The Princess in the Opal Mask (9 page)

Cordon grabs my hand, his eyes pleading. “I’m so sorry, Elara. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but . . .” He says a bunch of words, of how they ran into each other one day and suddenly things between them were just . . . different.

“But . . . I thought you loved
me
?” My words come out plaintive, and I hate myself for it.

“When we were children, I did love you. As much as you’ll let anyone love you. But sometimes I’m not sure I even know you, Elara. I need someone who will tell me how she really feels, someone who will let me in. Someone who will let me love her.”

I nod blindly because I understand. I am not like other girls. I am broken. I am not normal.

“But I still remember the promise I made to you,” Cordon is saying. “And Serena and I have been trying to figure out a way to—”

“What?” His words rip me out of my reverie. “You
told
her? You told her of your promise?” I look at Serena. She does nothing to hide the pity in her eyes. How pathetic I must seem to her. All this time while I’ve wondered why Cordon hasn’t asked me to marry him, they’ve been meeting secretly and discussing me. As though I’m a problem the two of them have to solve.

“Once we’re married, you can come live with us,” Serena says. “You don’t have to stay with my parents. I know my mother can be—”

“I would
never
be your maid,” I hiss at her.

Cordon pales. “That’s not what she meant.” He looks at Serena. “Right?”

Serena pauses before she nods. “Right.”

“Not as our maid,” Cordon continues. “You could be—well, I don’t know what, exactly, but
not
our maid.”

“How kind of you,” I say.

A thousand knives stab at my heart, and I envision the pain as a small, ugly box—one that I crush with a mallet. Then I imagine stuffing the broken box somewhere deep within me where I won’t have to feel it.

Tears are prickling my eyes. But I refuse to let them see. “I hope you’ll be very happy together.” I manage to choke out the words.

And then I run.

G
uards flank either side of my family and the ten Guardians as we travel the narrow underground tunnel which connects the Opal Palace to the Galandrian Courthouse in Eleanor Square. The palace is full of such passageways. Centuries ago my ancestors decided it would be safer for royalty to travel secretly underground and they built several tunnels connecting the palace to key sites in Allegria.

Lit torches line the passageway, casting dim shadows on the stone walls, and I shudder at thinking of all the stone and packed earth above us.

Lord Murcendor falls back at my side and puts an arm on my shoulder. “Just a few more minutes, and we will reach the courthouse. Remember, the guards will enter first, then the Guardians, then Andrei, and then you and your father.”

“Why does Wilha get to enter last with Father?” comes my brother’s petulant voice from behind. “I am the future king of Galandria, not her.” I glance backward and see Andrei’s mouth pursed in displeasure.

My father either does not hear Andrei or chooses to ignore him. He is laughing and jesting with Lord Quinlan while Lord Royce walks quietly behind them. Besides a good feast, my father loves nothing more than a grand entrance and a captive audience.

“Hush, Master Andrei.” Lord Murcendor drops farther back, drawing even with Andrei. “Your father has an important speech to deliver and Princess Wilha is needed. When you are king of Galandria, you can make your own decisions.”

Lord Murcendor, who has taken it upon himself to pay Andrei the attention my father does not, is the one person my brother listens to. Andrei quiets down and says, “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lord Murcendor answers. “Royalty should never apologize.” He drops his voice and says something else, and Andrei whispers in return.

Patric, who has been walking at my other side this whole time, takes the opportunity to whisper, “What does he mean by that, that you are needed in the king’s speech?” He glances around. “Apart from your father, everyone seems unusually grave. We are announcing a peace treaty, after all.”

I smile faintly. “A treaty with your enemy is not always cause for celebration.”

Now I wish I had told Patric the terms of the treaty. Because this moment will be the one that punctuates all the others, dividing our time together into the
before
and the
after
.

“Whatever happens,” I whisper to him, “know that these last few months have been the best of my life.”

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” he says. But thankfully, Lord Murcendor falls back into step with me,  preventing us from speaking further.

When our procession reaches a dead end, a guard holds up his torch and inspects the stone wall. My ancestors marked the entrance and exit to each passageway by a small opal inlaid in the wall. The tunnels, and the methods of opening them, are known only to my family, the Guardians, and a select number of the palace guards.

“Here it is,” he mutters and presses on the opal. The wall slides back, sending a wave of fresh air into the passageway, and my anxiety recedes slightly as I step into a small hallway in the Galandrian Courthouse.

The guards extinguish their torches and we silently walk up the hallway and to the double doors that open out to Eleanor Square.

The Clock Tower starts to toll and somewhere outside the royal trumpeters begin to play. When they finish, a guard addresses my father. “Your Majesty, it’s time.”

The doors open out to Eleanor Square and sunlight falls upon our faces. With one last glance at Patric, I step outside.

M
y satchel slams against my hip as I flee, and I hear Cordon running after me, calling my name. I push through the crowd and pass Gunther, the man from the orphanage, who is heading toward the inn.

“Elara!” he calls out. “I must speak with you.”

“Not now!” I shout back.

Behind me, Cordon continues to call after me and I let myself get carried along by the crowd into Eleanor Square. Rose petals fall from the rooftops, and palace guards are stationed along the edge of the square. Trumpets begin to sound and I steal a glance backward. Cordon is scanning the crowd, still looking for me. I elbow my way toward the courthouse, hoping to put as much distance between us as possible. I’ll hide in the crowd while the king gives his speech and slip away afterward.

With a final ringing crescendo, the trumpets cease and the doors to the courthouse open. Soldiers file out and surround the steps. The Guardians come next, clad in emerald green robes. I pay them little mind, though, as we all wait to see the royal family. Crown Prince Andrei comes out next, followed by King Fennrick, who wears an ornate crown   bristling with opals atop his head. And finally, Princess Wilhamina emerges from the courthouse.

Like the rest of the crowd, I gasp in awe. Her mask and dress, adorned with more jewels than I can begin to count, glitter in the sunlight. A thick necklace made of jeweled keys hangs around her neck. As she steps forward to take her place next to her father, several people raise their fans to cover their eyes.

“Please, Masked Princess!” The man next to me holds a gaunt little boy over his head. “My son is ill. Only look at him, and he shall be healed!”

“Healed?” shouts a haggard woman with stringy white hair. “The princess can heal no one. A curse is what she is! Raise your fans! Protect yourself from the Masked Princess!” She holds her fan over her face and continues railing against the princess until two palace guards appear and drag her away.

I cast a look back into the crowd. I can see Cordon, but he hasn’t located me yet. I push forward, until I’m standing behind several Maskrens who are lined up only a few feet away from the row of soldiers.

Silence falls over the crowd as King Fennrick raises his hands. “Citizens of Galandria!” he says, “It is my great honor to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of Princess Wilhamina with you in our esteemed capital, the illustrious city of Allegria! To all of you who have journeyed many miles, I bid you welcome and I thank you, for it does me great honor.

“Today I come to you with the most joyous news. For months you have been hearing of an impending war with Kyrenica. Yet I say to you this day, fear not! For I have secured peace for our great kingdom. King Ezebo and I have pledged our mutual determination to avoid an escalation in hostilities. As a symbol of our goodwill, King Ezebo has pledged his son, and I have pledged my daughter—your own Princess Wilhamina—in a commitment of holy matrimony. Now the House of Andewyn and the House of Strassburg, at odds with each other for a century, shall be bound together for all time!”

I look around and see many shocked faces. “The princess should never have to marry a Kyrenican dog!” shouts a wo-man nearby. But most people in the crowd don’t hear her as they erupt into cheers, drowning out the king. My attention strays from him to Princess Wilhamina. Her shoulders quake and I wonder if she is happy over her betrothal. Or has love been unkind to both of us today?

I’m still wondering when I hear a whizzing sound above my head, and something small and red lodges into the banner hanging above King Fennrick.

It’s not until a red arrow strikes the palace guard in front of the king that I understand what is happening.

“It’s an attack!” a guard shouts.

His cry is followed by the screams of hundreds of terrified citizens trampling each other as they attempt to flee the packed square. Not too far off I hear the sound of an apple cart being upended and crashing onto the cobblestone street. The palace guards quickly form a wall and cover the Andewyns, pinning them to the ground. A guard is screaming that they need to get the royal family back into the courthouse.

More arrows fly toward the Andewyns. While everyone panics around me, I am frozen where I stand. Through a gap in between the guards I see the Masked Princess. Her jeweled mask is hanging askew, exposing half her profile. Instinctively, I begin raising a hand to cover my eyes, but stop when it strikes me that her face, feared by so many in our kingdom, reminds me of—

“Elara!”

It’s Cordon’s voice I hear. But when I turn, it’s Gunther from the orphanage I see. His steps are determined as he advances toward me. The fear that’s kept me from running away must have done something to my vision as well. Because when Gunther removes a sword from beneath his cloak, I get a glimpse of what looks to be the uniform of a palace guard.

An arrow lands at my feet. I stare down at it and blink stupidly. Are the attackers aiming for me?

“Elara—LOOK OUT!”

Pain explodes in my head, and the ground rises up to meet me. The last thing I see before blackness closes in is Gunther’s pale, pockmarked face, and his aloof brown eyes, staring into my own.

“G
et them up! Get the royal family back into the courthouse!” screams a guard.

Arrows fall like angry red raindrops. Like the rest of my family, I am pinned to the ground by guards. Their shi-elds are up, hoping to deflect the arrows. I moan, feeling like the side of my ankle has just been scraped against the stone steps.

“Don’t move.” Patric’s breath is hot against my neck. The second the first arrow struck, he was at my side and covering me with his shield.

“The arrows are coming from the Clock Tower! Get someone up there!”

I feel the unfamiliar sensation of air directly on my face. In the confusion, my mask must have come untied, and no one seems to have noticed. I straighten it quickly. Through a gap in the guards I see people fleeing Eleanor Square. At the foot of the courthouse steps, several Maskrens and guards lie dead. Not too far away a guard is punching a boy with dirty blond hair. Nearby lies a peasant girl who seems to have fainted.

“Wilha,” Patric says, “you need to get up. We’re moving you back into the courthouse.”

He helps me to my feet and I wince. The pain in my ankle seems to be getting worse. Arrows continue to fall as guards surround me, and we move swiftly up the steps, away from the screams of the crowd, and into the courthouse.

Inside, several guards crouch over my father. He is on the ground, writhing in agony. Blood spurts from an arrow embedded in the side of his cheek.

“Someone call for the king’s physician!” screams Lord Royce.

Two guards sweep from the room, back down the hallway leading to the secret passageway. I lean on Patric, dizziness washing over me as I stare at my father. “Will he be all right?” I call out to the guards.

Patric grabs my arm and checks me for wounds. “I’m fine,” I say, yanking my arm away. “Help the others.”

Two Guardians are on the ground. One is unmoving and the other is crawling on his hands and knees, spitting blood. Blood seems to be everywhere. Near my ankle, a scarlet river runs down the white marble floor.

“Lord Quinlan,” Patric says, “Are you all right? There’s blood on your hands.”

Lord Quinlan stares at his hands as though they belong to someone else. “I don’t think this is my . . .”

His words are drowned out by the sound of someone falling to the floor.

“Another Guardian has been hit!”

The pain in my ankle grows. I must have scraped it hard on the stone steps. I walk unsteadily toward Andrei to see how he is doing.

“Are you all right, Andrei?”

Andrei, paler than usual, looks at me with his clear blue eyes. “If father dies today does that mean I will be king?”

“Father is not going to die.” I reach out my hand, but he sidesteps me.

“But if he
does
die,” he insists, “that means I get to be king. Right, Wilha?”

“Yes, Andrei,” I say quietly. “If Father dies, you will be king.”

Andrei nods. “Excellent.”