Rachelle sat primly at the council table in the dimly lit meeting room. Sir Valon sat to her right, the other members of the advisory board sat in various assigned positions. Sir Laird was across from her, his bushy sideburns making his face appear even rounder. Lord Laird, he was called, in a joking manner. He had remarkable astuteness, Rachelle knew, which was why she had kept him on the advisory board. He knew when to shut up – a valuable gift, in Rachelle’s opinion – and nearly always gave sound advice. Whether or not Rachelle actually followed that advice depended on her mood.

Tonight though, she was in a rare good mindset. She placed the scepter on the floor by her chair, smiling to herself when she thought of Lyla, no doubt huddled in her cold room, crying and hungry.

Rachelle couldn’t really sympathize. She’d never known what it was to be hungry. Except for the time when she was eight years old and had refused to eat a bite unless her father, Sir Jon, agreed to not make her study her books anymore. The hunger strike hadn’t lasted long – her belly began to growl, and her father had had a servant deliver a tempting platter of fruits and cheeses to her chambers. Rachelle had sat on her silk and fur-covered bed and glared at it for a good two hours while her mouth watered. Finally, she had given in to the temptation. Of course, she renewed her demands just as soon as Sir Jon had appeared at her door the next morning to escort her to her lessons. It had been no use. She was forced to endure long hours of boring political history and geographic lectures by eternally grey-haired men.

Now the council was talking. More withered old men, Rachelle though wryly. But her ears twitched as one of the men said something about ‘witches disappearing.’ Rachelle’s mother had been a witch; she’d heard the servants talking when she was a small, eavesdropping child. Yes, she’d been a witch, and the servants were glad that she had died, she remembered. Or had they said ‘bitch’? Rachelle wondered, biting at the end of her hair. She was positive that they’d said ‘witch’. She asked her father the next morning.

“Father, was Mother really a ‘witch’? What is a witch?”

‘Where did you hear that?” he’d asked.

She told him that she’d heard it from the servants in the kitchen. Her father had gone very quiet. The next day, new servants were introduced to the manse.

“The old one’s tongues were wagging, little princess,” her father had said. He always called her ‘little princess’.

Then Dala had come with her armies. Sir Jon had led his men to fight, but they had all been brutally overpowered and killed. Rachelle was summoned that same evening by the conquering queen. Dala had been an imposing sight. She herself had been near the battle, and though her hands and face were clean, there were spatters of blood all over her gown.

Small Rachelle had just heard the news of the city’s fall and of her father’s death, and didn’t know if she should bow or not. So she stood straight, barely acknowledging Dala, though her eyes took in ever detail of the strong, tall woman as she spoke with her commanders.

“Girl,” Dala finally spoke to her. “Sir Jon’s last words were ‘save my little princess.’. Are you that princess?” Rachelle nodded.

“Yes. I am his little princess.”

Dala laughed a small laugh. “How careless of him,” she’d told someone over her shoulder. She walked toward Rachelle. “Do not fear, Lady Rachelle. You shall not be harmed if you do as I say. Now, go make yourself presentable,” she said. “We have a great feast tonight, and you shall sit with me so that all may see what a gracious and fair queen I shall be over Tulern.”

They had gone to dinner, and after that, life had gone on as usual for Rachelle, except now, everyone called her ‘Princess Rachelle’. Even her lessons had continued, to her great dismay. Eventually, a new girl was introduced to her, to be Rachelle’s companion and to take lessons with her masters. Lyla was her name.

Though four years younger than Rachelle, Lyla soon proved to be a quick learner, hungry for books and excelling in her lessons. Rachelle’s jealousy grew as the masters fawned over their new pupil, and soon she began to find small ways to torment the girl. Ink blots on her papers, stealing Lyla’s quills, and snide remarks soon became a way of life – a way to relieve the endless boredom of the classroom. Lyla had protested at first, but when Queen Dala had named Rachelle co-queen of Tulern on her nameday, she had forced to submit and honor her queen with uncomplaining meekness.

When Dala had given Castlebury to Rachelle, she had sent Lyla with her. Sir Valon had gone as well – he had been one of Sir Jon’s knights and was sworn to protect the newly crowned Queen Rachelle.

Sir Valon was speaking now, jerking Rachelle’s attention back to the council table.

“They say that sorcerers and wizards, even priests of Dior, have been disappearing,” he sounded worried. “There’s nothing like this ever recorded in history.”

Sir Thalus shook his bald head dismissively. He was a scholarly man, with small eyeglasses perched high on his nose.

“My colleagues tell me that rumors such as this have been flying around for nearly five years. Why, at the feast earlier this week, I was informed that these rumors are ever thicker and widespread. Of course,” he shrugged. “who really misses these magic-folk anyway? Nuisances they are, with their fortune-telling and so-called ‘magic potions’.”

Bushy-faced Lord Laird glanced wide-eyed around the table but said nothing.

Rachelle asked, “They leave no trace behind?”

“No, your highness. According the rumors, they’re simply poof – gone.”

Rachelle’s face puckered. “It is only people who are disappearing? What about the old artifacts of legend?”

“As far as we know,” Thalus replied. “All of the old magical artifacts are still intact and secure in their places.” He chuckled. “Trust me – if one of those should disappear, we would hear much more than a rumor!”

Rachelle sighed in relief. The golden scepter was safe, then. She let her attention wander off again as the men changed the subject and began talking about trivial matters of the kingdom. What did she care if a few farms had been raided, or who did it? That was obviously too far below her station to her to merit her attention. Let the magistrates work it out, she thought.