The Princess in the Opal Mask Read online

  “Mister Blackwell?” My voice is dry and raspy from lack of water.

  The men ignore me. The two I don’t recognize stare at me in a kind of awe.

  I look at Mister Blackwell. “What is going on?”

  “Lord Murcendor,” says one of the men I don’t recognize. He’s bald with severe-looking eyes and wears several rings and necklaces. “Make introductions.”

  Mister Blackwell casts a dark look at the bald man, and I shake my head in confusion. What did he just call him?

  “I wasn’t aware I took orders from you, Lord Quinlan,” Mister Blackwell says.

  The bald man—Lord Quinlan—flushes and his eyes narrow. “Make introductions, please,” he says.

  “Perhaps we should start by telling the girl where she is,” says the third man in an annoyed tone. He is barrel chested and has thick, gray hair and an equally thick gray beard. He looks less polished than the other two. His face is tough and tanned and grooved, like weathered wood. He stares back at me with impassive blue eyes.

  “Indeed you’re right, Lord Royce,” says Lord Quinlan. He turns to address me. “You are in the Guardians’ Chambers in the Opal Palace.”

  For the first time it dawns on me that all three men are wearing thick emerald green robes. I remember seeing the Guardians wearing them in Eleanor Square. My stomach clenches as I remember, too, Mister Travers’s feverish words.

  “What do you want with me?” I murmur, glancing from Lord Quinlan to Mister Blackwell. “Why am I here?”

  “You are here because in some sense, you belong here,” says Mister Blackwell. “You are not an orphan as you have been led to believe, and I am not Mister Blackwell, nor do I work for the orphanage. I am Lord Murcendor, Guardian of the Opal Mines.” He pauses. “And you, quite simply, are the daughter of King Fennrick.”

  The three Guardians look at me, but I stare back at them, unmoved. I don’t know what game these men are playing, but I don’t believe it.

  “You’re mad,” I say.

  “Am I?” Mister Blackwell—or Lord Murcendor—says. “Have you ever wondered why the Royal Orphanage paid for your care all these years? Do you really think such an arrangement was made for every orphan in Galandria? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to find a family desperate enough to accept you and the money, and too stupid to ever question it?”

  His words stop me short, and blackness creeps at the edges of my vision. Everything seems to fade away, except for Mister Blackwell, sitting on a marble throne and draped in a Guardian’s robe.

  Don’t trust the Guardians. The king’s secret has poisoned them.

  “But that can’t be,” I say. “I remember my mother. She was a villager with red hair. She used to sing to me—”

  “What you remember,” he interjects, “is the wet nurse we placed you with until I located a family to take you. The Ogdens.”

  I swallow and open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Because his words make sense. The arrange-ment with the Ogdens is unusual, isn’t it? Why had I never thought to question it?

  Am I the king’s secret?

  I am the daughter of King Fennrick, I try the words out in my mind, but they don’t seem to fit. Yet I can’t help remembering every evil word Mistress Ogden said about my mother, all the dirty names she called her. Was my mother such a woman? A woman who thought her life had changed for the better when she caught the king’s eye, only to be cast aside later, after she had served her purpose?

  But why wasn’t I allowed to stay with her? Why the wet nurse? Why couldn’t the treasury have paid my own mother to care for me somewhere in obscurity? Was it because she knew the king’s shameful secret was considered a threat? Is she even alive now?

  “Did you kill her?” I ask, swaying slightly.

  “I am afraid you will have to be more specific,” Lord Murcendor says.

  “My mother. After she gave birth, did you kill her? Because you were afraid one day she’d proclaim her daughter the bastard child of King Fennrick the Handsome?”

  The Guardians glance at each other, seemingly perplexed. “You misunderstand,” Lord Quinlan answers. “Your mother was Queen Astrid. It is pure royal blood that flows through your veins.”

  I am poised to argue. If I am a princess, why was I given to the Ogdens? Why haven’t I grown up in the Opal Palace?

  Before I can ask them this, Lord Murcendor rises and knocks on a door behind him. “You may come in now.”

  The door opens, and a golden statue enters the room.

  CHAPTER 17

  WILHA

  The Guardians bow as I enter the room. The girl across the room remains standing. I read the confusion in her eyes and realize they have not told her. Lord Murcendor’s kindness in telling me a couple weeks ago, and giving me time to understand and accept it (in so far as that can be possible) has not been extended to her.

  The girl glances from me to the Guardians. She is dirty and her hair is matted. Deep purple circles hang under her eyes and flea bites dot her arms. Covered in all that grime, it is almost too hard to believe she is who they say she is. Almost, but not quite.

  “Your Highness,” Lord Murcendor says, bowing again. “You may proceed.”

  All my life I have waited for this invitation. All those nights when I stared into my looking glass, I longed for the day when I could do this one small thing, and know truly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I could hurt no one.

  I reach behind my head and untie the mask. With shaking hands I remove it.

  There are several sharp inhalations and the girl’s face whitens.

  Lord Murcendor introduces us. He says the words. He gives her the explanation she probably never suspected, but the one I have searched for my whole life.

  The girl’s face twists in disgust. Her rejection is sharp like an arrow.

  And for the briefest of seconds, I want to put the mask back on.

  CHAPTER 18

  ELARA

  I am staring at my own face. Except not quite. The girl standing before me has my exact features, but with slight differences. Her skin reminds me of cream and roses. The way she carries herself is different. As though her shoulders and waist are tied to an invisible post, forcing her to stand straight. She wears a gold dress and her necklace of keys make a tinkling melodic sound as she steps forward. And in her hands she carries the jeweled mask she just removed.

  The Guardians, except for Lord Murcendor, stare at us in awe.

  “So alike,” Lord Quinlan murmurs. “For so many years I have wondered.”

  “For sixteen years, we have all wondered,” answers Lord Royce.

  “Elara, may I introduce Princess Wilhamina Andewyn.” Lord Murcendor pauses, and adds, “Your twin sister.”

  “That’s imposs—” I begin, but stop as the memory I’ve been searching for finally surfaces. In Eleanor Square, just before I was knocked unconscious, I had seen Princess Wilha-mina’s mask come undone. And it had occurred to me that her face reminded me of another.

  My own.

  I can’t tear my eyes away from her. Our height, our green eyes, our brown hair—we’re identical. But this girl, this other me, she’s quaking. As though our stares are too much for her to bear.

  Lord Quinlan says to me, “There is a stool behind you.” To Princess Wilhamina he says, “If you would care to sit down as well, Your Highness.”

  Princess Wilhamina looks quickly at Lord Murcendor, who nods, before she settles herself on a marble throne across from where I take a seat on the stool. Seeing a girl with my face huddled on a throne makes my neck prickle.

  Lord Quinlan saunters to the middle of the room with a grand smile on his face. He circles around, taking his time, clearly enjoying the moment.

  “Where to begin?” he says. “When it was discovered that Queen Astrid had given birth to twins, the king summoned four of the Guardians: myself, Lord Murcendor, Lord Royce, and another to witness the occasion. When we arrived, the king was almost mad with grief. The last time twins
were born to the ruling Galandrian monarch was a century ago, with the birth of Rowan and Aislinn Andewyn. Back then, it was simply assumed that the older twin would rule, and that the line of succession would continue on peacefully. No one could have foreseen that Aislinn Andewyn—the Great Betrayer—would become a bitter woman. Bitter enough to betray her own sister and cause the splitting of our kingdom, thereby bringing about the fulfillment of the Legend of the Split Opals.

  “But this time, the king had the advantage of his own family history. There was much unrest in Galandria in those days. Many feared revolution, just as they do now. And another set of twins could be seen as yet another premonition. Another split of a great and glorious kingdom by two heirs both bent on ruling.

  “The king feared, and the three of us agreed, that if the birth of twins was announced, factions would immediately develop, supporting one girl over another, with the likely result one day being civil war. And so, the decision was made: There would be only one child born that day. Only one recognized princess of Galandria. And if the queen could conceive another child, the princess was to be removed from the line of succession. With neither of the twins knowing about the existence of the other, and neither of them in line to rule, it was thought the kingdom would be safe.”

  I sit there numbly as Lord Quinlan explains how the midwife was sent abroad, and how one of the twins—myself—was smuggled out of the castle to be raised anonymously by a wet nurse until they could locate a suitable home. How Lord Murcendor was appointed to watch over her and keep her location a secret.

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupt. “How did you decide?”

  “Decide what?”

  “How did you decide which twin would go and which would stay?” I need to hear him say it.

  Lord Quinlan’s eyes meet mine. “Birth order. Princess Wilhamina was born seven minutes earlier than you.”

  I nod. So when my father looked upon the second twin, he didn’t see her. He didn’t see me. He saw another Aislinn Andewyn. An act of treachery a century before I was born stole my future.

  “So you decided to hand me over to an anonymous family to be treated as their servant?” I address my words to Mister Black—to Lord Murcendor.

  Lord Murcendor stares at me from his marble throne. “It was better than the alternative.”

  “Which was?”

  “Seclusion,” Lord Murcendor says and rises from his throne. He stands in the center of the room, facing Lord Quinlan, who glowers back at him, seemingly unhappy to have someone steal his thunder.

  “We could not have you wandering around the castle. And so we considered, when you were old enough, transferring you to a remote location and forging a mask to conceal your face,” Lord Murcendor begins. “Yet it was thought by the king that such a mask would create a mystique. And the king and queen wanted the chance to know their younger daughter. So a second decision was made: Wilha would wear a mask. And if the queen was able to bear another child, not only would Wilha be removed from the line of succession, she would also marry a foreign suitor and be sent away. And in turn, you were to be brought to the Opal Palace. Though the king could never tell you of your true parentage, he would arrange for you to be given a life here in Allegria. As no one would have ever seen the princess’s face, it was thought you could safely reside in Allegria after Wilhamina left the kingdom.”

  I glance over at Princess Wilhamina. Her face has drained of color. Is this new information to her, too?

  “The King was eager to reclaim you,” Lord Murcendor continues, “and so Gunther was tasked with making sure you were safely brought to the Opal Palace and—”

  “You call a blow to the back of the head being safe?” I snap.

  “The attack in Eleanor Square forced his hand,” Lord Murcendor replies impatiently. “Admittedly, he became overzealous.” He turns to Lord Quinlan and Lord Royce. “And he has been dealt with.”

  The two Guardians nod at him, but my stomach clenches. What does that mean, Gunther’s been “dealt with”? And how exactly do they plan to “deal” with me?

  “Why tell me this now?” I ask.

  “The attack on the royal family has changed everything. And now we have a proposition for you. Your sister is to leave very shortly for Kyrenica.” Lord Murcendor pauses, and says, “We need you to serve as the princess’s decoy on the journey to Kyrenica.”

  “Her decoy?” I choke out, stunned.

  Lord Murcendor nods. “Sir Reinhold, the Kyrenican ambassador, has had several meetings with Princess Wilhamina. He has returned to Korynth, Kyrenica’s capital, and will no doubt want to welcome the princess upon her arrival. He would recognize an imposter immediately, even if she wore Wilha’s mask. But a twin sister whose hair, build, and voice is virtually identical is a different matter.”

  I stare at him while he speaks, but I don’t really hear him. All I hear is that they believe Wilhamina, the twin that’s been given everything, may be in danger, and they will do everything in their power to protect her.

  The rage that’s been bubbling in my heart now floods my veins. Where were these Guardians, so concerned with Wilha’s well-being, all those years when Mistress abused me? Where were they all those nights I had to fend off drunken men in the Draughts?

  And if King Fennrick is so eager to “reclaim me”—like I am nothing more than a piece of property he can annex or cut loose at will—then where is he now? If I have been missed for sixteen years, shouldn’t I have been welcomed back with open arms? Instead, I’ve been thrown into a cell and denied food and water. Were they hoping to starve me into submission?

  I look at Princess Wilhamina huddling on her marble throne, and a thought occurs to me. When the door opened and she walked into the room, I saw no guards standing in the hall behind her.

  “What do you say?” Lord Murcendor asks when he has finished speaking. “Will you protect your sister?”

  She is not my sister, I almost blurt out. I won’t risk my life for her, this paler, pampered version of me. But if I refuse, what will become of me? The Guardians have already proven my life means nothing to them.

  No, I will not entrust my fate to them. I have one chance, and I must use it well.

  Quickly, I bottle my rage, and stopper it with a look of tired resignation. With as much grace as I can muster, I rise to my feet and step forward toward Princess Wilhamina. I lift my skirt, as though I’m about to sink into a curtsy—and then I make a mad dash for the door.

  By the time Lord Murcendor yells for the guards, I’m already through the door. The hall beyond isn’t narrow and deserted as I had hoped, but wide and circular, with white stone statues lining the back walls. Several guards lounge nearby, their expressions startled as I streak past them.

  “Get her!” comes Wolfram’s voice.

  My movements are jerky, and my breathing comes in ragged gasps. After so many days in a cell my muscles are already cramping. But adrenaline fills my veins and I push forward, fleeing the hall. The sound of heavy footsteps and clanking metal follows behind me. If I doubted the Guardians’ words, I know now they were telling the truth. The white columned hallways, the crystal chandeliers, the gilded walls and the arched windows—this can only be the Opal Palace.

  I round a corner and rush down a narrower corridor. When I turn another corner, I enter a large hall and realize I’m running straight for a golden throne.

  I pull up short when several guards, who had been standing in front of a tall statue, unsheathe their swords and start running after me. Suddenly, I’m pushed from behind, and for a moment, I’m flying forward. I hit the stone floor with a thud and a guard lands on top of me. “I’ve got her!” Wolfram shouts. “Run like that again, and I’ll gut you like a pig,” he says to me.

  My lip has split on the hard floor, and I taste blood in my mouth as the guards yank me to my feet. When I look up, I see I’m standing in front of a statue of Eleanor the Great. She holds two large, colorful opals in her hands.

  The circle of guards aro
und me parts for Lord Murcendor; his dark eyes are glowering. “Take her back to her cell,” he commands. “And be careful with this one. She is not right in the head and has an unhealthy obsession with Princess Wilhamina. Pay no attention to whatever lies she may tell you.”

  CHAPTER 19

  WILHA

  Lord Murcendor returns to the Guardians’ Chambers and dismisses me. “I would like for you to wait in your room. Lord Quinlan, Lord Royce, and I need to speak privately.” He motions to my mask. “We will also need you to put that back on.”

  I obey and tie the mask back on my face. I leave the room, but as soon as the door closes behind me, I sink to the ground. Lord Murcendor told me only of Elara’s existence. He said nothing of my father’s plan to bring her to Allegria once I had left the kingdom. I bring a shaking hand to my mask.

  All this time, has my father been counting the years until he could marry me off and be reunited with my sister? Did he ever wonder if he had made a mistake, if he should have sent me away and kept her instead? Given how quickly he has intended to hand me over to the Kyrenicans, I assume he must.

  I think back to Rinna, the person I loved most when I was a child. Once she saw my face, did my father decide it was better if she—like the midwife before her—was sent abroad, so she couldn’t one day identify Elara?

  On the other side of the door I hear the low rumble of the Guardians’ voices. No doubt they expect me to obey Lord Murcendor’s orders and return to my room. All these years, the Guardians and my father have always required my obedience, and I have always given it.

  Yet what if this time I didn’t?

  I rise and approach a maid passing through the hall. “Do you know where I can find Patric, the palace guard? I need to speak to him about our training sessions,” I add hastily in case she says something to the Guardians.

  “He’s usually standing guard at the western turret this time of night,” she answers, and hurries away, looking relieved to get away from me.