The Eye of the Wolf

by Sadie Vanderveen

  The Princess Royale gestured for Mikayla to enjoy her sandwiches and small cookies before beginning the interview. Mikayla’s eyes caught the glint of the five carat diamond and emerald combination that decorated Her Royal Highness’s ring finger. A beautiful testimony to the love that had brought her from Austria to Amor when she was only 23, a child by some standards.

  “Please, Dr. Knight, drink your tea. There will be time for the interview later.” The Princess Royale spoke softly but there was a command in her voice with its subtle Austrian accent that demanded obedience.

  Mikayla smiled shyly to the woman who had been the head of the household of Amor since her marriage to the Dauphin over the rim of her fragile tea cup. She sipped silently and allowed her eyes to roam over the face of the woman before her. A fascinating human-being who garnered both fear and respect, but Mikayla suspected also love of those who knew her well.

  “Tell me, Dr. Knight, what is life like in the great cities of America?” A bright, bubbly voice intruded into Mikayla’s musings and drew her attention away from the austere Princess Royale to the younger woman seated beside Her Royal Highness, the Crown Princess, Victoria.

  Mikayla set down her tea cup and smiled brightly at the younger woman who was a replica of the Princess Royale in every detail except hair style and dress. The Crown Princess wore her sunny blonde hair in a short bob that bounced flirtatiously around her diamond-adorned ears. Perfect spiral curls raced down her strands of hair, bouncing and swinging. She wore a deep purple pant-suit with a single gold chain at her neck. She was just as beautiful as her mother, but there was a difference. The eyes of the Crown Princess, though green and glowing like a cat’s were not hunting, they showed humor and kindness. They laughed when she laughed and suggested a bit of fun behind the royal title.

  “Well, Your Royal Highness,” Mikayla began, unsure exactly of how to address these powerful women who had been born into a life of privilege that Mikayla would never understand. She had never met royalty before; there must be some sort of protocol, except that she wasn’t a subject of the Amorian court. “Life in America certainly moves at a faster pace than it does here in Amor.” She paused, unsure of where to go with this small amount of chit-chat. Luckily, she was saved by the giggle of the Princess Royale.

  “I agree. Everything in Amor moves at a slower pace than the rest of the real world. I think we actually have more than twenty-four hours to a day with as slow as life moves around here.” Victoria smiled warmly and reached across the coffee table that separated them. She grasped Mikayla’s hand in a warm, strong grip and vigorously shook her hand. “Please, call me Victoria.”

  Mikayla returned her smile with one of her own. She knew that if they had met under different circumstances, Victoria would be one of her closest friends. There was an element of fun to her that appealed to Mikayla’s more somber nature. Mikayla nodded her head in assent. “Please feel free to call me Mikayla.”

  The Princess Royale set down her tea cup and recrossed her legs, elegantly, someone accustomed to presiding over others. “Your name, Mikayla, is very unique. How did you come by it?”

  Mikayla fidgeted slightly with the hem of her skirt. “Well, your highness,” she nodded to Princess Elizabeth, “my mother was positive I was going to be a boy and so she only picked out boy names. When I was born a girl, she was very startled. My grand-father’s name is Michael, and they were going to name me Michael. Because they had no girl names chosen, they chose to give me the feminine form of Michael, which is Mikayla.”

  Victoria giggled: a bright, shiny sound. “Oh, that is a lovely story. It is much better than being named after some old, dead queen of England.” Victoria rolled her eyes.

  Elizabeth frowned at her daughter but made no comment. “Tell us what you have been up to since you arrived here at Amor, Mikayla.”

  Mikayla sipped from her tea cup and watched the two women over her cup. They were so refined, but there was more to them than that. Their simple presence, without speaking, without the use of the more appropriate English, no slang or contractions, suggested that English wasn’t a first language for either of them. Beyond that though, there was more. They were royalty. Everything about them, even Victoria’s simpering giggle, suggested knowledge that they knew they were better than everyone else.

  “I have explored pretty much the entire island, from top to bottom. I have also been spending much of my time researching in the Hall of Records and interviewing the residents of the island.” Mikayla took another sip of tea. “My assistant is a native to the island and has been a wonderful asset to my research.”

  Elizabeth refilled Mikayla’s empty cup and added another cookie to her empty plate. “Tell me, Mikayla, what about Amor do you wish to know. We are here to answer your questions.” Elizabeth set the silver tea service back on its tray. She looked up and met Mikayla’s eyes with a reserved look, a look that suggested she was only doing this because she had to. She had better things to be doing.

  Mikayla felt cold suddenly under the cold scrutiny of the future queen of Amor. To warm herself, she glanced quickly at the Princess Royale who smiled brightly and helped herself to another cookie, but there was something different about the Crown Princess on that glance. Her dancing eyes were no longer laughing; they were watching Mikayla with calculation, waiting for something. Mikayla felt like an animal being tracked. Then, just as quickly as the look had come into her eyes, it was gone. Mikayla blinked, sure that it had been a trick of the light once the Crown Princess smiled brightly and leaned forward towards Mikayla.

  Mikayla swallowed and cleared her throat. This was ridiculous; this was part of the job. “Your highness,” she directed her look at Elizabeth, “explain to me the role Amor plays in the world today.”

  Elizabeth seemed to settle herself more into the settee, but still, she did not recline. Her feet never left the floor. She sipped thoughtfully from her tea cup, formulating her answer, ever the politician’s wife. “Well, Mikayla, Amor is a small nation, but we provide some of the best sand and surf in the Mediterranean to the wealthy who can afford to stay here.”

  Victoria leaned forward. “We provide them with an exclusive place to come and romp for a weekend without the bother of the press.” She winked at Mikayla, the laughter once again in her eyes. “In fact, Prince Charles has graced our shores at least once, if not more. And he wasn’t alone!”

  Mikayla grinned. It seemed even royalty couldn’t resist the turbulent lives of the British monarchy and the scandals regularly reported in the tabloids. “What other role does Amor play?”

  Elizabeth frowned again at her daughter. It was unseemly for a princess of Amor to discuss the activities of other royal families; after all, her own son, Jonathan, had made the cover of many a tabloid once he turned eighteen and became a target of the press. His death had been a media field day. That was the danger with being a member of the royalty club and with living off the island. Victoria had never left the island as her brothers had; she didn’t know what life was like beyond their shores. Hopefully, one day soon, things would be different and Victoria would never have to live the life other women had struggled through.

  Elizabeth mentally shook herself from her gloomy thoughts. She could feel Mikayla’s penetrating blue eyes staring at her, waiting for an answer. It would not do to give a member of the press, even if she was a professional historian any hint to the turmoil that surrounded the monarchy of Amor. She smiled slightly at Mikayla. “Amor is a place for people to dream. It provides that fairytale atmosphere for people who have never out-grown the fairytale. It also provides the best fishing grounds in the world. We sell more kinds of fish from here than any other place in the world.”

  Victoria’s voice echoed her mother’s. “I think people come here because there is no where else in the world that is nearly as constant as Amor. It is like a fairytale to live here. There is a royal family that remains secluded from everything else. It is a mystery.”

  “Why does the royal fam
ily remain secluded from the rest of the island? What is the purpose in today’s modern society of remaining in the Secluded City?” Mikayla voiced a question that had been on her mind since her initial arrival on the island.

  Victoria frowned, a crease developed between her finely shaped brows. “It’s tradition.” She answered after much thought and with finality.

  Before Mikayla could speak, Elizabeth held up a hand. “It is more than that.” Her voice was cool, but the power was there, demanding Mikayla to listen. Mikayla obeyed, drawn to the obvious power within. “The Secluded City is more than a fortress. It is a home. It is our home. People ask why we remain secluded from the people of Amor, but we don’t. Victoria works at the local school as an art teacher. I work at the hospital as a volunteer in the elderly ward. My husband donates time and energy to research for better fishing techniques and ways to replenish the environment after we have taken from it. We also donate much of our time to international charities, which affect even your life in the United States. We are, however, also a ruling family. There is no Parliament such as with the British. We all are part of the island and the people’s lives, but we are still the royal family, the governing body.”

  Elizabeth paused and looked into Mikayla’s eyes. “Would you have your president live in the apartment next door to you?”

  Mikayla cocked her head to the side and regarded the woman before her. Her Austrian accent echoed through Mikayla’s brain, questioning the role leaders should play in the country they lead. No, she supposed she wouldn’t want the President of the United States to live in the townhouse next to hers. One, she had voted for the other guy, but also wealth was power. If the President was shown as poor, there would be less power to be wielded over other nations in the world, nations where there was perhaps more wealth. Mikayla nodded her head in understanding. There was still one question that lingered.

  “What role does the Crown Prince play then?”

  Elizabeth smiled demurely. She had wondered if the American knew anything about the son who had turned out to be such a disappointment to her and her husband. She almost wished that Victoria had been born a boy so that Victoria could inherit the throne after Andrew was gone instead of the boy. “Hmmm,…the William’s job is to rule the nation. He is busy learning to be a leader by traveling the world, meeting with other great leaders. When he is here, he often stays at his father’s or his grandfather’s side to learn the art of being a king.”

  A diplomatic answer, Mikayla thought, and a very good cover, if she hadn’t already heard from Will that the heir apparent was less than appealing. She looked into her notebook for another question and then glanced up at Victoria. Victoria was regarding her closely, her eyes glowing green, but there was a hint of humor within them. Mikayla smiled at Victoria, and it was returned.

  Just as Mikayla opened her mouth to ask Victoria about the artwork she had seen produced by the Crown Princess, the doors to the receiving room were thrown open. The heavy wood banged against the wall. All heads swiveled to look at the dark, dangerous man who strode into the hall.

  Kankaredes.

  Antonio Kankaredes strode across the room in long, purposeful strides. He stopped at the edge of the settee, bent, and whispered in the Princess Royale’s ear. Elizabeth remained impassive to the sudden interruption, but before he was through whispering, her eyes were down-cast and a tear trembled down her cheek. She nodded her head and dismissed Kankaredes with a single flick of her wrist. Kankaredes bowed slightly and walked to the door; he did not exit, but waited, imposing and cold.

  Elizabeth swallowed and wiped the tear that rolled down her fine cheek, leaving a trail through the faint make-up, away. She took Victoria’s hand in her own and stood. “I apologize, Dr. Knight, but we must cut this interview short.”

  Mikayla rose as the two ladies moved away from the sitting area. Elizabeth turned at the edge of the carpet and looked at Mikayla coldly. “Now you will have more to write about in your history book other than just the nine hundred years of continuous rule. Now you will be able to write about the funeral rites of King James and the coronation of my husband, Prince Andrew.” She bowed her head slightly and led Victoria away towards Kankaredes who waited still near the door. Elizabeth slumped slightly and accepted the help of Kankaredes as she stepped from the room. Victoria stood straight, tall, beautiful. No tears trembled on her lashes, and a slight smirk flirted briefly with the corners of her lips before disappearing into the appropriate mourning look. Her walk was purposeful as she followed her mother and the king’s most trusted advisor down the hall to the family’s quarters where her grandfather would be laid out for the mourners and prepared for his funeral rites.

  Mikayla sank into the chair, stunned. She had known that the king was very ill, but it had never occurred to her that he would die while she was on the island. She had always assumed he would recover or he would die following her leave. The idea that she would witness a coronation was not part of her initial plan, and despite how sad the world would be to hear of James’s passing, Mikayla couldn’t help but understand what a change her future had just made.

  Her mind flitted briefly around Victoria’s response, the brief smile that had danced on her lips, unable to grasp the meaning hidden there. She was drawn from her thoughts as Dejeune moved restlessly from his own chair.

  Dejeune stood beside Mikayla’s chair, his hand resting on the back, waiting for the royal family to depart before escorting her back to the house below the Secluded City. He watched Kankaredes lead the Crown Princess and the Princess Royale from the room. His hand trembled slightly. The wheels had been set in motion for the next phase. The death of the old king was the signal, the signal that the Wolf was waiting, planning his next strike, planning his next move. Hunting.

  Will climbed out of the Jeep like a man lost. He stumbled through the pouring rain and booming thunder to the edge of the cliff and stared down into the darkness of the foliage below. Tears coursed down his face and soaked the collar of his shirt. It didn’t matter. It was already soaked through from the storm that had arrived to herald the passing of an era.

  The king was dead.

  An inhuman scream ripped itself from his lungs and was thrown into the wind. Carried away into a world beyond him, beyond his grasp. He sank to his knees at the edge of the precipice and felt the rough gravel and mud dig into the knees of his khakis. There was pain as one sharp rock dug through the heavy cotton, but he was oblivious. He was beyond caring.

  The king was dead.

  Murdered while he slept.

  Will reached into his pocket and pulled out the carefully embroidered handkerchief. The small letters shown silver in the fading light. He unrolled it in his hand and allowed the syringe to fall into his hands. Rain droplets bounced off of the glass. Lightning streaked across the sky lighting the cliff for the briefest of moments. He stared at it. His eyes never blinked. His grief never wavered. The murder weapon lay in his hand. Once it had held a poison that had been used to end an already tortured, dying life. It had held a poison that had been used to cause a dying man great pain and suffering in his final moments of life.

  The king was dead.

  Murdered.

  The mantra ran through his head. Echoing. Taunting him.

  Will took one last glance at the murder weapon in his hand and flung it from the cliff into the stormy darkness below. It was gone. Hidden from the world. No one must ever know that the king had been murdered while he slept, murdered by the hand he had trusted the most.

  Will stood from his place on the ground, afraid suddenly of the dark, afraid of what had come over his home. It was no longer a sunny place for frolicking in the surf. It was now the home of a murderer. The storm that drowned the island was a fitting reminder of the evil the island held.

  Will jumped back into his Jeep and rocketed down the hill into the rain and gloom. Tears streamed down his face and cries of anger and grief lodged in his throat. He had to get away, but he didn’t know where to go,
not with the storm raging both inside and out.

  Chapter 13

  My father is a vicious ruler. He has no love for the people, and the people have no love for him. But never would I have believed what the people in the village markets are saying. Never in my life could I have believed that my father, King Richard, could ever take the life of another, except in battle.

  Today, as I wandered in the marketplace, searching for the freshest fish and cleanest mountain berries, I heard some people speaking in the beer garden. They were drunk; it was obvious, and normally, I would have walked away. After all, it is unseemly for the Dauphin of Amor to be eavesdropping on the drunken ramblings of the commoners, but their words stopped me. They were speaking of my long dead grandfather, a man I never knew, but a man I admire. They remarked how grand of a king was my grandsire, King Henry. How proud he was and how deftly he led his knights into battle, not only in the Moorish lands of Jerusalem but also here, against the barbarians. He was a grand man whose life was cut short by a tragic fall from the cliffs where now the walls of the future Secluded City are being constructed. The spires of the castle my father is building for my grandmother, the beautiful Queen Elena, are reaching into the sky as I write this. It was at this point in the conversation that my attention was gained for the men in the beer garden suddenly began whispering that King Henry, my grandsire, hadn’t fallen but had been pushed. He had been murdered by the one person he should have trusted the most, his own son, the light of his life, my father, King Richard.

  I fled from the market place at the ill words spoken against my father. In Amor, it is blaspheme to speak against the king, and I should have reported the men for their words, but I was struck dumb. Fear courses through me even now as I pen these words. Is it possible? Is it true? I know that my father is a hard man, but he is my father. It is wrong to think evil thoughts of one’s own father, but how can I not, when I have grown to see all of the harm he and his minions have wrought on this land.