Chapter 4: The Vanishing Servant
1151 Words
Chapter 4: The Vanishing Servant
The scullery boy, Niven, was the first to go missing.
It had been two days since the grand procession. The palace was still decked with celebration flags fluttered over the towers, white lilies filled the vases in the corridors, and orchestras played light sonatas in the marble corridors. Wine, rosewater, and happiness pervaded the air. Prince Kairo was home, and the kingdom was bathed in the warmth of its revival.
But in other parts of the servants' quarters, beneath floors of carved stone and mirror-finish opulence, unrest began to bloom.
It started as whispers.
"Has anyone seen Niven?"
"He wasn't in to report to the kitchens."
"His bed isn't slept in."
"He was on cellar duty last night. Heard he saw someone sneaking at him from the archway.".
Servants clustered in corridors, glancing over shoulders while they worked. But when the problem was brought before the steward of the inner palace, Lord Renlow, the problem was resolved at once.
"Niven was a fidget," the steward said, not even raising his quill. "He likely fled. Or got involved with the dock scum. He was not obligated to service. If he wants to go missing, he is welcome to."
But his uniform stays," said one of the kitchen maids. "And his pack. And his silver token."
"Then he left in a hurry," replied Renlow. "And that's the end of that.".
The guards, of course, agreed. There was no blood. No struggle marks. No screams in the night. And with the palace being overrun with guests, processions, and matters of royalty, nobody wanted to besmirch the air with unfounded alarm. The boy had disappeared. Case closed.
But the truth had penetrated further. And the rot had already begun.
Deep in the bowels of Castle Thorne, down a passage long barred to general use, one flickering lantern remained alight.
The corridor dipped downward, through shattered rooms lined with rusting candelabras and shattered artifacts. The air was cold and acidic, tasting of mold and iron. Rats scurried through the beams. The walls groaned with memory.
In the center of a long-abandoned prayer chamber, with broken floor and sagging ceiling, a figure knelt beside a crumpled form.
Niven's face was white as death, fixed in a distorted mask of fear. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide and blind. Dried blood down his neck was black in the faint light of the lanterns.
The worst of it, however, was the mark.
Seared into the center of his chest his uniform, his flesh was a sigil.
A wing cut in half by a swooping blade.
The prince's crest.
But not exactly.
Not the crown one.
No, this was older. Sharper. A variation erased from official documents decades before.
A branch disavowed. A name besmirched and forgotten.
The man looming over Niven's body apprecied the sigil.
"Too quick," he said to himself. "Too clumsy. He saw something he wasn't meant to."
He knelt and closed the boy’s eyes gently.
“I’ll do better next time.”
Then he rose, extinguished the lantern, and melted into the dark.
In the East Wing, Queen Alys sat in her solarium, staring at the hazy horizon through a pane of stained glass. Her hands were wrapped around a cup of cooled tea. She had not drunk from it.
Across from her, Lady Miriel, her longtime companion and chief of court etiquette, cleared her throat softly.
“Your Majesty?”
Alys blinked. “Yes?”
“You’ve hardly spoken since the procession.”
“I’ve had little to say.”
“You should be relieved. Your son has returned.”
At that, the Queen looked up slowly. “Yes. Returned.”
Miriel tilted her head. “Is something troubling you?”
“His voice,” Alys said.
“Pardon?”
"His voice," the Queen once more, gazing out into the fog. "There's something… other about it. As if he's learned how to wear it."
Lady Miriel did not respond. A chill wind buffeted the vines crawling up the outside glass.
In the lower kitchens, downstairs, more servants had begun to miss Niven.
"I'm telling you, he wouldn't have left," Carna replied, her hands rough from doing washes. "He liked it here. Said he'd work his way up to be a chamber runner. Even took on extra duty."
One of the junior scullery girls, Rina, leaned in. "I heard he was frightened the night before. Spent recounting that someone was stalking him down the wine steps."
Carna frowned. "He said that?"
"He said take him back. I said I was tired. He laughed and said probably a mouse."
They fell into silence.
"Maybe we should look," Carna said. "Down there. The cellars."
"You'd get flogged if you get caught breaking in."
"I'd rather get flogged than disappear."
That night, Carna and Rina crept down the servant steps beneath the cover of a stolen lantern and a half-rusty key.
The wine cellars were vast rows of dusty bottles and tall oak casks. The smell was of age and damp.
They moved stealthily, searching each passageway.
Then they found the broken archway.
Half-concealed by bricks, its entrance suspended. A trail of black drops along the stones.
"What is that?" Rina panted.
Carna put out her hand, touched it, and then held out her finger to the light.
"Blood."
They backed away.
Then they heard it.
A soft scraping.
Like steel on stone.
They spun.
At the far end of the cellar, beneath a swinging iron lantern, a figure materialized from the darkness.
Neither of them spoke.
The man sported the black livery of a palace nobilis. A red sash. Gloves.
The face was shadowed.
But they saw the eyes.
Cold. Unblinking.
Watching.
Then the lantern fell, shattering on the stone floor.
Darkness.
Rina screamed.
Carna grabbed her wrist and ran.
They didn't stop until they were back in the kitchen corridor, gasping, sobbing, clinging to each other.
"You saw him, didn't you?" Rina sobbed. "You saw him?"
Carna nodded, shaking. "We tell no one. Not yet."
In the upstairs royal study, Prince Kairo stood at the window, his image glinting in the rain-specked glass.
A servant standing behind him hesitated. "Your Grace, shall I bring your cloak for the evening session?"
The prince didn't glance behind him.
“No need, he said. "I will not be needing it."
He tapped on the glass once, then strode away.
The servant bowed and left.
The prince was by himself again. He walked over to the fireplace.
There, on the edge of the mantle, lay a crumpled note.
A new name.
A new witness.
He smiled gently and picked up a red-hot poker.
"One shadow at a time," he said softly.
Thunder boomed outside Caelwyn.
And in the servant's quarters somewhere, a girl called Rina was folding her things, her hands trembling.
Because she knew.
And he knew she knew.
And now. she was next.
- Writer
