain leaked to the floor. Her body spasmed with what I’m sure was horrific pain.
I moved closer and lifted her head to rest it on my lap. No one stopped me, as I did everything in my power to appear comforting and gentle. I dabbed at the tears and sweat with the corner of my skirt and pushed an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Then, I bent close so only she could hear me as we awaited the healers.
“The poison works fast, your Highness,” I murmured, “Wolf’s Paw and Pond Thistle, enough to kill ten strong men.”
Her eyes locked on mine, full of fear and pain, but she couldn’t speak. Her throat was constricting and paralysis would soon stop her diaphragm and her heart. So, she stared into my eyes. I smiled, and wiped gently at her proud forehead again, smoothing her hair back with reverence.
When she’d gained the throne at the death of her father, the nation mourned our king, but we embraced her. When she announced her intent to choose a Queen Consort in place of a husband, the churches may have mourned, but many of us cheered. We dared to believe a new era of freedom was upon us, thanks to our beloved Queen.
But, when she began slaughtering young women for having the audacity to think they could win her favor and love, we learned who she really was.
I took her hand, gave it a firm squeeze, and placed my forehead on hers with the utmost intimacy. “My sister was number twenty-one, your highness.” We locked eyes once again. And, as I watched our Queen slowly fade away, I said, “Her name was Gwenyth.”