Queen Melira's Death

• Briana Davis
• Short Story
• 2009

The dancers turned and spun in an unhuman harmony, the result of endless weeks of practise. Skin almost as dark as the new drink called chocolate, they twirled as one. Their golden tunics, resplendent in the light from the huge cherry-oak hearth at the head of the room, glinted and shimmered as if alive. Brown trousers of the most exquisite fabric made no effort to dim the brightness of their clothes.
Every eye turned their way, everyone in the huge ballroom applauded to their amazing skill, that is…… except for one.

Crysania, the royal court jester and family friend looked worriedly at Queen Melira. Sitting at the head of the table next to the king in a plum coloured gown, the Queen was trying to appear normal. But she could not lie to her, Crysania saw through the petty face paint and stylish dressage. Melira was sitting stiffly in her chair, her skin was all clammy, and from her long years as a court jester’s apprentice, Crysania could tell she was struggling to stay upright.

The Queen seemed to sense that someone was watching her, but when she looked up, Crysania fixed her eyes upon the new furnishings and banners that befitted the ballroom. Guests sat in no order at all, lords sat with beggars and the empresses sat with the commoners. Everyone was sitting at a long, extremely polished, worn table, except for the royal family and their guests. The latter being seated on the royal platform were a rectangular table was horizontally placed.

“You shouldn’t be here your highness.” Crysania couldn’t stop herself. “You need your rest.”

Melira seemed to flinch and her voice was husky as she replied, “They need to see their rulers alive and breathing or else…..”
“….they won’t trust you, I know.” Crysania shivered at the thought of what uproar the capital of Ceret could cause and glared at the queen. “I hate it when you’re right!”

“The Queen of Vol should always be respected, but Crysania is right, you should take a rest for at least a day or two.” King Richard raised an eyebrow at his wife. Then his face softened. “Please.” He whispered.

Melira took a sip from her goblet and nodded hesitantly. Then, it began! The queen dropped her goblet and Crysania had to grab her before she fell to the floor. Unconscious, eyes staring, her heart about to stop beating, No, thought Crysania, no! One of the guards pointed at a serving man who was pouring wine, he threw down his wine bottles and ran.

Crysania felt rage and grief rip apart her beating heart, she pursued. The guards, already berating themselves for letting this happen were on the trail, but as the court jester she knew all the shortcuts. She felt grim determination take control; she wanted to kill this man.

The castle gates were open for the feast and the poisoner was running from the guards. But Crysania was sane enough not to follow them; the traitor would run into the woods and kill anyone who set foot in Welsham Forest. Sure enough, a guard returned an hour later with grime and sweat all over him to report that the rest had been lost in the fierce battle that had raged under an oak tree’s tall branches.

As the day ended Crysania still stood at Avon’s castle gates, and she swore to herself fluently in four different languages.
“I will find you, and kill you for what you have done.” She vowed to the sunset. “Know matter how long it takes!”

It started to rain soon after and she still stood there as it thundered over her, she caught some raindrops in her mouth and strangely, they tasted of salt.

THE END