Queen Rachelle Meltzer sulkily slumped in her gold and mahogany chair. Her crown sat at a dissatisfied angle as she stared moodily across the great courtroom. Courtiers, all clad in white robes, stood at attention under each brace of wall-mounted braziers. None dared meet her eyes. The queen herself was clad in a cream-colored gown, which contrasted poorly with her pale sun-deprived skin.

Lyla, the wand-bearer, sat nervously to the side of the throne on a small marble bench against the wall. In both hands, she held the golden rod that gave credence to her title. It didn’t work. It had never worked, except in legend-stories, when it was wielded by the fierce Ragor, and then later by the Silent Queen, Melizzande. But now it was broken and had been for six hundred years, and this was why Queen Rachelle had named Lyla Uverost the bearer of the wand.

“A broken wand for broken noble-wench,” she had exclaimed haughtily at Lyla’s name day four years earlier. Since then, all who had once been kind to her dared do so no longer, for fear of Queen Rachelle’s wrath. Instead, they looked silently on or averted their faces when her anger was unleashed on Lyla. With no father or brother to defend her, Lyla was an easy target. By the queen’s side all day, she was convinced that the queen had placed her there to torment her constantly. The younger courtiers followed Rachelle’s lead, while the older ones simply ignored her. The queen’s whipping girl, she’d heard them say among themselves.

But there was one who did not slight or ignore Lyla – one who was not afraid to distract the queen’s anger. Sir Valon, he was called. Sung by some as the greatest knight of the day, he was the queen’s trusted advisor and most loyal subject. Yet, when he passed by Lyla in the great hall or one of the many balconies, he always acknowledged her with a tip of his head, or sometimes a passing pleasantry.

Lyla lived for those days. There was just something in his eyes when he smiled at her, something about the way he spoke that warmed her heart during the long, tiresome days on the cold bench by the queen’s side. And her heart was trilling a happy tune now as he, the lordly Knight Valon himself, dressed in handsome silver plate, strode boldly through the muted hall. The silent courtiers stirred and whispered as though the echo of his footsteps on the marble flagstones had woken them from a trance. They watched as he made his way to Queen Rachelle’s throne. Stopping perfunctorily at the base of the three shallow dais steps, he bent a knee.

“Your Grace.”

The queen’s sullen face brightened into a smile reserved only for this knight.

“Sir Valon,” She replied sweetly, “Rise and sit.” She motioned to the small bench on which the wand-bearer sat. Valon turned and saw Lyla.

“Lady Lyla.” He nodded his head toward her, taking note of the red mark on her face. “A pleasant morning to you.” Lyla stammered a polite greeting in return. Taking a seat, Valon turned and leaned forward toward the queen.

“Your Grace, I’ve heard some troubling news. The kingdom of Loarne seems to be in upheaval. They…”

“Stop,” interrupted the queen, indignantly. “Would you speak of this in front of her?” Her voice was riddled with disdain. Valon shot a glance at Lyla, puzzled.

“Lady Lyla is nobly born, my queen.” He looked uncertainly between the two women. The silence grew long as Queen Rachelle glared and Valon seemed at loss for words. Lyla’s cheeks burned unpleasantly. She stood, addressing the space between the two.

“Excuse me please, your grace. Sir Valon.” She fled with what dignity was left to her.