Shadows Of Desire

“My Queen, we’ve rounded up all the servants, they await you in the great hall.”

“Thank you, Greagor.” The Queen motioned for her maid servant to help her stand from the chair where she had been seated. She made a great show of of her infirmary as she grimaced and held a hand over the now healed wound in her stomach.

Greagor bowed to the Queen and then turned and left the Queen’s solar. Outside, two guards stood, waiting to escort the Queen and her ladies to the great hall. This would be the first time she had addressed the public since the King’s death.

The wound she had inflicted on herself had healed entirely, though the healing was slow and the wound had left a nasty scar due to the blade of the dagger being silver. This was to be expected though and wasn’t a concern. She had to make the injury look real, as though she had been stabbed by the King’s killer and only narrowly escaped with her own life.

As she had expected, not a single tear was shed for the fallen King. And, so far, no one had suspected that the Queen was the one who had murdered him. Caroline still had to play the role of the grieving widow though and lead an investigation into the murder or her husband. He was the King, no matter how many of his subjects despised him, and the murder of a monarch could not go unpunished.

Dressed in a black mourning gown with a black veil, the Queen held her head high and walked somberly down the hall to the back stairs that led down and into the great hall. With each step that she took, the Queen felt the weight of her decisions pressing down on her. Since her coronation directly following the wedding ceremony, she hadn’t felt the pressure of ruling over an entire Kingdom. Her goal had been merely to dispatch the King and then deal with the after math of his death.

Now that she was to appear before the court as their Queen, officially, she began to realize just how heavy the crown was. She cursed King Desmond for leaving the Kingdom in such a state. His mess was now to be her burden. But first, she had to get through this interrogation of the palace servants.

When the guards had initially questioned her, after the court physician had seen to her wound of course, Queen Caroline had concocted a story about an elven servant coming into the room to deliver the wine that the King had asked for. The King had fallen ill after drinking a glass of wine and that was when the servant struck, plunging a silver bladed dagger into the King’s chest. Queen Caroline had attempted to save the King by attacking the treacherous servant, only to be attacked as well.

He drove the blade into her stomach then fled when she screamed for the guards. The Queen claimed that their attacker had ran through the servants door, disappearing down the long and narrow corridor leading to the servants quarters. Greagor immediately sent guards to the servants quarters, hoping to find the guilty elf who had attacked the Queen and King. The servants they’d found claimed to know nothing of the slaying or the killer based on the Queen’s description of him.

“All kneel!” A voice echoed throughout the hall as the Queen approached. Servants and nobles alike knelt on the stone floor or bowed their heads in respect. “Presenting, her Majesty, Queen Caroline Maeve Rochfort of Basmorte.”

The guards led the Queen and her ladies up to the dais and to the throne where the King once sat. The Queen looked stern as she took her place. Beside her sat Lady Emilia, soon to be Princess Emilia, once the Queen presented the letters patent with the King’s signature to the council of elders. Once his last decree as King was verified, Emilia would then be given the title of Princess. The Queen had already planned for a celebration to take place in her honor though all that would have to wait until after the matter of the King’s death had been settled.

Once Queen Caroline was seated, Greagor, the captain of the Queen’s guard, stepped forward and addressed the crowd kneeling before them. A group of elven and Fae slaves had been gathered and huddled together as a large company of palace guards surrounded them. “Rise.” Greagor demanded, his deep, commanding, voice echoed through the hall, causing a few of the slaves to shiver.

“King Desmond Rochfort of Basmorte is dead,” He announced. “Murdered in his marital chambers. The Queen escaped with her life but only barely. She has given us a detailed description of the assassin and I assure you, the culprit will be caught and his punishment will be severe.” Greagor stepped down from the dais and walked around the group of cowering slaves.

“The man we seek is an elf. Young, between sixteen and twenty years in appearance. He has short black hair and blue eyes. His skin is sun-kissed and he stands no taller than a stausing. When fleeing the King’s chamber he was seen wearing fawn colored breeches and a green tunic. If anyone has seen this man or knows of him, speak up now.” He stood, his hands folded behind his back as he looked over the group of slaves.

A soft chatter began among the slaves as they looked to one another, discussing the elf that had supposedly killed the King. None of them offered any information about the killer and Greagor was beginning to grow irritated with their silence. “Does any one know of whom I speak? Has no one seen this man?” He pushed one of the guards to the side and walked up to a shaking elven man. He was old and his back was bent with age. A long white beard covered his face, reaching down to the middle of his chest. His gray eyes looked up at Greagor pleadingly, as the guard scowled at him.

“What about you, old man?” Greagor leaned over so that he was nose to nose with the old elf. “Do you know who the assassin is?” Instantly the old man shook his head as he cowered away from Greagor.

“No, sir.” The man rasped. “I know not of any slave who matches that description.”

Greagor pursed his lips as he glared at the man. The man cringed as Greagor’s eyes bore into him. Finally, knowing he’d get nothing more out of the man he turned away from him, his eyes scanning over the rest of the group. “What of you?” He asked, looking to a female who looked to be around twelve or thirteen. The girl shrieked and tried to hide behind a woman whom Greagor figured must be the girls mother. He nodded to one of the Guards and the man broke through the group and grabbed the girl, pulling her to the front of the crowd.

Greagor knelt in front of the girl who was now in tears as she stood, shaking in fear. Her mother attempted to rush through the crowd to her daughter but was quickly back handed by a guard and sent sprawling to the floor. “Do you know the man I speak of?” Greagor asked the girl. She shook her head emphatically as she shied away from Greagor. She moved her hand to her mouth and nervously began chewing on her finger nails.

“Well?” Greagor growled at her. “Speak up, or are you mute?”

“N-no, sir. I do no know of whom you speak.”

“No? Are you sure?”

“I-I’m quite sure, Captain.” The girl whimpered.

Greagor stood up and turned to the guard who had struck the girls mother. “How about your mother?” He asked. “Do you suppose your mother knows the traitor?”

The girls eyes went wide and again she shook her head. “No, no, please, Captain. My mother knows nothing!”

Greagor motioned for the woman to be brought to him. The guard grabbed her and drug her over to where her daughter stood. The girls mother scooped her up in her arms and the two of them huddled together as the woman started up at Greagor, terrified.

“What is your name?” Greagor asked the woman.

“I am called Vestele.” The woman said in a small, shaky, voice as she clutched her daughter to her.

“And the girl?” Greagor nodded to the child. “What do you call her?”

“She is Shara.” The woman answered.

“Shara.” Greagor smiled at the girl. He reached out and touched the side of her face, tracing his finger along her jaw line. “She’s beautiful.” He said, his voice taking a dark undertone. “My men would be pleased if I gave her to them.”

“No!” Vestele pulled the girl tighter against her and Shara began to whimper in her mother’s arms. A loud chorus of chuckles rose up from the guards standing around them. The grin of Greagor’s face widened when he saw the distressed look on the mother’s face.

“Is she untouched?” He asked, staring the mother in the eyes. “Has she ever a known a man before?”

“Please, Captain.” Vestele cried. “Do not harm my child. She is an innocent. I will tell you all you need to know. Just, spare my child, I beg you.”

“No, Vestele!” Another from the crowd yelled suddenly.

Vestele cringed as Greagor snapped his head around and looked to the crowd. “Who said that?” He demanded, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrowed. A guard pulled a middle aged man out of the crown and flung him to the ground at Greagor’s feet. Greagor looked down at the man and frowned, his eyes burned with anger. “And who might you be?” He hissed at the man.

“I am Ruvyn of Sylnorin.” The man looked up and sneered, showing no fear as he spoke to the Captain.

“Ruvyn of Sylnorin?” Greagor laughed. “Sylnorin is no more. It’s people were all killed years ago and the village burned to the ground. There were no survivors.”

“There were five of us.” Ruvyn argued. “I was a boy then, barely ten winters old when the raiders came and attacked us. My parents and younger siblings were slaughtered. I was taken though. Along with three other youths and a young girl. I know not what became of them but I was taken to the palace and forced to work in the stables until my sixteenth year when I was taken to apprentice with the blacksmith.”

“Well,” Greagor chuckled. “Thank you for your life story. It was most enlightening. However, it doesn’t answer the question at hand. What do you know of the elf who murdered our King?”

“Your King.” Ruvyn sneered. “Not mine.”

Greagor struck the man across the face at his remark and the man fell to the floor, blood pooling from a cut in his cheek. Greagor had expected the man to cry out, or even attempt to crawl away from him but in stead, he pushed himself back up to his knees, turned his head up, and stared at Greagor with such hate and loathing in his eyes that Greagor actually took a step back and away from him. “How dare you disrespect the King!” Greagor spat. “You will pay for your insolence with your life.”

“Kill me.” Ruvyn growled. He reached up and wiped the blood away from his mouth with the ragged sleeve of his tunic. “The Goddess will avenge my death and the death of all those before me. Do you honestly think that your cruelty and malice will continue? The death of your King is only the beginning. The Mother Goddess will not allow her people to suffer much longer. Prepare yourself, Captain, for a great reckoning is upon you. And you!” He turned and looked to the Queen. “Mark my words, your highness, the King will not go to his grave alone! You are living on borrowed time, my Lady.”

The Queen stood at once, glaring at the elven man, locking eyes with him. She grit her teeth and hissed, “Take his head.”

Greagor nodded. He turned his attention back to Ruvyn and, pulling his sword from it’s sheath, swung the blade, bringing it across Ruvyn’s neck with one, swift, blow. There was an audible gasp heard from the crowd as the man’s head was lopped off then fell to the floor, rolling over so that his dead eyes stared back up at the Queen. His body fell forward with a thud. The girl, Shara, buried her head in her mother’s chest and wept.

Vestele screamed and fell to her knees, clinging to her child. Her fingers twisted around her daughter’s blond locks and she wept, her shoulders slumped as her body shook with rage. Her eyes met Greagor’s and she glared at him with malice. “Bastard.” She whispered before hanging her head and hugging her daughter closer.

Greagor smirked. “He was your mate, wasn’t he?”

Vestele shivered and wailed but she didn’t deny it.

Greagor huffed. “Pity. Perhaps if he’d learned to hold his tongue he would have kept his head.”

“Greagor.” The Queen’s voice rang out over the sobs and whimpers from the slaves. Greagor turned to face the Queen, bowing with respect. “Dispose of that thing.” She said of the body. “The rest of them, lock in the dungeon. They shall remain there until the Assassin is caught and brought to justice. And if any resident of Basmorte is found to give him shelter, kill them.”

“Yes, my Queen.” Greagor bowed again as the Queen turned and stormed off, followed by the two guards and her ladies.

Greagor turned to the other guards and frowned. “You heard the Queen. Take them to the dungeons. And someone clean up this mess.” He stepped over the body and left the great hall. The cries of the slaves echoed throughout the hall and down the corridor. Greagor did his best to block the sound out as he made his way to the guard house. He’d have to arrange a search party to go after the killer. They’d start by searching house to house as he was fairly certain the culprit wouldn’t still be in the castle. By now he’d probably fled to the country side.

Where ever the fool had gone, Greagor would find him. There were only so many places in Basmorte he could hide and with the extra guards Greagor had placed on the walls, and the main gate, there was no way he could escape. While Greagor didn’t exactly mourn the death of the King he still had a duty to do. He was loyal to the crown and now, loyal to his Queen. He just hoped the assassin was found soon. The last thing Greagor and his men needed was more work. They were over taxed as it was. Greagor himself hadn’t seen his wife or children for newly three weeks and was eager to hold his pretty wife in his arms once more.

But, duty came first. The royal family would not be safe until the assassin was caught and that meant twice the number of guards in the palace and on patrols. No one in the palace was going to sleep well while a killer was on the loose. No vampire nor any Fae. Greagor would make certain of that, even if he had to wake the entire city, the bastard would be caught and then, Goddess help the man for Greagor had no intention of killing him swiftly. He’d make him suffer. He’d make him scream and beg for death and then, only when Greagor was feeling merciful, would he take his head.