Determined to ensure that her beloved King’s wedding be a perfect, grandiose, majestic success, Duchess Samaia hasn’t sit down for hours. Now a mere hour before the ceremony, the main hall is finally ready with magnificent flower ribbons hanging from the high ceiling, banners and hundred of seats awaiting guests from all over Hermertia. The kitchens are busy preparing an incredible feast, musicians and jugglers are practicing in a secondary hall, and King Scrios III and his bride, Lady Liserett, are getting ready in their respective quarters.
On her way to her on chambers to get herself ready, Duchess Samaia smiles to herself. That old rascal, getting himself married with a young maiden at his age. Good for him.
A sudden shriek, loud enough to fill the whole wing of the castle, freeze the blood in Samaia’s veins. The voice, undoubtedly female, seems to to come from Lady Liserett’s rooms, and guards, guests and maids alike start to race toward it. Filled with dread, her mind spinning with possibilities as to just who or what has caused such uproar, Samaia’s footmen give a stentorian roar, commanding the crowd to stand aside, as she stamp furiously towards the bride’s rooms, hauling people aside as needed. The incessant screeches of pure rage and agony resonate through castle walls, now accompanied by the crowd's exclamations of panic and speculations. Her long ears twitched uncomfortably. Taking the steps two at a time to reach the royal guest quarters Samaia and her guards converged on a knot of concerned guests milling in front of the room.
When she finally enters the crowded chamber, she attempts to fully take in the mayhem that is the scene before her. A couple of maids are cowering in a corner, holding each other’s hands in fear. Gawking guests, who rushed in scant moments ago, block the entrance, whispering furtively. A handful of guards stand in the room, unsure of what to do and awaiting her orders. The King in waiting, Prince Freyr, stands straight as an arrow, his face red with rage, his hands bunched in fists and his knuckles white. His sister Princess Gabriella Eberhardt, can be seen kneeling on the floor in the attached room, in tears and lamenting over something hidden by the wall.
Samaia approaches apprehensively, and discovers the source of the commotion, confirming her worst worries. There on the floor, the body of King Scrios III lies lifeless despite Liserett’s screaming, crying and pounding his wide chest with her fists. She is hurling curses at his unhearing corpse for dying on her.
Prince Freyr’s mounting anger suddenly seems to burst as he roars “She did it! She killed the King. You will pay for this, woman! Guards, arrest her and search this room! ”
Samaia frowns and cuts the air with her straightened hand, forcing her guards to wait. “My Prince, this is a serious accusation. The room will be searched of course, but are you certain you wish to maintain these allegations?”, she questioned, her voice wavering with a tangle of emotion.
The Prince glares at Liserett, with unconcealed hatred. “She did it Duchess. It’s obvious. Search the room, there must be something!”
Reluctantly, the Duchess commands: “Very well… Guards, please escort Miss O’Kleefe to a holding cell.” She avoids the woman’s eyes as she is dragged away, kicking and screaming incoherently. Samaia shares a glance with her guard captain, this was not going to end well.
“Everybody else, exit this room now. If you have witnessed anything suspicious, stay in the corridor, you will be interviewed.” Gripping the nearest guard's shoulder for support, Samaia chokes back a sob, her voice small, strangled by emotion. The burden of command hits Samaia Almandine and she remembers who she is. Clearing her throat, the Duchess orders the guards to search the room.
“I…I must now go and make this terrible announcement…”
Duchess Samaia walks toward the great hall, wrestling with warring emotions, disbelief and shock playing across her tear stricken-face. Her mind a storm of whirling accusations, images of her longest friend and mentor Scrios dead, and the furious faces of betrayal and scorn from Prince Freyr and Miss Liserett. Assuming a commanding posture, she strides into the grand hall and addresses the heaving throng of panicked guests.
“The wedding is off….”
“Our King is dead.”
_________________ Lady Liserett of the House O'Kleefe Countess of Chester-le-Ford, Wysteria Deputy Minister of Hermertian History Appointed Minister of Wysterian Architecture
|