The Princess in the Opal Mask Page 2

  “But do you suppose the rumors of the Masked Princess are true?” The man’s eyes dart around, as though he expects the king’s men to appear and pounce on him for the very thought.

  “Which ones?” asks his companion. He hiccups and adds, “Took the wife to see the Masked Princess wave from her balcony last year. You ask me, she looked like nothing more than a rich brat.”

  Inside the kitchen, Cordon is filling a basket with stale bread and mushy apples. He smiles when he sees me. His eyes are as gray as the sky outside, and his unruly blond hair hangs in his face.

  “Figured I’d see you in here sooner or later,” he says as he finishes up with the basket and moves on to stir a pot of bubbling stew. “I already tried to tell Mister Ogden to go home, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Thank you,” I say, stepping closer. The warmth of the hearth is a relief after walking in the rain, and the smell of the stew makes me lightheaded.

  “Serena asked me to talk to him. Convince him to cut back on the ale.”

  “How nice of her,” I say curtly, although I can’t remember when Serena and Cordon could have had that conversation. Serena is never required to bring her father home, as Mistress Ogden feels that the Draughts is too rough a place for her.

  Cordon shoots me a wary look and changes the subject, “How did the cake turn out?”

  “Crispy,” I answer. “Mistress tossed it out.”

  “I told you I should have helped. I’m a much better cook than you are.” He gives me a sly grin and I smile in return, cheered for the first time all day.

  “All right,” I say, laughing. “Next time you’re in charge of convincing Mistress not to toss me out.”

  Cordon stops smiling. He looks down and begins stirring the stew with fast, efficient strokes. An awkward silence falls between us and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut. Ever since he came of age things have been strained between us, and I wonder if he remembers our childhood promise.

  “Maybe you should talk to Serena,” he says finally.

  “Serena?” I repeat, surprised. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Maybe you can work out a different arrangement with the Ogdens,” he says. “Serena would help you; I’m sure of it.”

  “I doubt Her Royal Highness could be bothered to lift one lazy finger on my behalf.”

  “She’s not lazy,” Cordon says, frowning. “She’s just used to being waited on. And she’s good with her mother. You should talk to her.”

  “Right. And since when do you make it your business to know what Serena’s good at?”

  “Don’t be unkind. She’s changed. Serena’s not the girl she once was. She’s grown softer, kinder.”

  I stifle a snort. The thought of Serena being a kindhearted girl is laughable. Serena is the kind of girl who once threatened to tell Mistress I hit her if I didn’t stand under a beehive. She wanted to see how long it would take for one to sting me. (Two hours, as it turned out.)

  Of course, that was before I toughened up. Before I started studying Mistress and the way she persuaded others to do her bidding. Once I learned the delicate art of manipulation, I found I could convince Serena to do whatever I wanted.

  Do you know, Serena, I heard a woman talking in town, and she said that standing in a swamp will give you fairer skin? It must be true because she was beautiful. . . .

  “Serena cares for you in her own, complicated way,” Cordon continues.

  “There’s nothing complicated about being a spoiled brat,” I say.

  His features darken and he picks up the basket. “I need to give this to Timothy,” he says stiffly. “Can you look after the stew?”

  He brushes past me, and I’m left wondering why my words angered him.

  Just then the door opens behind me, and a shadow casts across the wall. Hot breath brushes my neck and gooseflesh pimples my arms. It must be the oily-haired man, coming to see if I’ve reconsidered his offer of “friendship.” As I reach for my dagger, a hand grabs my shoulder. I give a shout and whirl around and my dagger nearly slices Mister Travers’s arm.

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Travers,” I say, sighing with relief as I slide the dagger back into my pocket.

  Mister Travers moved to Tulan a month ago and is the best teacher I’ve ever had. I’ve always enjoyed school be-cause it is the one place I can escape Mistress. Yet she always seemed to find reasons for me to stay home to cook and clean, saying it was useless to waste an education on me. In the past my schoolteachers, charmed by Mistress, always overlooked my absences. But Mister Travers makes it a point to visit Ogden Manor every time I miss, which irritates her to no end. Thanks to him, now I hardly ever miss school.

  “I’m sorry, Elara,” he says. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “You didn’t scare me,” I lie, although it looks like Mister Travers is the one who is scared. Sweat pours from his brow and his eyes seem strangely unfocused. I step closer to him and get a strong whiff of ale. “Is there a problem?” I ask.

  “Your whole existence has been a problem,” he whispers. His voice sounds haunted. But before I can take in his words, I notice the inside of his cloak.

  It’s lined in a deep, emerald green.

  I step backward and the heat from the stew warms my back. “Were you following me, Mister Travers?”

  He removes a handkerchief from his cloak and mops his brow. Although he doesn’t reply, I realize I have my answer.

  “Why were you following me?” I reach my hand back into my cloak and grasp my dagger. It occurs to me that although Mister Travers seems kind, I don’t know him well at all.

  “I am sorry I scared you . . . I had wanted to . . . that is, I thought I should—” He breaks off, and closes his eyes. When he opens them he says, “They’ve found me.”

  “What?” I step forward. “Who’s found you?”

  “The Guardians. Ever since I came to Tulan I have wanted to speak with you. But I had to wait, I had to know for sure, and now it seems I have waited too long to tell you. . . .” He breaks off and his eyes stray to the door.

  “The Guardians?” Sighing, I release my dagger and place a hand on Mister Travers’s shoulder, as though he is a confused child. “I think you’ve had too much to drink. No one is coming after you. Let me make you a cup of—”

  “No! You must tell no one you saw me today,” he whispers intently. “I have something important to give you.” Quickly, he reaches into his cloak and removes a book. An expen-sive one, judging by the brown leather-bound cover. He hands it to me and I read the title: Eleanor of Andewyn House: Galandria’s Greatest Queen.

  Eleanor Andewyn was Galandria’s founding queen. She grew up in a family of miners and it was she who first discovered opals in Galandria’s soil. She used her newfound wealth to unify all the villages and form our kingdom. Her family, the Andewyns, built the Opal Palace in Allegria and has ruled Galandria for centuries.

  But why this should matter to me, I don’t understand.

  “Take it,” Mister Travers says in response to my confusion. “I shall be going away, and the time has come for you to keep it.”

  “But why?”

  “Because it was your mother’s,” he answers. “And she intended for you to have it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  WILHA

  From my chambers in the Opal Palace, I hear the people chanting my name. It is not my birth name they chant, but the other name. The one that has always overshadowed everything else. Their cries pelt in through the open window, insistent and demanding, like a nettlesome song that you cannot get out of your head.

  Masked Princess!

  Masked Princess!

  Masked Princess!

  A gust of wind blows into the room, and I bring a hand to my face. Instead of skin, my fingers brush the smooth, painted metal of my mask. It is cold and wet with stray raindrops.

  Behind me, Arianne, my father’s secretary, runs through my itinerary for the rest of the day, while my maid, Vena, begins tugging at my co
rset. I gasp as it pulls and puckers tight.

  “How’s that?” Vena grunts. She doesn’t wait for an answer and begins fastening up the buttons on my gown. Her movements are hurried, as I know she hates touching me.

  “It is a bit stiff,” I murmur. “Could you—”

  “Princess, try to concentrate, please?” Arianne says with annoyance. “Matters important to Galandria require your attention. After your appearance on the balcony, you have your training session with Patric. After that the king has asked you to visit the children at the Royal Orphanage. . . .”

  Vena finishes buttoning my gown. I turn around to face Arianne, who peers at the parchment she holds and continues. “In addition, the daughter of the king’s physician is having a wedding in three days. His Majesty feels it would be best if you attended.”

  “Please tell the king that if he wishes me to be there, I shall. But if he leaves it to my discretion, I should like to remain here.”

  Vena gives Arianne a look that says I told you so.

  Arianne continues as though I have not spoken, “Master Welkin delivered your new mask today. He says it is his greatest work yet.” She grimaces her disapproval, to remind me that I should have met with the mask maker myself, and holds up a large lavender velvet box.

  I open the box and sigh. The metal mask is painted in gold leaf and encrusted with red, orange, and yellow fire opals from Galandria’s wealthy opal mines. Small diamonds line the holes cut for my eyes. As I lift the mask from the box, the opals catch the candlelight and sparkle like a sunset. The mask is beautiful, yet I cannot see it as anything more than a sentence I must carry out.

  I only wish someone would tell me what crime I have committed.

  Although this mask is much brighter than the one I am currently wearing, they are identically shaped. Every mask I own covers my entire face, with the exception of my chin, my lips, and the top of my nose. When I was younger, I would stare at the shape of my masks and try to comfort myself with the thought that at least they left me enough space to breathe.

  “Master Welkin is designing several more masks,” Arianne says. “They should be ready in a week so you will have your pick for the birthday ball.”

  I utter my thanks and gratitude, for I know it’s expected of me, then turn and enter my closet. I take a few uncomfortable steps and turn back to tell Vena my corset really is too tight, but stop when I hear Arianne whispering.

  “Spoiled is what she is. Doesn’t appreciate anything the king does. He gives her the world and asks that she only make a few appearances.”

  “Spoiled freak, you mean,” Vena whispers back. “If my family didn’t need the worthings, you wouldn’t catch me anywhere near her. The palace pays good money after what happened to Rinna. I’ll bet you under that mask she’s just as ugly as they say she is.”

  A true princess would not allow her servants to speak about her so. But at hearing the name of my former nanny, I draw back so they cannot see me. The fear that Vena may be speaking nothing less than the truth steals my voice.

  Quietly, I turn back and move deeper into the closet. Rows of golden gowns and jeweled silken dresses seem to go on for ages. Glass cases holding every mask I have received since birth line the wall in front of me.

  The cases are made of thick glass that is said to be unbreakable, and can only be opened by a jeweled key, a key which always hangs around my neck. Dozens of other decorative keys hang from the chain as well, forming a thick jeweled necklace. The keys clink and jingle as I remove the necklace and open a case. I place my new mask inside the case and close it again.

  I stop to look at myself in the mirror next to the cases. The mask I am wearing is painted black, and black opals that shine with veins of sapphire trail like tears down either side.

  I glance backward to make sure Arianne and Vena have not stepped into the closet. When I see they haven’t, I untie the mask and stare at my reflection. My eyes are green, and my nose is small. My hair is brown, the same color, I am told, as my mother’s. There is nothing remarkable about me. Yet surely, there is nothing horrendous either?

  “Princess!” Arianne snaps. “It is nearly noon!”

  I sigh and tie the mask back on. Every Friday at noon, I appear on the palace balcony before the crowd. The stares are agony. People look at me, not as someone they may wish to know, but as a macabre curiosity, a freak that both intrigues and repulses them. Men hold their children tighter, fearing that the rumors may be true, and I have the power to harm their family. Beautiful women glare at me, feeling upstaged by the grandeur of my jewels and dress. The peasants worship or revile me, calling out their well wishes or ill will in equal measures.

  None of them want to look past the Masked Princess’s costume and see the girl underneath.

  T he chanting grows louder, until it seems the palace walls shake in anticipation. I hurry down the corridor with Arianne and Vena following closely behind. A group of nobles who have come to call on my father sweep out of our way. One woman discreetly brings her hand to her eyes as we pass, in case I suddenly decide to rip off my mask and curse everyone with my abominable face.

  Patric stands in front of all the other guards at the entrance to the balcony. His black hair, broad shoulders, and strong arms and legs give him the distinct build of a soldier.

  “Good afternoon, Princess.” His voice is formal and he bows appropriately.

  I nod. “Good afternoon, Patric.” I am careful to match his tone.

  “Will you be joining us on the balcony today?” Vena, standing beside me, tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

  “Not today,” he answers, though he looks at me as he speaks.

  “Pity,” Vena says in a lilting voice. “A stray arrow might be worth the risk if it were you coming to a lady’s rescue.”

  “Stray arrows are nothing to joke about,” Patric says curtly. “Especially while the princess stands beside you.”

  “Of course. Please forgive me.” Vena curtsies in my direction, yet I read the irritation in her eyes.

  “Forgive me for detaining you, Madame Arianne,” Patric says with a brief glance in her direction. “I have come with a message for the princess. We will have to cancel our training session today.” He pauses, and I read the slightest disappointment in his eyes. “After your appearance on the balcony, the king requests your presence in his study. We are instead to have our lesson early next week.”

  I nod briefly, as though he is just another guard.

  Patric bows and leaves, and while Arianne gives instructions to the other guards, Vena leans in close, her eyes lingering on Patric’s retreating figure. “During your training sessions, does he mention anyone? He is of age. Is he betrothed?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I do not make inquiries of his personal life,” I say, dismayed to realize this is the truth. I turn away, unwilling to discuss Patric any longer.

  Arianne orders the guards to open the doors to the balcony, and we are greeted with the smell of rain and wet cobblestones. Cheers from the crowd below mix with the roaring of the wind. Vena holds a parasol over my head and I step forward.

  Even with the rain, the courtyard is packed. People are still streaming through the gilded gates, past the gardens and water fountains, and up to the stone steps, where a line of palace guards stand.

  Peasants dressed in simple clothes mix with rich Alle-grian noblewomen, who carry their own pastel-colored parasols. Several men and women appear to be on a pilgrimage judging by their foreign-looking robes. At the very front of the crowd are several men dressed in brown cloaks and masks made of gold thread. I know them to be “Maskrens,” a cult devoted to the Masked Princess.

  I look, too, at the masks some of the women in the crowd wear: simple costumed ones for the merchant class, and jeweled—but less ornate than mine—ones for the noblewomen. A scream wells in my throat, clawing for release. But I swallow it, because who will ever understand?

  “Smile and wave, for Eleanor’s sake,” Arianne hisses in my ea
r. “Stop standing there looking like you are facing the chopping block.”

  I obey and force myself to wave. The crowd parts for two men, each of whom hold the arm of a third man. All three of them look ragged and dirty. But the third man has a bloody nose. His left eye is swollen shut; his lips are bruised. His shirt is torn, and he is fighting to free himself from the other two.

  The first man says, “Masked Princess, we have a crime to report,” and he gives the third man a shake. “This man stole grain from a family in our village. One of the little ones got sick from hunger and died. This man is guilty of murder!”

  “We have come here to demand justice!” The second man raises his voice. “Take off your mask and curse him. Give him the punishment he deserves!”

  A hush falls over the crowd. Even the wind ceases its wailing. Horror twists my insides as his words register. I grasp the balcony railing and look down at the bruised and bleeding man, who stares back at me with terrified eyes. The men who hold him are superstitious. Yet they are not asking for healing or a blessing, as some have before.

  They are asking me to kill this man.

  A few women gather up their children and hurry away. Several other citizens cover their eyes.

  “I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” screams the bleeding man as his captors shove him to his knees. “I was hungry!”

  “Everyone is hungry,” shouts a peasant woman in the crowd. “Everyone except the Andewyns and the rich!”

  Arianne’s grip on my shoulder is vice-like. “Say something!” she hisses. “Before this turns ugly.”

  I look out at the crowd. The air is thick with silent expectation. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

  Arianne curses under her breath and then shouts down at the men. “Take him to the courthouse if you feel he has wronged you.” She begins ushering me back into the palace. “Get back inside, unless you want to be the cause ofanother death.”

  There is a sharp intake of breath from Vena and the guards. Arianne goes pale as she realizes she has just uttered the unspeakable.