The Opal Crown (32 page)

“Help Andrei!” I shout at Elara as Lord Murcendor slips through the doors and out onto the balcony. I follow him outside in time to hear him yell, “Open the gates!” to the guards waiting below.

I watch, horrified, as men spill into the courtyard. They see the soldiers waiting for them and are only deterred for a moment before running at them with their knives and pickaxes. The soldiers are only too eager to meet them. I draw my own sword and point it at Lord Murcendor.

“Call your men off!”

Lord Murcendor looks at me, a sour expression on his face, and flicks his sword generally in my direction, much in the same way a horse flicks his tail to rid himself of flies. “I believe we had this contest a year ago. You lost. And were it not for your sister, you would be dead.”

I raise my sword and step forward. “I am not the same girl I was a year ago.”

Chapter 68

Elara

“S
omebod
y help!” The only answer is my own echoing voice.
“I’ll find someone,” I say to Andrei, getting ready to rise.

“No one will come. Not for me.” Andrei’s voice is hoarse and his face is pallid. The opal crown sits in a puddle of blood issuing from his wound. Even if I could somehow manage to find a physician amid the chaos, it wouldn’t do any good. I take his hand and twine our fingers together.

“No one ever came for me, either.” He nods, and I think he understands what I mean. He struggles to breathe, a rasping, painful sound, and sweat beads his brow.

“Do you know, Elara,” he strains to form the words, “you are my sister, and yet I know nothing about you?”

A memory surfaces, and I waste no time telling him of it. “Once, a long time ago, a noblegirl was being mean to me. So I convinced her to stand in a swamp and bathe herself. I told her it would
make her skin beautiful.”

Andrei’s laugh turns into a painful cough. “I once had a tutor who had the biggest jowls you can imagine. I used to make him recite the alphabet as fast as he could, just so I could watch his cheeks bounce.”

I smile, imagining the scene, and Andrei says suddenly, “I would have helped you. With the noblegirl, I mean. I would have told her I rather liked girls with beautiful skin.” He coughs again, and a crimson river escapes his lips. “I wish I could have known you. I suspect we might have got on nicely.” He frowns, and adds, “I wish they would have
let
us know each other.”

“I think I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing that.”

“I think I will, too.” He gives a pained smile. “Though I suspect mine will be quite a bit shorter than yours.”

An image in my head seems to rise up in front of me. It’s so clear I wonder if Andrei sees it, too. Andrei, Wilha, and I are children, huddling in the Eleanor Throne Room. While Wilha looks on, a disapproving look on her face, Andrei and I are scheming, daring each other to get past the soldiers that guard Eleanor’s statue. While I demand the guards listen to a story I’ve made up, Andrei slips behind them and climbs up the statue. His lips curl in victory when he touches one of the Split Opals in Eleanor’s uplifted hands.

“I’m sorry,” Andrei begins. “I’m sorry for—”

Before he can finish, he heaves a shuddering sigh. His eyes unfocus and his expression stills.

I reach out and close his eyes. With his death comes a dull ache of regret. Of all the things my parents’ decision destroyed, chief among them was the ability of my siblings and I to know and love each other.

I look up, and am brought back to the madness swirling
beyond the balcony doors. Wilha’s sword is flying and flash
ing, as if she was born with a blade in her hand.

Chapter 69

Wilha

V
aguely, I’ve become aware that the screaming in the courtyard below has quieted down as Lord Mur-cendor and I fight. He lunges; I spin. I attack; he blocks. I step backward, and his blade slashes air. Moonlight dances on steel as our swords clash again and again. My lungs are burning; my arms are aching, and my breath comes in gasps. He lashes out—this time I am not fast enough—and his blade nicks the edge of my sleeve.

My skills have grown, but my strength still does not match his. I will tire before him, and when I do, I shall have to surrender. He sees this, too, and he smiles.

“I know you, Wilhamina Andewyn, even behind that
mask,” he says, stepping backward and pausing as if to
give me a break. “Better than anyone else in this world, I know you.”

You knew who I was. You do not know who I am now.
I catch myself before the retort escapes my lips. I cannot beat him by strength alone.

But perhaps I can trick him.

“I suppose you do.” I point my sword downward, just as Marko once taught me to do. “I have been dreaming again.”

“You have?”

I nod and keep my eyes on his. I read his expression as his eyes slide to my blade, the nearly imperceptible twist of his lips. He believes I am giving up.

“What do you dream of this time?” At odds with his concerned tone of voice is the determined way he grips his sword and slightly shifts position.

“I dream—” He lunges forward to attack. Quickly, I bring my sword up and deliver a cut first to his arm, then to his thigh. He staggers backward and drops to the ground, cradling his injured arm. I kick his sword out of reach and lean over him. “I dream of a Galandria without you in it,” I finish.

He stares back at me with dulled eyes, blood gushing from his wounds. It occurs to me that with one more slash, I could end everything.

But death is too easy. Let the people of the kingdom judge him.

That is, if come tomorrow morning, there still
is
a kingdom.

I glance back inside the palace. Elara cradles Andrei. Her eyes meet mine, and she shakes her head sadly.

The moon hangs like a scythe over the courtyard. Sculpted gardens have been hacked to shreds. One water fountain has been reduced to rubble. Peasants and soldiers alike lie on the ground, unmoving. Blood runs like a river from the steps of the palace, down to the golden gates. I can
feel
the hatred in the air, writhing and strong—strong enough to tear the palace down, stone by stone; strong enough to undo centuries of peace in one night.

My presence has been noted. The fighting has momentarily stopped; townspeople and soldiers stare up at me. I wonder at what they see. A girl wearing a deformed mask and a damp and dirty dress, wielding a sword dripping with blood. They wait silently for me, the girl who has never been able to find the right words, to speak truth and reason to the insanity that has descended over the city.

“Citizens of Galandria . . .” My voice is small, a single drop, in an entire ocean of rage. “I swear to you by the blood of my ancestors, the rumors are untrue. Allegria is in no danger of being attacked tonight by outside forces. Yet look at what we’ve done to our own brothers and sisters. How many of us are injured? How many of us have already died? My brother, your own king, is dead. How many more of us shall join him tonight? This city was built over a period of three hundred years. By my family. By your family. Will we tear it down in one night? Will we give in to our anger, but when the dawn comes, ask ourselves what madness descended over us that we should do such a thing?”

“You have been hungry, and my family has cared not. You have suffered, and we have turned our backs on you. But I promise you, that ends tonight. To the palace guards below holding the line: I command you as an Andewyn—as an heir to the centuries of wealth you guard, and as a descendant of Eleanor the Great herself—open up the palace storehouses! Release the flour and grain inside. Let it flow until everyone has had their fill. To the rest of you I swear: A new day is dawning. A new time for us all is coming.”

I do not know if I sound like a queen, or like a shrieking, foolish girl. I only know that someone has to stem the tide. Someone has to speak before we tear ourselves apart.

“I promise you also this: The excesses of the palace will stop. It will stop, and we will work with you to forge a brighter version of ourselves and our kingdom.”

Before me, the courtyard lies silent.

Yet behind me, a sudden scream echoes.

Chapter 70

Elara

W
ilha speaks to the crowd, and from the silence below it seems everyone is listening. Yet there is one who is not enraptured by her words. Behind her, Lord Murcendor—deranged fool that he is—slowly inches along the ground, intent on reaching his sword. It’s no great mystery what he plans to do with it, and my blood begins to boil. Doesn’t he realize I’m
right here
, holding the king he’s just murdered?

Lord Murcendor turns his head; his eyes meet mine. And in this instant I see it: This is the culmination of all our parents’ fears. I could allow Wilha to take the blade. I could pick up the opal crown over Andrei and Wilha’s fallen bodies, claim it for myself, and do what neither of them ever could: order Lord Murcendor’s dismissal and death. And woe to any advisor or lord who dares stand in
my
way.

I could be queen. Unrivaled. Undisputed.

Or, I could surprise them all. Anyone who ever feared I would be Wilha’s undoing. Anyone who ever thought I would harm her. I could
become the person I have always wanted to be.

Lord Murcendor continues on, slithering like the serpent he truly is. He hauls himself to his feet, preparing to raise his blade. Quickly, I move away from Andrei’s body and stand up.

I don’t want a blood-soaked crown.

I want my sister.

I sprint through the doors and fling myself before Wilha. Lord Murcendor’s sword rips into my shoulder, steel slicing flesh, and I sink to the ground, vaguely aware that I’m screaming. Uttering a cry of rage, Wilha knocks Lord Mur-cendor’s sword away and delivers one cut after another to his good arm, forcing him backward, until he trips and falls over the balcony railing. Screams issue from the people below, followed quickly by a bone-shattering
thud
.

Silence. And then: “He’s dead! Lord Murcendor is dead!”

My shoulder is a fire of agony. Wilha appears above me. She rips off her burnt mask, and she’s crying underneath.

“You are a wonder,” I say, though my voice sounds slurred and strange. “I wish I could be more like you.”

“Don’t talk,” she says, sobbing. “Save your strength.” She tears a strip of fabric from my dress and begins wrapping it around my wound.

I stare up at the sky. My vision is blurring, the stars are bleeding, and my breath frosts the night. The last thing I hear before the pain carries me away is a quavering, hesitant voice from below rising like a plea in the night, “
The king is dead . . . long live the queens?
”

Chapter 71

Elara

W
ilha and I step forward. Behind us, our councillors stand in a line on the steps of the Opal Palace. The golden gates are opened. Palace guards welcome the Kyrenican carriages waiting beyond. My eyes meet Lord Royce’s briefly and he nods. I return the gesture and arrange my features into a look of pleasant expectation, careful not to show the anxiety I feel twisting my gut. We’re silent as we wait; the only sound is the pounding of hammers and the scrape and slap of mortar as our masons and statue sculptors continue repairing the damage done to the palace gardens last autumn.

Despite the early spring sunlight, the day is brisk. My shoulder aches from the chill—the only lasting damage I’ve suffered from the wound Lord Murcendor inflicted.

When the guards finally wave the Kyrenicans forward, Wilha turns to me. “When the carriages come to a halt, I think we should kneel.”

“Absolutely not,” I say through my pasted-on smile. “I refuse to kneel before Stefan.” I glance quickly at Lord Royce, who looks at Wilha and me warily. No doubt our frequent disagreements are a disappointment to him.

Wilha’s own smile becomes pained. “Ezebo didn’t have to return the masks before we negotiate a new treaty; he would have been well within his rights to keep them. So if you could put aside your arrogance, a little gratitude could go a long way.”

But it’s not arrogance that stiffens my spine, even as our councillors, following Wilha’s lead, all sink to their knees. It’s something else altogether. With Ezebo unable to travel,
Stefan was tasked with conducting new negotiations
between Galandria and Kyrenica. As we have planned for the Kyrenicans’ visit, Stefan’s letters over the last several months have been addressed to both Wilha and myself. They have given no insight into his emotions. And he has made no mention of the letter I gave to Arianne, leaving me to question whether she ever sent it.