The Opal Crown (29 page)

“Show me the tunnel, and I will tell you if it is known to me,” I say.

Lord Nichols reaches across the map with his index finger, landing on Gossamer Falls. “Do you see that mark, right there? Near as I can figure, an identical mark was made in every place where there is a passageway.” He points to dif
ferent locations on the map and I nod, noting there is indeed such a mark near all the passageways I’m aware of.

“I am not familiar with any tunnels leading to Gossamer Falls,” I say. “Whenever my family traveled outside of Allegria we always left via the city gates.”

“It’s possible, then, that this tunnel is also unknown to Andrei and his men and will not be guarded,” Lord Nichols says.

I look at the mark near Gossamer Falls, and consider Lord Nichols’s words. Queen Rowan would have returned to Galandria under the full knowledge that the only reason she avoided execution in Kyrenica was because she either already knew of, or discovered the passageway leading from the castle to the cave near Rowan’s Rock. If a passageway allowing quick escape from the Opal Palace to a location outside of Allegria didn’t already exist, I have no doubt that is exactly what my great-great-grandmother would have commissioned.

“This is madness,” Lord Royce says. “Even if you could get into the palace, there’s no guarantee you will be able to get back out. We don’t know exactly where Elara’s being held, and Andrei still has a decent number of palace guards—”

“Many of whom secretly claim allegiance to Wilha and Elara,” Patric says.

“We could draw many of the guards out of the palace,” Lord Nichols says thoughtfully. “It would not be an overly difficult thing to do. The Lyrisians are planning on going to Allegria’s market and they have sworn their allegiance to the girls. We could ask for their assistance.”

“By doing what?” Patric asks.

“Use the rumors of Wilha’s death. Tell them to say that on the road they encountered a band of armed men claiming they were coming to the city to avenge the Masked Princess’s death. We know how quickly gossip spreads in the city. I would think if they repeated the lie enough, it would prompt a response from the palace. Andrei would be forced to send more men to the gates to defend against a possible attack.”

Lord Royce shakes his head. “Even so, Elara would still be under heavy guard.”

“Under your orders, Lord Royce, I watched Elara for years,” Nicolai speaks up suddenly. “If there’s even the slightest possibility of saving her, I will do all I can.”

“As will I,” Rolf says. “I once swore an oath to her, Uncle. I would not abandon her now.” Many of Lord Royce’s men nod heartily, and Rolf continues, “My face is not well-known to Allegria’s elite, nor to any palace guards. But I know many who frequent the market. I volunteer to accompany the villagers to the city. I will carry the rumors.”

The men turn to me. I grip the edge of the table, well aware of the import of this decision. This course of action, once undertaken, cannot be undone. If I send the Lyrisian villagers into Allegria carrying false rumors of an imminent attack, and the rest of us on a search for a passageway that may or may not still exist, so much could go wrong. So many could suffer.

A hundred years ago, an Andewyn daughter betrayed her twin, and Queen Rowan should have been executed. Now another Andewyn daughter faces death, and I cannot help but wonder if this is our chance to show the world that Elara and I will not be the rivals who betray each other. Rather, we will be the sisters who save each other.

Lord Royce is silent, his face impassive, yet I’m certain I read his thoughts: Elara’s sacrifice is acceptable, so long as he gets me on the throne.

“Do you acknowledge me as your queen, Lord Royce? Do you acknowledge my sister as your queen?”

The men all turn to look at him. No matter how he answers this question, it will cost him something. And from the grudging resignation I read in his eyes, it is clear he understands this as well.

“I accept you as queen,” he says finally. “And though I think it’s folly, I will accept your decision.”

“Good.” I turn to Patric. “Organize the men and see that the villagers are ready to leave for Allegria in three days’ time. The rest of us will make for Gossamer Falls.”

Chapter 61

Andrei

A
ndrei Andewyn stands in the center of the
Guardians’ Chambers looking at the ten circular
thrones. Sunlight pours through the high windows, bounc
ing off the crystal chandeliers and casting prisms on the wall. All ten thrones are empty. All ten are useless.

For what use is the Guardians’ Chambers when there are no more Guardians to debate or disagree? When there is but only one Guardian now, whose voice silences all others?

For the young king is under no illusions now:

Lord Murcendor is slowly killing his family.

Elara is sentenced to execution. Wilhamina is dead, lost among a pile of ash. And his father . . .

But no, he will not think of Fennrick today. And just as autumn, the season of death, closes in, Andrei feels his own death nearing. He wonders if anyone will mourn him.

“You called for me, Your Highness?” Lord Murcendor
doesn’t look pleased at being summoned. He does, however, look healthy and robust, far from the black wraith who once used to slink through the palace corridors. Power would seem to agree with him.

Andrei studies the man who was once his friend. This is his Guardian. Has he ever known him? For he now knows the kindly advisor of his childhood was merely an illusion, conjured by his own longing and loneliness.

“I see no reason to execute Elara,” Andrei says.

“No reason, Your Highness? The fact that she’s a self-
confessed traitor isn’t enough?”

“I think she should be spared.”

“
I
think you are too young to make such decisions.”

Andrei and the man who was once his friend now eye each other as predator and prey. The new king feels the world spinning around him. Chandeliers, sunlight, and empty thrones; they are fixed things. Whereas he feels light and intangible, like dandelion seeds blown away by the breeze.

“I am still king, Your Lordship. I could walk into Eleanor Square and proclaim I was showing her mercy.”

“You could, Your Highness. You could also have an unfortunate accident when you go riding tomorrow.”

The threats are no longer veiled; and they come often now.

Andrei is tempted to command his guards to seize him. But he dares not, for he knows half of them are loyal to Lord Murcendor. And the other half won’t spill their own blood. Not for him.

“Are we done now, Your Highness?”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

Andrei understands he will not win. Not today. But the new king is slowly growing his courage. He will not be beaten.

He will bide his time.

Chapter 62

Elara

I
n the end, they dispense with torture and decide to get straight to the business of killing me.

I suppose it was always going to end this way. The moment the life I had with the Ogdens—wretched and miserable though it was—was snatched away, this end was like a mark on a map that my life was slowly journeying toward.

No one comes to visit me as the days pass. I make a list of all the dead whose lips can say nothing to me now: Serena, Cordon, Mistress Ogden, Astrid, Fennrick. A deep frost blooms over my heart, and sleep comes often. My dreams are haunted by visions of small necks and blunt swords. Of executioners with unsteady hands, of chopping blocks with crimson stains.

Two days before my execution, my isolation ends and Sir Reinhold pays me a visit. He steps hesitantly into my chambers—as if my death sentence is a disease he might catch if he comes too close, and tells me he will soon be returning to Kyrenica.

“I have been recalled by the Strassburgs,” he says. “Even if I were not, I am afraid I’m not of the mind to stay, not with things in Allegria as they currently are.”

“I’m not of the mind to stay, either,” I say with a braying laugh. “Although as my mind shall soon be separated from my body, I don’t think it matters much.”

Sir Reinhold looks both flustered and horrified by my words and I laugh again. How much does this conversation matter? How much does
anything
matter, in comparison to the blade that’s coming?

“I am truly sorry more couldn’t be done for you,” he says, sounding stricken. “On Stefan’s orders I begged for your life to be spared.” He sighs. “I fear it has merely ensured our two kingdoms will soon go to war.”

“Well, take heart, Sir Reinhold. On that day,
neither
of us will be in Allegria to see it.”

I laugh again, and from the way he shifts around awkwardly, I can tell Sir Reinhold thinks I’ve already lost my head.

“Yes, well . . . before I take my leave of you, I wanted you to know that the crown prince sent me a letter to give to you.”

Hope breaks through my haze and I stop laughing. “Stefan wrote to me?”

“He did. But Lord Murcendor wouldn’t let it pass through, and the guards confiscated it.”

The haze reclaims me. Of
course Lord Murcendor wouldn’t let it through.

“But, if you’ll forgive me, Your Highness. I had expected as much, and, well”—he grimaces—“I took the liberty of reading the letter.” His cheeks redden. “The crown prince said many, er,
tender
things to you. And he said he forgives you.”

“He did?”

“I believe his exact words were ‘I forgive you without condition. And I treasure our time together, however short it was.’” Sir Reinhold looks supremely uncomfortable at having to recount the message.

Yet with those few words, a burden I didn’t know I carried lifts from my shoulders. If Stefan were here right now, there is so much I would say in return. So many things I was too fearful to say before. And now the opportunity is lost to me.

Amid much shuffling and bumbling, Sir Reinhold takes his leave. After he’s gone, I stare at the gold-leafed walls, filled with regret. I’ve always played a role, haven’t I? I’ve always become who circumstances required me to be in order to survive, whether a servant, a princess, or a wannabe queen. But there’s no surviving a death sentence. The blade will fall and my life will end.

And if I’m going to die, I decide suddenly, I’m going to die as
me
. I’m going to stop pretending.

I hurry over to the writing desk and find a quill and a piece of parchment. I dip the quill into the inkpot and begin a letter of my own:

Dear Stefan,

Your message has been carried and received. Your forgiveness means more than you will ever know. I will die at peace knowing that you have pardoned me for my crimes. I wish you were here and that I could see you one last time. There are so many things I wish I had done differently. Most importantly, I wish I had told you I loved you. I wish I had returned the words you once so freely offered to me. I wasn’t sure what true love looked like; I have seen so little of it in my life, and I didn’t want to say it before I knew for certain. I have told so many lies; I didn’t wish to add another.

But knowing that your days run short has a way of whittling your thoughts and scraping away everything that doesn’t matter. What I’m left with is, I love you.

I love you. And I wish you every happiness in this life. I hope, when death finally claims me, the last image that flits through my mind is of you, sitting by the fire, waiting to hear my stories.

I pause, not knowing how to end it. Do I sign it as Elara? Princess Elara?

With that thought, my eyes are drawn to the vase where I’ve stashed Astrid’s letter. I’ve kept it hidden, figuring if Andrei or Lord Murcendor saw it, they’d just burn it and kill me faster.

But after I’m gone, I think I want at least one person to know who I really am. Was. I dip my quill into the inkpot and hastily add:

I want to die knowing that I have kept no secrets from you. Not too long ago, I discovered a letter written to me from my mother. I have told no one of its existence, and I’m enclosing it for you now. Once you read it, I think you shall understand I was not deceiving you nearly so much as either of us believed.

I scrawl
Elara
across the bottom, then fold the two letters up and seal them. Then I knock on the door.