The Princess in the Opal Mask (7 page)

“That was sloppy,” Patric says, his mouth set in a firm line. “You are distracted today.”

I do not reply. Instead, I adjust my mask and step toward him. He blocks my lunge and slaps my sword away. “Mind your position!” He takes a menacing step forward. “You’re being clumsy. You’re not a circus performer, though right now you look like one.”

I stop, taken aback. “What is the matter with you?” I lower my sword. “Why are you being so mean?”

Patric sighs and lowers his own sword. “Princess, I wasn’t being mean. I was trying to distract you and it worked. When you are facing an opponent, never pay attention to his words. Use them to your own advantage if you can, but your attention should be focused only on his weapon.”

As he speaks, he raises his sword and points it at my neck. “See? What if I had been your enemy?”

“But you aren’t my enemy,” I say.

“You can’t afford to think like that.” He shakes his head. “Not now, anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, stepping back and looking from the tip of his sword and into his eyes. “Are you saying I am in danger?”

“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I said.”

I stare at him, unsure if I should believe him. Patric may be my friend, but he is also one of my father’s most valuable soldiers, and will follow whatever orders are given to him. Even if that means keeping things from me. “Then why have I been required to take these lessons? How many princesses are trained to defend themselves?” I gesture to the soldiers standing along the wall. “Isn’t that why we have guards?”

“The lessons are for your own education, Wilha. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing it is useless to question him further. “But can we please take a break? I am feeling tired,” I add, although I could easily train for another hour.

I fake a yawn for the benefit of the guards, in case any of them are watching. “Please, just give me a minute. Come sit with me.” I lead him over to the bench in front of my mother’s statue. I arrange my skirt over the bench and hide my hand underneath. Patric’s hand finds mine and our fingers lace together.

“I passed Lord Murcendor on the way over here,” he whispers. “Did he visit with you today?” When I answer yes, his hand tightens on mine. “I do not trust him. And I do not like the way he looks at you.”

“He has devoted his life to protecting my family.” I think of the unease I felt with him earlier, but quickly dismiss it. “And he is the only Guardian who has ever bothered to speak to me.”

And he is also the only one trying to stop my betrothal,
I add silently.

We sit in silence for a while until he whispers, “I heard a couple of noble boys talking in the city the other day. They are both attending your birthday ball. One of them was trying to pluck up the courage to ask you to dance.”

“I envy those who don’t have to go,” I say. “I don’t want to endure the stares.”

“And I envy those who will dance with you,” he says quietly, turning to look at me.

My heart thumps in my chest and I am keenly aware of the pressure of his hand in mine. And of his green eyes, and the longing I read in them.

“Vena was inquiring about you the other day,” I say suddenly. “She wanted to know if you were, well . . . if there was someone else in your life.” I fumble over my words, aware that my voice sounds far from casual.

“Are you asking me if there is anyone whom I care for?” he says, still staring at me.

His question hangs over us like a storm cloud and we are silent. For all my family’s wealth, love is the one luxury royalty cannot afford. Something we both know well.

Our gazes hold, until he sighs and looks away. “I heard you met with the Kyrenican ambassador a few days ago,” he says in a normal tone. “Do you think it is possible to avoid war?”

“I believe my father and King Ezebo will figure out an agreement that is suitable to both of them,” I answer carefully.

I know it is wrong not to tell Patric of the betrothal. Yet these last few months practicing with him have seemed like an iridescent bubble: beautiful, but without tangible form. Hard to hold on to, but easy to destroy. And to speak the words aloud, to whisper of a marriage contract, will do exactly that. And then Patric, always honorable, will see our whispered conversations as disrespectful to the crown prince of Kyrenica.

Patric squeezes my hand. “Let us get back to training, before the guards become suspicious.”

Frustrated, I stand and follow him. We take our positions and he says, “All right, Princess, this time, I would like to see more aggression. You haven’t learned how to properly attack, and you are too quick to assume a defensive posture.”

He raises his sword. I raise mine, and he motions for me to attack.

I slash once and then twice at Patric, who easily parries my thrusts. “Wilha, wait. You aren’t hacking at shrubbery. This wouldn’t work in real combat. You’re exposing . . .”

I continue coming at him with my sword; lunging once, twice, three times, and again. I am not fighting Patric now, or even the shadowy villain of my imagination. Instead I am slashing at the peace treaty, which marries me off to the Strassburgs as though I have no will or desires of my own.

Patric backs up as he continues to silently block my thrusts, until he trips and falls over the root of an apple tree.

Coming back to my senses and breathless from the exertion, I smile and point the tip of my sword at his chest. “I’ve won.”

“Have you?” he asks. “Look down at your left foot.”

I look. Without my noticing, Patric has drawn a dagger from his boot. If I had stepped any closer, the dagger would have pierced my ankle.

“Your strength is growing,” he says. “But if I were a real enemy you would have been dead after your first lunge. You cannot just lash out without protecting yourself. And you must pay more attention to your side vision.”

“I can’t.” I drop to my knees and lay aside my sword, suddenly tired. “The mask cuts off my side vision.”

All of a sudden there are sounds of swords being drawn and a guard is yelling from the garden wall, “Protect the princess!”

Patric leaps up and seizes my arm. He jerks me to my feet and drags me behind the statue of my mother.

“Kneel down,” he says. I do what he says and Patric leans over me, shielding me from view.

“What is happening? Is someone out there?”

“If so, they won’t be there long enough to get close to you.”

My vision is obscured by the statue, but I hear the sound of horses galloping and guards yelling. Several minutes go by. My heart hammers in my ears, and dew from the wet grass seeps through my dress.

“What is happening?” I repeat.

“I don’t know, perhaps nothing. The guards have been testy lately.” After a few more minutes Patric crouches down behind me. I feel his heartbeat thudding against my back as he leans close and whispers, “The guards have been forbidden to tell you or Andrei this, but things aren’t going well for your father. A potential war with Kyrenica is not his only problem. The people in the villages are unhappy because food is expensive and wages are low.” He pauses and adds, “Anger and hunger are a dangerous combination. Add in a little fear and it’s a breeding ground for evil and unrest. And murder is the easiest way to separate the House of Andewyn from a crown they have claimed for centuries.” He pauses. “This is why we have been ordered to train you and Andrei.”

I look down, touched that he actually told me the truth, yet sobered by his words. We are both quiet for several more minutes until a guard calls out, “All clear!”

Patric helps me to my feet, and I brush grass from my dress. I move to step out from behind the statue, but he pulls me back.

“Wait.” He stares at me, his green eyes roaming over my mask.

“Yes?” I say, very much aware that we are hidden from view.

He raises a hand, and for one horrific moment I think he intends to cover his eyes. Instead he traces a finger down the side of my mask. He leans closer until our lips are nearly touching. But then he sighs and pulls back. “Come on,” he says, “we still need to practice.”

I nod, thankful that the mask covers my disappointment.

He picks up my sword and holds it out to me, the look in his eyes grim. “You need to concentrate better. One day, these lessons may save your life.”

A
carriage leaving Tulan at daybreak can reach Allegria just before nightfall if the horses are strong. But between the Ogdens’ overloaded coach and their half-starved horses, it takes us two and a half days, most of which I spend squashed in between two trunks of Serena’s dresses—two of the many she
just had
to bring to Allegria. By the beginning of the third day I’m ready to explode.

“Serena, couldn’t you have brought just a few less trunks?” I rub my sore side. “There would be more than enough room then.”

“I’ve told you this several times,” Serena says. “I don’t know what the girls in Allegria will be wearing, so I can’t possibly know what dresses I will need until we get there.”

Mistress Ogden, who has spent most of the last two days dozing and complaining of a headache, now opens her eyes long enough to say, “Right you are, Serena.” She looks at me. “If you don’t like it, you can get out and walk.”

“What’s the matter?” Cordon says when I call out to him to stop the carriage. Mistress Ogden hired Cordon to accompany us to Allegria and serve as our coachman, thereby leaving Mister Ogden free to drink himself into a stupor.

“I’m walking the rest of the way,” I say, climbing out. “We’re almost there anyway.”

Next to Cordon, Mister Ogden is passed out and drooling. Cordon urges the horses onward. “Just don’t fall too far behind,” he says.

While I walk, I think through my plan. Somehow, I have to find a way to elude the Ogdens long enough to visit the prison and find out if Mister Travers is being held there. We’re staying in Allegria for a week, so it should be an easy enough thing to do. I’ll make up an excuse, or get myself sent on an errand. More difficult, is what I’ll say to Mister Travers if I manage to find him. Tucked between two of Serena’s trunks is a satchel I filled with the book from Mister Travers, my dagger, and the four worthings I picked up from the floor of the Draughts. I’m hoping the worthings will make a suitable bribe for the guards at the prison.

But I’m smart enough to know I have to have a backup plan. What if I actually do manage to find Mister Travers and discover he is nothing more than a crazy old man?

I stare at the Ogdens’ rickety carriage. I had hoped our two days on the road would give Cordon and me an opportunity to talk, yet Serena has always seemed to be underfoot, preventing us from having any time together. It hasn’t seemed like Cordon has minded as much as he would have when we were younger. Is it because he does remember his promise, and wishes he had never made it?

It was many years ago and he found me crying by the Eleanor River. Serena had struck me and called me a worthless servant who would never amount to anything—words she heard Mistress repeat thousands of times. I cried on Cordon’s shoulders and he swore Serena had no more sense than a drunk dingbat.

“But she’s right,” I cried. “I have no one. I can’t ever expect to marry, not without a dowry. I’ll spend my whole life here, if Mistress doesn’t throw me out first.”

“You don’t have
no one
,” Cordon protested. “You have me, and I won’t let anything happen to you. When I turn seventeen, I’ll marry you. I promise.”

I glance ahead at the carriage again. Cordon turned seventeen a few months ago, and from the growing tension between us I think he remembers his promise just as keenly as I do. But still, he hasn’t asked. And I’m not quite sure what I’d say even if he did ask.

I know I feel more than just affection for Cordon. But love? Sometimes I wonder if I’m even capable of loving another. I learned early on that if I was going to survive Mistress’s abuse, I would have to take the little girl who cried and craved another’s love and tuck her away, somewhere deep inside of me, where no one could ever find her.

All these years later, I wonder if that girl even exists anymore.

A
s the morning passes, the forest thins out and gives way to farmland, which soon yields to gently sloping hills. I climb another hill, always keeping the Ogdens’ carriage in sight, and suddenly, I’m in Allegria proper.

I’ve grown up hearing tales of Allegria’s grandeur. But nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me as I pass through the city gates. Gray stone buildings with golden spires rise up into a blue sky; and the cobblestone streets, inlaid with shards of common lavender opals, glitter in the sunlight.

Gargoyles perch on the tops of iron lampstands and stone buildings, watching the crowd below with evil grins. The streets are packed with carriages, and the city reeks of roasting meat, horse manure, unwashed bodies, and the warm, sugary smell of fresh apple tarts. Strung across the streets are banners wishing Princess Wilhamina happy birthday. Ladies wearing costume masks and pastel-colored dresses look into shop windows. A few brown-cloaked figures wearing gold-threaded masks stand on a street cor-ner, and I stop short when I see them. They appear to be Maskrens. I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never seen one before.