Macster - The Missing Links

"Do you mean to say he just drove right through Beantown without stopping?" Chancellor Griswold's voice echoed from the Council Chamber's vaulted ceiling, the disbelief quite evident in it.

The chamber, located in the center of Wendell's elaborate palace, in a wing opening off the prince's gloriously beautiful throne room, was a study in tradition and splendor. The walls were a pale green, although this could barely be discerned, as they were draped with numerous tapestries with gold lame stitching and vibrant hues of thread, suspended between fluted pillars at frequent intervals. Velvet brocade draperies were drawn back from mullioned lancet windows to let in the noonday sun. A massive map of the Nine Kingdoms, with the Fourth enlarged and in greater detail, was displayed on an easel at the head of an enormous oak table lined with leather chairs. There the eight advisors and regents for Prince Wendell met in solemn deliberation to decide the affairs of the Kingdom.

At least, that was the usual state of these meetings. The one being held at present was quite unusual in its tenor...the worry, uncertainty, and beginnings of fear were not at all common.

The Viscount Lansky sighed, his massive shoulders slumping under the golden epaulets that adorned his medal-strewn military jacket. "That was on Wednesday, Lord Chancellor, and he hasn't been seen since. The thronemakers are furious. They're threatening to boycott the coronation." He fixed his pale blue eyes on the parchments scattered before him, as if the answer to their dilemma somehow lay amongst them.

Seated beside him, Lord Rupert, master of protocol and etiquette in Wendell's court, wrung his hands nervously, trying to remain calm. "It's so unlike the Prince not to send word of where he is."

Two seats down the table, the aged Lord Chamberlain hunched forward in his scarlet suitcoat, his pure white hair gleaming in the light. "Perhaps it's just...coronation nerves," he offered in his shaky voice. "I'm sure he'll turn up soon."

Chancellor Griswold arose from his seat beside the Chamberlain, as if wrenched to his feet by their weak and inane excuses, and strode around the table. He spoke not a word, but only walked toward the map, pausing before it. His eyes roamed the document, perhaps seeking where Wendell could be found.

Viscount Lansky was watching the dignified, elderly man. He was one of the most astute and wise members of the Council, and he knew that the Chancellor shared his own worries. But the one foremost in his mind had not yet been uttered. He did so now. "Let us not forget, the evil Queen is now at large." He planted his hands on the table and gave each Council member a steely gaze.

Lord Rupert's response to this was extremely out of character for him and revealed how on edge he was. Leaping to his feet, he cried, "Where is Wendell? Where is he in his kingdom's greatest hour of need?" He crossed to the enlarged portrait of the Prince looking at his most noble, and stood there regarding it fixedly, fists clenched, as if by sheer willpower alone he could summon Wendell to step from the portrait and into life.

A stunned silence lay over the room for several long, tense minutes. When it was broken, it was by the Chancellor's low, earnest voice. "Things look very bad indeed."

"Terrible." Viscount Lansky clasped his hands before his lips.

"Quite awful!" The Lord Chamberlain's throat trembled.

The sound of the Chancellor's hard-heeled boots on the polished marble floor was loud in the stillness as he circled the table and came back toward his seat. All eyes were upon him for guidance. After furrowing his brow in thought for some time, the Chancellor could think of no solution--except to appeal to tradition. The old ways were often best. "Still," he said in ringing tones designed to inspire hope, "I expect it'll all turn out Happy Ever After." He tapped each Council member lightly on head or shoulder as he passed, as if imparting his own sense of confidence, before returning to his chair.

He was not disappointed. One and all, the entire Council broke into beaming smiles, heaved sighs of relief, and let the tension bleed from their shoulders. Even Viscount Lansky, the most realistic--some might say pessimistic--advisor, smiled softly, although his muttered comment, "Yes, indeed," revealed he was not quite sanguine about this cavalier dismissal of the problem.

But as usual he was ignored by the Council at large. Lord Rupert in particular, his composure fully recovered thanks to the Chancellor's assurances, breezed by Lansky, coming to the head of the table and turning his winning smile on. "Now to the real crisis. There is a shortage of bluebells throughout the Kingdom. My color scheme for the coronation banquet will have to be completely rethought." He lifted a case of parchment scrolls dyed in various colors, and his smile broadened foppishly as he waited for suggestions.

The other Council members were quick to offer them. But Lansky remained silent, leaning back casually in his chair. If matters did not resolve themselves soon, something would have to be done about the crisis, whether the others chose to act or not.

And he would be the one to do it.