Sith of Time

Chapter 5: A Grieving Kingdom

Ambrose Drak

The Tagnikzur Kingdom, 1715 . . .

"Where shall we bury the Queen Mother, my lord?" Horus, the advisor to the departed queen, scoots his chair forward then leans on the oval table in the council chamber. "When?"

"In the crypt next to my father, her true husband. It's what she'd want." Ambrose toys with the royal seal hanging around his neck.

The same delicate seal he had played with in his youth now seems such a heavy burden to carry.

"Today is Thursday. So, we shall hold her service on the Sabbath." Ambrose looks around the table. "Bury her a week from Monday."

He flashes a glance in Braylin's direction - a childhood friend, he takes in the man's eyes, which are encased by the dark rings of failed sleep.

"Yes, my lord, as you wish." Horus bows his head. "I will tend to the arrangements." He rises. "If there's nothing else, I will start on the preparations."

"What of the royal announcement of the king's appointment and coronation?" Braylin leans his elbows against the table. The mesh chain on his arms scrapes against the wooden surface.

Under Braylin's hardened exterior, Ambrose sees the pain, the anguish, now plaguing his friend. The Queen Mother, more than a royal to Braylin, had taken him under her protection, sheltered him from a life of poverty after his mother's death. In truth, he's more of a brother than a friend.

"That can wait." Ambrose waves his hand. "I'd rather hear news of the traitors." To be a king requires total dedication of one's self. A task he's not prepared for at the moment. "What have you learned?" He's not sure if he'll ever be.

"With all due respect, the appointment and coronation should take precedence." Braylin palms a wine glass. He downs the last swig. "To withhold the announcement is to invite trouble in-house and abroad."

The heavy wooden door swings open with a groan.

"Is this a formal meeting?" Lord Maxton, as wide as he is tall, enters the room. "If so, why wasn't I informed?"

Tension creeps the length of his spine and travels around his head where it generates a pulsing throb in each temple.

Lord Maxton sits between Ambrose and Braylin. The man shoots a seething glare at Horus.

"My lord." Horus offers a smug smile befitting a cat whose belly is fat with prey. "I see you are well."

The top of Lord Maxton's bald head shines like a beacon in the room. "I am the Hand of the Queen, which makes me the acting regent." He pats Ambrose's back.

"Yes." Horus smooths out his robe. "You may have been the Hand; however, you are not acting regent. For the Queen Mother named another on her death bed."

Ambrose views his Uncle Maxton's girth. It holds minute resemblance to his lean frame.

It's odd how both men, his father and uncle, sired by the same Drak ancestor, his grandfather - birthed by a single woman - acquired such opposing views. Even their temperaments mirror the differences between the sun and moon.

"Who?" Lord Maxton grinds his teeth. "The husband who murdered her? Or her mute brother from the far west region?"

"Neither." Ambrose twirls the seal between his fingers.

The cool surface slides against his callused fingertips, reminding him of his chambers where his dark mistress, Ebony, lays in wait for his skillful touch.

Thoughts drift to her smooth, delicately curved neck. He longs to strum his fingers against the taut strings lining the smooth fingerboard of the viola.

Music is what his soul craves to make on this unfortunate day. A dreadful day where he finds himself alone and heir to a grieving kingdom.

"The Queen Mother named her son, Ambrose Drak, second of his name, to rule in her place." The grin on Horus' face broadens, stretching from ear to ear. "Are you not pleased by this news, my lord?"

"But of course." Lord Maxton's eyes flicker with a tinge of darkness like a raging storm. "It is as it should be." He clasps Ambrose's shoulder. "And as I faithfully served as Right Hand to your father and your dear mother these many years, I, too, shall be honored to stand by your side, as well, my boy."

"I'll make no such decision at this hour." Ambrose places a palm over his uncle's fingers. "My mother, the Queen Mother, rest her soul, must be dealt with first. So, let us be united in a common cause," he sets a partially scrolled parchment in his uncle's hand, "her burial and the search for her killers."

Lord Maxton nods. "What is this?" Examining the document, he zeros in on the royal wax seal. "This was signed by the Queen Mother."

"Aye," replies Ambrose. "She wrote it on the night of her death."

Braylin glides a finger over the lip of his glass and produces a high-pitch warble.

A servant in the corner snaps to attention. He fills the fluted container with wine.

"It named her second husband, Ambrose's stepfather, as her murderer." Braylin holds the stem of the glass, rotating the ornate crystal piece. "It alludes to a conspiracy to overthrow the rightful Drak heir - Ambrose, our future king."

"Someone seeks to extinguish my father's line and claim the throne."

"A conspiracy?" Lord Maxton skims the paper. "By whom?"

"That's what I intend to find out." Ambrose releases the royal seal. Dangling from a leather strap, it bounces against his chest. "We were about to discuss the matter. Join us if you like."

"Then my news comes at a perfect time." Lord Maxton rises. "Bring him." He turns to Ambrose. "Let this be my gift to you."

Footsteps shuffle. Chains rattle on the floor. The guards drag a man covered in dried blood into the chamber.

Lord Maxton approaches the prisoner and yanks the man's head to the side.

Bright-blue eyes offer a sharp contrast to the grime covering the captive's face.

"I offer you one William Stouffer; murderer of the late Queen Regnant. Your mother."

Anger boils in the pit of Ambrose's stomach. Rage simmers just under the surface of his calm exterior. Unable to contain the bubbling emotions, he leaps from his chair. "Murderer."

Within seconds, he is on top of William, striking the restrained man, slamming his fists against an already battered body. Blow-by-blow, he continues to pound, until blood covers his fists.