The Princess in the Opal Mask Page 3

  “Your Highness,” she says, for once using my proper title, “I apologize. I was out of line.”

  I nod blindly and follow her back inside the palace. Vena hurries away, muttering something about errands.

  After she is gone, I lower my voice and ask Arianne, “Did she die? After what happened, did Rinna die?”

  Arianne refuses to look me in the eye. “Your father has asked to see you in his study. You don’t want to keep the king waiting.”

  “Please,” I beg. “No one will ever speak to me about her.”

  Arianne sighs. “It is not my place to ask questions,” she says carefully. “But shortly after . . . the incident, Lord Murcendor told me Rinna had to return to her village due to family obligations.”

  “And did you believe him?” I whisper.

  Arianne doesn’t answer. But I read the truth in her eyes and know that she, just like so many others, believes I am a monster.

  CHAPTER 4

  WILHA

  All my life I have been forbidden to show my face. Yet I don’t know why. All I know is the scandal surrounding my birth. While my mother Queen Astrid lay laboring in her bed, my father ordered the Opal Palace be emptied of all its staff. A few members of the Guardian Council were summoned to the palace, and no word was heard from them, or my father, for two days. Everyone in Allegria assumed my mother had died, and possibly, the baby she carried as well.

  Yet on the third day my father, King Fennrick the Handsome, appeared on the palace balcony. Tired and care-worn, he declared that Queen Astrid, though severely sick, was alive and had given birth to a healthy baby girl, who they named Wilhamina. When my mother finally reappeared in public she was unrecognizable. Gone was Astrid the Regal, the strong queen who bore the monarchy with grace and compassion. Instead, I am told that she seemed a pale, haggard shadow of her former self. My father said she had been weakened by child birth and did not fully recover.

  Most citizens in Allegria would have believed him, had it not been for the page who had been sent to summon the Guardians. The following night he got drunk at a tavern and swore loudly to anyone who would listen that he had heard the king shouting about the birth of his first child. That the child was not a blessing, but a curse.

  When I was finally shown to the public, I was wearing a tiny, opal-encrusted mask over my face. No formal explanation for the mask was ever given. Royal officials—who themselves seemed bewildered by my father’s decision to cover my face—assumed that it was a stunt, a device for King Fennrick to gain even more glory and fame for Galandria.

  But many remembered the words of the page, who had disappeared shortly after his drunken confession, and other rumors began to circulate. Some believe that I was born with a facial defect and my father, brokenhearted his good looks had not been passed on, decreed I should wear a mask to hide my ugliness. Others believe that my mother looked upon me and became seriously ill, surviving just long enough to bear a son, my brother, Crown Prince Andrei, and that the mask is to ensure the protection of everyone else, lest they suffer the same cursed fate as the queen.

  And one rumor that some desperately want to believe is that one look from the Masked Princess can bless or heal those in need. But I know my face can help no one.

  Over the years, these rumors of the Masked Princess have spread far and wide, perhaps just as my father intended. Most sensible people in Allegria take no notice of them. Yet still, the most superstitious believe any one of them.

  My father and his advisors have always assured me there is nothing wrong with me or my face. Yet it is difficult to believe them, as they never offer a real explanation for the mask. Once when I was a small child I took off my mask in front of Rinna, my favorite nanny. It was summer, and I didn’t understand why I still had to wear the mask, even on the hottest of days, when all I wanted was to press my cheek to Rinna’s cool palm.

  I can still remember the shock and sorrow on Rinna’s face, and her strangled voice crying, “But Princess, you know the rules!”

  “Rinna, please,” I sobbed, clinging to her. “I forgot. No one has to know. Please.” Back then, I believed I would receive a good lecture and a paddling from my father, whose wrath was a fearsome thing to behold. Yet the punishment was far worse. Rinna, too noble to lie, even by omission, went to my father and reported the indiscretion.

  And that was the last I ever saw or heard from her.

  Lord Murcendor, one of my father’s Guardians, visited me the next morning. “Rinna became seriously ill last night. Unfortunately, she can no longer be of any service to the royal family.”

  He paused, and added, “Is it true you took your mask off in front of her?”

  “Yes,” I replied in a little girl whisper. “Did that make her sick?”

  “Of course not.” Lord Murcendor said quickly. “But Wilha, you know what your father says. Be a good girl and keep the mask on.”

  After word spread in the castle about the incident, most other nannies and servants in the Opal Palace kept a careful eye on me, making sure I never again lifted my mask. And for several years afterward, I would ask what had become of Rinna, but no answer was ever given. As I grew older, and began to understand why some people would cover their eyes upon seeing me, and the whispers that always followed, I stopped asking about her. I was not sure I could handle the answer.

  Oftentimes when I am alone I remove my mask and spend hours gazing at my reflection. And I cannot help but wonder . . .

  Is this the face of Death?

  My father’s private study is located just off of the Eleanor Throne Room, a large hall where he receives visitors and conducts state business. At the end of the hall on the north end is his gilded throne. On the western end, as though she is watching over the room, stands a white statue of Galandria’s founder, Queen Eleanor the Great. In each of her hands she holds one of the two Split Opals she dropped during her coronation. Fifteen palace guards surround the statue and they bow as I pass through the hall.

  As I enter the study my father and Lord Quinlan, the Guardian of Defense, are standing over my father’s desk examining a stack of parchments.

  “. . . Gathered enough information and they are in pursuit of him as we speak,” I hear Lord Quinlan saying. “We should have word very soon. And as for the other matter . . .”

  “As for the other matter, my mind is already made up,” my father answers sharply. “I will not hear—” He stops abruptly when he sees me standing in the doorway.

  Lord Quinlan turns to look at me, his thick jeweled necklaces glinting in the candlelight, and he quickly gathers up the parchments. “Have a care, Fennrick,” he says, as he exits the room. “Done right, war can be quite profitable.” He sweeps past me with a brief bow.

  My father scowls in response and signals that I should wait while he scribbles on a strip of parchment. Though still handsome, he seems to have aged overnight. I wonder if what everyone is saying is true, if war with Kyrenica is now inevitable.

  My father rolls up the parchment and begins to speak. “Daughter, you are aware I have been negotiating a treaty with Sir Reinhold, Kyrenica’s ambassador?” He removes a pigeon from its cage and attaches the parchment to the bird’s leg. Then he releases the pigeon and it flies out the open window and into the rain.

  I nod. “I am.”

  He rubs his temples and opens his mouth but seems to be at a loss for words. In that moment I see him, as I suspect many do, as merely a second son, never properly trained to rule. Crowned king only after his more competent older brother died of the same fever that took my grandfather the king.

  “I am convinced the Kyrenicans mean to attack us. Yet Sir Reinhold plays his role well. He says King Ezebo believes Galandria is poised to invade Kyrenica. I have assured him that, so long as I am king, Galandria is committed to peacefully coexisting with Kyrenica.

  “Kyrenica’s strength grows each year,” he continues. “So we must not be idle. We must secure peace now, when we can offer what the Kyrenicans desire. Rat
her than waiting until they are strong enough to take it by force.”

  I am unsure where my father is going with this. He does not often discuss politics—or anything else—with me. Mostly, he seems to prefer pretending I do not exist.

  “And what is it they desire?” I ask.

  “Mining rights over the northern range of the Opal Mountains. They have demanded that we allow them passage without interference from our army. If we do not grant them this, then they shall eventually engage their own army. In exchange, they will remove their trading restrictions on Galandria, which has been crippling our economy. And . . .” He pauses to clear his throat. “And King Ezebo demands your betrothal to his son, the crown prince of Kyrenica.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face and my body goes rigid. Marry into the Kyrenican royal family? There could be nothing worse.

  A century ago, Kyrenica, Galandria’s premier seaport, declared independence from us. The revolt in Kyrenica was led by Aislinn Andewyn, the twin sister of my great-great grandmother Queen Rowan the Brave. Aislinn was said to be bitterly jealous that Rowan, older by a mere seven minutes, was crowned queen of Galandria instead of her.

  Queen Rowan traveled to Kyrenica to resolve the dispute. She was betrayed by Aislinn, who came to be known as the Great Betrayer, and was taken prisoner inside the Kyrenican Castle. Rowan was sentenced to death. However, the night before she was to be beheaded, she miraculously escaped. Aislinn was held responsible for Queen Rowan’s escape and was executed instead by King Ezebo’s great grandfather, Bronson Strassburg, the nobleman who helped Aislinn incite the Kyrenicans against Queen Rowan. War began in earnest and continued for several years until Galandria was forced to admit defeat. Bronson Strassburg declared himself king of a newly independent Kyrenica and annexed several other coastal regions, leaving Galandria virtually land-locked.

  And what was once a vast Galandrian kingdom, was essentially split in two. Many believe it was the fulfillment of the omen foretold in the Legend of the Split Opals, on the day of Queen Eleanor’s coronation.

  All my life I have been taught to believe that the Kyrenicans and their royal family, the Strassburgs, are brutal, desperate people. That they are a threat to my family, and to everyone else in Galandria.

  Several seconds go by before I can respond, and when I do, my voice is high-pitched and quaking. “You would have me marry a Strassburg? A Kyrenican?”

  “You would marry Crown Prince Stefan, the future king of Kyrenica.”

  “I have heard you say that the lowest servant in Galandria is more worthy than the greatest lord in Kyrenica. You have called them dogs. You would have me marry a dog?”

  “I would have you save lives. It seems that King Ezebo does not fear the rumors of your mask, and is eager to see you married to his son. He has asked for your immediate departure. You are to leave in three months.”

  “Three months?” I repeat. “But I am not to marry until I am seventeen.”

  “You will marry at seventeen. In a year.” He nods. “But we agreed that as a gesture of goodwill, I would send you sooner. And it will give you time to become acquainted with Kyrenica before the wedding.”

  “But . . . I thought I had another year. . . .” I feel faint and I sink into the chair in front of his desk. Why is he so eager to get rid of me?

  My father shuffles the parchments on his desk, and when he looks up at me he sighs. “Be a good girl, Wilha. A good princess. Kingdoms need someone to believe in. Let them believe in you.”

  He stands then, as though the matter is settled. And I suppose it is.

  “I will go,” I say, also standing. “You know I will. But give me one thing before I go.”

  “A gift? Certainly. All the jewels and dresses—”

  “No, not that. I want you to look at me. If the rumors are untrue, as you say they are, then please, look at me.” I move to untie my mask.

  “Wilha, stop!” His voice is firm. “Don’t make this more difficult.”

  “Don’t make what more difficult? You say that the rumors are rubbish. If that is true, then why will you not look at me?”

  He does not answer. Instead, he exits the room without another word. And I am left alone with the sinking fear that has been my constant companion.

  Because if my own father refuses to look at me, there must be something horribly wrong with me.

  CHAPTER 5

  ELARA

  I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I can only stare blindly at the book.

  This was my mother’s?

  Before I can ask any of the thousand questions churning in my mind, the din in the tavern suddenly ceases and a loud voice calls out. “I’m looking for the man you all know as Travers.”

  Mister Travers pales. He seizes me by the arm and shoves me into an alcove just off the kitchen where Sylvia keeps her supplies.

  “But who wants—” I begin.

  “Hush!” He grabs my shoulders and stares at me with an intensity I’ve never before seen in his eyes. “Stay in here until I’m gone, do you understand?” he whispers fiercely, gripping my shoulders tighter until I nod. “Tell no one we have spoken.”

  “We saw him come in here,” the voice outside the kitchen continues. “We will reward anyone who can deliver him to us.”

  “I saw him go into the kitchen,” calls another voice.

  Quickly, Mister Travers strides to the door and opens it. With a grim determination he declares: “I am the one you are looking for.”

  Once he disappears into the main room, I slip the book into my cloak, cross the kitchen, and crack the door open an inch.

  The room is silent. A palace guard wearing a breastplate with the Andewyn coat of arms binds Mister Travers’s hands with chains. Several other guards stand nearby, eyeing the men warily, many of whom have risen from their seats and have their hands near their belt, as though they intend to grab their weapon.

  “Our business is only with this man,” a guard calls out. “The rest of you can resume your activities.”

  The guards usher Mister Travers out the door. Just before he leaves, the guard who bound Mister Travers’s hands holds up a large black velvet bag. He opens it and tosses a handful of worthings to the floor. “A present from King Fennrick.”

  The hush that has fallen over the room breaks and the men are on the floor, scrambling over one another for the worthings. And though I haven’t forgotten Mister Travers’s words, the sight of the golden coins makes me plunge into the crowd, scratching, pulling, and kicking, until I’ve collected twelve worthings. I walk over and give eight of them to a watery-eyed Timothy.

  “Take these,” I say, pulling him out the door quickly. “Take them and hide them in your pocket. Don’t show them to anyone, and run until you get home.”

  After Timothy flees, I turn in the other direction and see a guard is pushing Mister Travers into a gilded carriage.

  “That’s a royal carriage from Allegria,” Cordon says, joining me at the door.

  The curtain in the carriage parts, and a pale hand adorned with a large opal ring holds out several worthings to the guard, who accepts them and bows.

  “What could King Fennrick possibly want with Mister Travers?” Cordon asks. He turns to me, looking concerned. “When he went into the kitchen, did he say anything to you?”

  My hand slides down my cloak. I feel the edge of the book, hidden in my pocket. I glance back at the carriage and make a decision. “Nothing. He said nothing at all.”

  After I finally pry Mister Ogden away from the Draughts and we begin our walk home, I wonder how Mister Travers came to be in possession of a book belonging to my mother. I consider every possibility I can think of until one of them fits.

  Mister Ogden, though incapable of managing Ogden Manor, has been able to sustain a side business by systematically selling off the contents of the manor. He’s made some-what of a name for himself as an antiques dealer. Few of his customers realize it’s his own possessions he sells.

  If my mother le
ft a handful of items to be passed on to me, I have no doubt the Ogdens would see it as nothing more than their right to sell them. And I’m sure Mister Travers, being a schoolteacher fond of history, would have jumped at the chance to own such an expensive-looking book. Though how he could’ve found out the book was my mother’s, I don’t know. And if she left me a book, what else did she leave? Had there been other items that would have given me a clue to my family’s origins?

  But that doesn’t explain why palace guards were after Mister Travers or his insistence that I not be seen with him. And the guard had said they were looking for the man we know as Travers. Is that not his real name?

  “Harold, you’re drunk!” Mistress Ogden cries as I drag him into the kitchen.

  “Not a bit, dearest,” Mister Ogden says and sways before sitting down heavily on the stool I pull out for him. “I’ve just had a wonderful run of the cards.” With a flourish, he produces several worthings. “And you’ll never guess what just happened at the Draughts—”

  “I don’t care,” Mistress Ogden snaps. “You’re late. Mister Blackwell will be here soon.” She glares at me. “I had to start the potato stew myself.”

  “Mister Blackwell, bah!” Mister Ogden says, belching. “Never liked the look of that man. Calculating, like a snake—though perhaps that’s why you like him so, dearest. Don’t like his sneaky black eyes glaring like he thinks he’s better than me.”

  “He is better than you. He’s the one with the worthings.”

  While they bicker, I quickly hide the book in the pantry and promise myself I’ll look through it later.

  “Worthings? What did I just say—” Mister Ogden leans back—and promptly tumbles off the stool. His worthings scatter across the kitchen floor.

  “Harold, get up this instant!” Mistress Ogden practically stamps her foot in frustration.

  “The candles in the dining room are lit,” Serena says, glowering as she enters the kitchen. Upon seeing Mister Ogden on the floor she rushes to his side. “Father, what’s happened?”