J’kai entered the spacious circular sleeping chamber of her queen with proper humility, genuflecting as she crossed the threshold. The dour monarch stood with her back to the doorway, arms folded across her breasts. A single guard occupied the room, her spine as straight as the spear in her hand. A young male attendant knelt submissively by an expansive mat woven from the most feathery ferns found. Hazy sunlight bathed the space through an aperture in the roof. “My queen,” the shaman presented herself with a bowed head. “You are ill?”
Ookesha pivoted on her heel towards the question. One eye narrowed while both sharpened their gaze. “Who told you I was ill?” she intoned, undeniably disapproving of such presumptions.
“My queen, no one said such,” J’kai quickly admitted as she straightened up. “I merely assumed something serious, since I was told to come with dispatch.&