by N M Zoltack
Since Rufus had been murdered, she had avoided Marcellus, and she suspected he was doing the same. She had helped to prepare some of the herbs to preserve the body but left the administering of them to Albert Leeson or Marcellus himself.
The sun beat down on her although the temperature was not overly warm. Noll would have loved to go for a walk today. He might have even asked to go for a ride. The prince had not been the most capable while on a horse, but he loved the animals, thought them majestic, and they loved him back. Several of the royal horses would nuzzle him when he would visit them in the stable. Perhaps that was why they had preferred him to her. She never visited them unless she had need to ride one.
Oh, Noll, do you know how much I love you? I know we fought and disagreed, and sometimes I disappointed you when I told you no. I’m glad Ulric trained you. I should have allowed you to have sword-fighting lessons. I shouldn’t have had to let you. Father should have seen to it. Did I let you do, my brother? I’m so sorry.
Tears burned her eyes. She savagely wiped them away as a perplexing realization hit her.
Grief was love that could not be returned, could not be fully given.
All those times her brother had aggravated her, all the times, she had snapped at him, those times when she had not been the most nicest… Yes, siblings fought, but Rosalynne was to be queen one day. She should have been more considerate and kind and loving.
In your honor, Noll, I will try to treat others better as I wish I had treated you.
Although she had been heading more westward, toward a field, she adjusted her path so that she was heading toward the marketplace. Those who most needed her to care for them would be there.
Well, truly, the people of Atlan and Tenoch needed for war to not happen, so she might be better served speaking with Marcellus, but she doubted the Vincana would want to see her. As the ruling queen, Sabine could handle the affair. Honestly, Rosalynne was very much frightened when her grief was not pushing through the walls she had built up over the last few months. War. Battle. More deaths.
Perhaps leaving Sabine to deal with the matter was improper and even wrong. She would revisit that once she returned to the castle. For now, she headed toward the market.
Cries, screams, wails, the stampeding of feet, the pushing of the crowd… the chaos that greeted her in the marketplace had Rosalynne rushing forward toward the frenzied, anarchic scene. She lifted her skirt in tight, worried fists and raced toward the heart of the crowd.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.
It took her shouting that same questions no less than six times before anyone seemed to recognize who was standing among them.
“What happened?” Rosalynne asked yet again.
A wall of four men stood in front of her. She hadn’t been able to get them to budge so she could move around them. Now, they turned, saw her, and parted.
Rosalynne stepped forward and inhaled sharply.
Surrounded by death indeed.
“Who did this?” she demanded angrily, her gaze not shifting from the dead body.
A man with sightless gray eyes, a slacked jaw, thinning, limp blond strands for hair lay dead. A deep red stain marred his dirty tan shirt, a huge puddle of blood forming beneath him, a small trickle of scarlet running down the side of his face.
“Who did this?” The queen knelt down, giving little care that her skirt was touching the blood as she closed the dead man’s eyes.
When she straightened, she met the gazes of the people standing closest. Most of the men and women were staring at the ground, but one smirked at her.
“Tell me,” she demanded of this woman.
“You,” the woman spat. “You and your man.”
“My man?” Rosalynne furrowed her brow, utterly confused. She was not being courted, although one in particular wished to be.
Bjorn Ivano from Maloyan, the champion from the most recent tournament.
“Yes, he,” the woman said, clearly recognize the look of understanding in Rosalynne’s eyes.
“Bjorn,” she muttered. Unwilling to believe that the man would have taken it upon himself to kill a man for no reason, she forced herself to ask a question. “Why would he do this?”
“In your name,” the man standing beside the smirking woman offered.
“In my name?” Rosalynne repeated, so great was her shock and dismay. “I would not have…”
“He was poor,” someone from the back said.
“He stole all the time,” another added.
“What is it that he would steal?” Rosalynne asked. To hide the trembling of her hands, she clasped them behind her back.
“Bread, fish—”
“Fruit—”
“Anything he could get his grubby hands on.”
“Any food item, you mean,” Rosalynne said slowly.
Most of the people nodded.
“Has he parents? A wife? Children?”
To her right, the crowd shifted and parted. Because of the loudness of the mutters of the people, Rosalynne had not heard the muffled sounds of crying until now.
A young girl and a younger boy burst forward. Their faces were streaked with tears and marred by dirt. Both were terribly gaunt. They knelt beside their father, and the girl beat at his chest.
A tall woman, even thinner than the children, followed. Her eyes were bloodshot, but she shed no tears.
Rosalynne wished to take her hands in hers but worried and feared how she might react. All she could use were her words.
“I offer you my condolences,” she murmured, her words for the mother and wife, not for anyone else. “I am sorry this happened.”
The woman stared through the queen as if she did not see Rosalynne. “He stole. He died. You might not have used the sword yourself, but you have executed in the past.”
For my father. Because I had no choice in the matter. Not for a crime like this.
Rosalynne cleared her throat. “I am sorry you did not feel that you could come and see me, that you could ask me for help,” she whispered. “I wish to help the people—”
The woman stared at her. “Then become queen. Get yourself a king and a bairn in your belly. Oust that hateful woman who wishes to tax us to death so that she might have a feast every night to go along with her balls. Or her jousts? Are there any difference between the two considering people can end up dead during either?”
Rosalynne opened her mouth, but the wife moved away. Grabbing the man’s arms, she dragged him away, her children railing behind her. The sight tore at Rosalynne’s heart.
Get yourself a king and a bairn in your belly.
Perhaps Rosalynne should. She had not known what to think of Bjorn from the start, and so she had spurned his advances. Then, he had started to show another side to him, but this, taking a life and in her name without her express permission, was unforgivable.
Rosalynne glanced over her shoulder. Bernard Belinelli, who stood beside Wilfrid Frye, nodded to her. She tilted her head toward the family, and her guard moved at once to assist the woman, who grunted but did accept the help.
Now that the body had been removed, most of the crowd had dissipated. One man, though, pulled at his fingers as he approached her. His nervous worry made her anxiety return. All of this was so very overwhelming, but she was not allowed to show that. Inwardly, she could be a jumbled mess of emotions. Outwardly, she could show none save for hope, the one she felt least of all.
“Yes, sir?” she asked. “Did Bjorn do something to you as well?”
“Nothing except to kill the thief. I, uh…”
She did her best not to gape at him. “You wish to be compensated for that which he stole from you, that which cost him his life?”
The merchant coughed. At least he looked guilty.
Go and get the blood from the stones. That is your payment.
Instead of speaking her mind, she reached into the small coin purse in the pocket of her dress. She carefully plucked out a small coin and flicked
it at him. The man nearly caught it, only the coin flipped into the air off his fingers and landed in the blood. He snatched the money piece and frowned.
“He’s been stealing from me and others for weeks,” he dared to say but would not look upon her face.
“I see no one else asking for money. If you wish to speak with me further about compensation, come to the castle when I invite everyone to come talk to me. Until then…”
Hoping the man would not dare to show his face at the castle for she wished greatly to never see him again, Rosalynne spun around and marched back to the castle. So much for her finding peace, and she most certainly would not find any at home either.
The moment she arrived, she turned to Wilfrid Frye, her loyal guard since she first assigned herself one shortly following her brother’s murder.
“Won’t you please locate Bjorn for me and escort him to my room?”
Wilfrid hesitated. “My Queen, are you certain your room is the best of locations for such a meeting?”
She tilted her head to the side, considering. “I wished to save him from embarrassment, but why should I do him such a courtesy? You are right. Bring him to the throne room. I will be waiting.”
Still, the guard did not leave. “You need to be guarded,” he said.
The young queen smiled and patted his arm. “I will be fine. You won’t be gone long.”
Wilfrid scowled. “The coward might be anywhere,” he pointed out.
“Then you had best be off to find him,” she said lightly.
The guard bowed and rushed off to find the traitor. That was precisely how Rosalynne saw him. No true champion would kill another over some bread or fruit.
Wilfrid not wishing to leave her side reminded Rosalynne that she had sent one guard to watch over Sabine and one to watch over Sabine’s mother, Greta. The guard over Sabine, Thorley Everett, had checked in recently, but Eldric Synder had not yet. In the coming days, she would need to speak with them both if at all possible. Especially given the events of the ball, she must see if either of them saw anything. They should have come forward if they had, but then again, it would not be easy for anyone to claim that the ruling queen or her mother had killed a delegate from the island of Vincana.
It felt strange to walk without either of her guards behind her, but it was oddly freeing too. Rosalynne often left them to wait outside of rooms while she was in meetings or when she wished to read in the library, so they were not with her everywhere, but at times, she felt as if she could never be truly alone. Sometimes, isolation was needed.
But being alone allowed her thoughts to wander, and the grief and fear and worry began to keep in. To force herself to be busy, she stalked her way to the throne room and promptly began to pace, counting her steps. Did she truly think she was in danger? Did she truly need two guards? Noll’s killer remained at large, but if he or she had wished to kill all of the Riveras, why had she not been targeted yet?
Yet. Perhaps she would be.
Had the same killer struck down her brother and Rufus Vitus? Or were there two murderers in their midst? Why would anyone think Rufus a threat? Why eliminate him when everyone knew that such an act would be considered treason by the Vincanans?
Unless the person responsible wished for war.
Who would want that? Not Sabine. She would do nothing to jeopardize Tenoch Proper. The ruler queen, if anything, would want to eliminate Rosalynne so that her crown could be made permanent.
Greta? Unlikely.
Aldus Perez? The advisor did seem to crave power, but what power could be had if they were fighting a war? Unless he wished to try to carve out more for himself during the power struggle.
Marcellus himself? Or one of the other Vincanans? They might wish for war to declare their freedom from Tenoch Proper, but Rosalynne doubted highly that Marcellus would kill his friend or have his friend killed. Had a message come from Vincana recently? What if one of the guards had acted without Marcellus’ knowledge? Or one of the crew members.
If she were to help determine who the killer was and had to question those men, she would have to be extremely careful. Perhaps it would be for the best to keep away from the investigation and leave that in Sabine’s capable hands.
Because she has been so very capable locating my brother’s murderer.
Certainly, Sabine could be capable in matters that suited her. The ball had been unlike any Rosalynne had ever been to, and she had been to countless balls and the like over her eighteen years. But when it came to protecting herself or an ally, Rosalynne had no doubt that Sabine would do her best to appear capable while doing nothing at all.
Finally, the door opened behind her, and Bjorn Ivano strolled in, looking every bit as proud and haughty as he had after he had won the tournament. His shoulders were back, his chin raised. His nose was slightly large, but there was a cold handsomeness to him that could not be understated.
“I am told you wished to see me, My Queen?” Bjorn reached for her hand.
Although she wished to deny him, Rosalynne allowed him to kiss her knuckles. Then, she spun on the balls of her foot and started to walk toward the throne. After a slight hesitation, Bjorn fell into step beside her.
“May I ask why we are having this meeting?” he asked.
Rosalynne maintained her silence.
The warrior from Maloyan cleared his throat. “Have you given any consideration to—”
“To allowing you to court me?” she asked, whirling on him, laying a hand against the fine surcoat he wore. The stitch work for the setting golden sun, the Ivano’s family crest, was exquisite.
“Yes. Please. I feel moved—”
“I feel moved to remove your spleen,” she said, smiling broadly at him.
Bjorn blinked once, the only change in his expression to denote slight surprise. His face otherwise remained a blank mask.
“I do not understand,” he said slowly.
“Nor do I. Tell me, Bjorn, did I ever grant you leave to kill in my name?”
“My Queen, I only—”
“I am queen. You are not king, and nor will you ever become one. Bjorn Ivano, for being kind to me, I will ask you to leave but leave you must. For executing a man without my authority, I cannot abide having you here.”
Bjorn’s mask slipped for only a second. In that brief time, she saw a flash of anger and disgust. Was there hatred too? But then, the mask returned, and Bjorn slid back to give himself some space and fell into a deep, perfect bow.
“My Queen, I will do as you ask, but know this. All I have done has been for you. Always for you.”
“Why?” she asked, wincing, furious with herself for sounding plaintively.
“You are the rightful queen and—”
“And you wished to marry me. You have done nothing for me and all for you.”
“Never.” He straightened and stared down his nose at her. “I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you.”
“I am certain you have not.” She moved to walk around him.
“I first came to the castle when I was six,” he said.
She forced herself not to hesitate and walked straight to the door. “You did say you would depart, did you not?”
“Very well,” he said. “I do think you should reconsider.”
“I shan’t.”
When Bjorn reached the door, he stopped and stood impossibly close to her. The open door trapped her. She could not back away as the thick door lay behind her.
“The man was a thief. You would chose him over me?”
“The man was so poor he could not feed his family.”
“That he could not find work enough to provide for his family is a loss that falls squarely on his shoulders.” Bjorn sneered slightly. “Unless your issue lies with the faulty line of thinking that the blame lands on you? Do not forget that you are not the true queen. Not yet. And if you are not careful, you never will be.”
“Do not forget to keep your thoughts and opinions to yourself as you depart,�
� Rosalynne said coolly. “Now leave.”
Bjorn said nothing more and departed, but Rosalynne remained in place, breathing heavily.
She did not enjoy threats in the slightest, and now, she feared she had turned a potential ally she was beginning to trust slightly into an enemy.
I cannot win. Rosalynne touched her throat. For now, I am alive, and that is winning enough for me.
But for how long?
6
Sir Edmund Hill
The world had gone mad. Sir Edmund Hill was certain of it. Ever since that Vincanan had died, talk of war was all everyone talked about.
Edmund resented his position as guard that much more. He wished to be a knight on the front lines, to make a difference. He longed to stand up for the queen—rather, the queens—and to protect Tenoch Proper at any cost.
Yet, he also could not help but wonder if they were on the just and proper side. The man from Vincana, Marcellus Gallus, had every right to be furious over what had happened. That he and Rufus Vitus, the one slain, had been the only ones to journey to Tenoch spoke volumes about their importance in the lower continent. When their people learned about the murder and even more so that the murderer had yet to be located and punished, war seemed inevitable.
Not that Edmund longed for war. As much as he had wished to become a knight for honor and glory, he did not relish the idea of killing another, but he would. He would lift his sword, carry his shield, and march and fight for Tenoch Proper. King Jankin had united the world of Dragoona under one banner. The united kingdom would not fall so shortly after the king died.
Or perhaps that was only fitting…
No. Certainly not. Edmund and the other guards would see to that.
Thus far, however, the knights assigned to be guards were not given any special duties since the murder. In fact, Edmund could not help but think about one other issue in addition to war.