"The Winter Solstice is the heirloom to crown Albenian Kings."
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It had not been up to two weeks now since the crown prince had visited the chambers of the queen, his mother to request to wield his royal right to rule. He is twenty eight.
He was only ten years old when his father, the king died and because he was too young, his mother, the queen ascended the throne.
The queen sighs now, sitting in her queenly garments in a reception room as rare as the ageless beauty that originally earned her royalty. The ground is carved from rare mahogany. Priceless paintings adorn the walls which are lined with slabs of gold and bronze. Expensive rugs are placed strategically around. There are comfy intricately carved chairs and tables.
To the queen's right stands the head courtmaid who serves her. She finishes her writing and lays the quill next to the pot of ink on the table. She folds the scroll and gives it to the courtmaid.
"Hand this to the chief messenger. Tell him to make sure it reaches its destination. The Bureau Captain and no one else."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The middle aged courtmaid is brimming with curiosity however. "If it does not offend, may I ask what it is about?"
The queen visibly stiffens causing the courtmaid to flinch. It is a daring question. The rule of the palace is for eyes not to see, ears not to hear and minds not to think. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," the courtmaid acts contrite.
"Nevermind that. You will all know soon anyway when you start putting up coronation decorations. My first son has been a man for a while. Deliver it yourself. Do not delegate the task to anyone. Tell the chief messenger not to delegate his task to anyone as well because if anything goes wrong, I will have his head."
The courtmaid briefly hesitates, then bows reverently. "Yes Your Majesty," she says as she makes her exit by walking backwards.
The queen stares at the disturbed door for long as if she is trying to see through it to make sure no eye or ear is pressed against it. Her head is oval. Her eyes are almond shaped with bright blue orbs. Her facial skin is pearly smooth. Her nose is straight amd regal. Her hair is as black as the way it was when she was younger; her lips just as lush. She stands up. Her voluminous robes flip about the place. A look of worry etches on her face.
Indeed, Rayton, the crown prince, her first son was long overdue for kingship. Why had she not given it to him? Was she unconsciously afraid that he would not be capable? Was she unconsciously enjoying the throne and becoming a power hungry tyrant? She shudders. She loves both her sons. She likes to think of them as masterpieces that she'd do anything to protect.
On the table where she had been writing, apart from the writing materials, there is a golden hairpin studded with the finest jewels. She crouches down and picks up the hairpin— one of the nine cryfixes.
She had been troubled when she found the hairpin in Rayton's chambers. It is the heirloom passed down from queen to queen and it had mysteriously disappeared from her chambers five years ago. She had told Bough, Captain of the Albenian Bureau. He had assured her and told her not to worry. As long as the Winter Solstice was safe, Rayton's coronation would happen without hitches and as long as Rayton's line produced sons...
She had not yet told Bough that she had once again attained the heirloom's ownership. The letter she had just ordered to be sent to him only contained instructions on getting the Winter Solstice ready for use. She would tell him eventually, just as soon as she finds the excuse that would exonerate Rayton best.
She taps the jewellery with a fingernail. It is hollow. While tapping it absentmindedly, and brooding over her son, she does not realise that the hollow noise the hairpin is making has become louder.
When she does, her body is working faster than her mind so that it doesn't show on her face that she has noticed and so that she does not stop tapping the hairpin immediately. So that— when she finally stops, the louder hollow noise continues.
Of course!
It couldn't have been her precious little hairpin causing such a ruckus.
The louder hollow tapping also stops but it is too late. The queen's ears have already picked up the source. She looks up at her marble tiled ceiling.
Strangely, she shows no surprise at what she sees. One would think it was everyday that she found a purple cloaked assassin perched like a wall gecko on her ceiling.
A shroud of purple lace handkerchief shields the assassin's face but his overall features are masculine, and he has the physique of a youth.
As usual, the queen briefly wonders who he is and as expected, the assassin unsheathes a huge sparkling sabre and lunges for her.