Blood in the air. It does something to people, makes them more desperate, feral, even if they don't recognize the blood for what it is. Warriors become more fearsome adversaries. Merchants haggle cutthroat prices.
And nobles jump for the chance at the throne.
We wait in the throne room, the only room in the old castle large enough to hold all the assembled nobles without smothering them in their unmitigated anticipation. Tables have been arranged against the outer walls, providing refreshments for those who feel peckish and opportunities for political maneuvering for those who possess a different thirst. The throne holds silent court above us all, drawing the desirous gazes of those who for a moment forget that they are supposed to at least pretend they hope the King recovers.
It feels like ages have passed since the news spread throughout the city that the King had been attacked. A midnight assassination attempt, one apparently more successful than most. Now, we wait to hear if the healers at work on the King can save him.
I briefly wonder if I should do something. The assassin escaped -- could he not be in this very room, plotting with the rest of us? And if he was, what could I possibly do about it? I am just a minor noble, the overlooked lord of a small farming hamlet. I'm only here because I was going to beg extra coin from the King's coffers. I certainly wouldn't be able to recognize an assassin if he stared me in the face.
As I head toward one of the refreshment tables to drown my running thoughts of hidden assassins, I hear it. A bell tolling from the castle's belfry, slowly, solemnly.
The nobles stop their chattering and listen, confirming that it is in fact the death knell before becoming more energized. I see a few smiles from nobles who once claimed to be the King's dearest friends. One man begins walking up to the throne, prompting a handful of others to attempt to intercept him. It quickly devolves into a fistfight.
The side doors open, sending a gradual wave of silence across the nobles. A finely-clothed official walks in, carrying a folded black and red silk robe.
He makes his way through the crowd, subtly glowering at those who try to approach him. He stops, not before anyone important, but in front of me. He unfolds the robe and lays it across my shoulders.
I'm too shocked to stop him, but as he pulls away, I grab his hand. "Why me?"
"He named you before he died. He did not have a chance to say why." He pulled his hand out of my grip and stepped back, allowing the others nobles a better view of me while I come to terms with my fate.
Copyright 2000 - 2024 21 x 20 Media All rights reserved. This site is property of 21 x 20 Media
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.10 seconds at 1:05am on Nov 22, 2024 via server WEBX1.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author