Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  “Safety,” I repeat as I cuddle into my cushioning cloak. “Right.” But Harper is too far away to hear me. I wish, peevishly, that he didn’t know anything about how soldiers sleep, how they protect their fellow soldiers. It would be nicer if I could share the cloak’s warmth with him, if we could lie with our faces together, whispering into the night.

  Strangely, this thought makes me blush, because I am describing how husbands and wives sleep. And I’m not asking for that. It’s just . . . I never really thought before about how being the one and only true princess is really a lonely thing. When I relieve Desmia of her duty, it will be me alone on the throne, alone on the castle balcony waving to the throngs below, alone worrying about when my enemies might attack. . . .

  I fall asleep feeling grateful that, at least for now, Harper is with me. I’m not alone.

  Yet.

  11

  We reach Cortona four days later, just before noon. We are much the worse for our travels: our bare feet coated with dust, our faces dirty, our clothes snagged beyond repair by the brambles and thorns beside all the village fences we had to walk along—outside Spurg, Tyra, Donnega, and Kahreo. But nobody’s stopped us; nobody’s recognized me. (How could they?)

  We begin seeing the spires of Cortona from a distance of miles. First we see the spires, then the turrets, then the domes, and finally the sturdy white city walls that somehow seem gracious and airy, rather than mean and inhospitable like all those village fences. The arched gateways that lead into the city are a marvel, as peddlers, dancing girls, goat tenders, and what look to be court officials stream through them.

  My stomach lurches with panic.

  “Don’t you think we should at least wash our faces before we go in?” I ask Harper. He has been so quiet and standoffish the past four days that I resist the urge to clutch his arm while I say this. And really, clutching his arm isn’t the kind of thing I would have done back home anyhow. Is it? It’s kind of hard to remember who I am and what I’m like, when I’m standing in the shadows of those massive walls, watching the river of humanity flowing through the gates.

  I am the true princess. I am the true princess. I am the true princess even if my face is dirty. . . .

  I’m working so hard to remember myself, I almost miss Harper’s answer.

  “Looking like ragamuffins is a pretty good disguise,” he says. “Maybe we should go in now, get a feel for the lay of the land, then adjust our appearance accordingly. Is that all right with you?”

  Okay, I know that’s not like Harper, to ask my opinion so deferentially. He must be just as awestruck as I am. I shrug agreement, and we let ourselves be swept through the gates along with everyone else. No one guards the gateways here, but once I get into the city, I see why: On nearly every corner soldiers stand on alert, staring coldly out into the crowd. The soldiers look taller than any of the men back in our village, just as the buildings here tower higher, soaring three, four, even five stories above the ground. And the buildings aren’t made of sticks and logs and rotting boards—they’re bronzed brick, imperial stone, gleaming stucco, all lined with shining windows.

  I’m so busy looking around that when the crowd surges forward, I very nearly lose track of Harper.

  He reaches over a goat that’s come between us and grabs my hand.

  “Don’t let go!” he orders.

  Harper’s hand is dry and warm and soothing, while mine is sweaty with fear. We’ve never held hands before. I think about what it means in the village when boys and girls only a few years older than Harper and me wander around with their hands clasped together. They’re always peering dreamily into each other’s eyes, sneaking shy kisses . . . and soon after, there’s a wedding.

  And then usually the boy gets sent off to war, and that’s the end of that.

  Harper is not peering dreamily into my eyes or making any attempt to kiss me. He’s practically pulling my arm out of its socket as the crowd pushes him in one direction and me in the other. I have to leap gracelessly over the goat to avoid being torn limb from limb.

  “Slow down!” I call to him.

  “—can’t—” That’s all I hear of Harper’s reply, because a large man’s belly is shoved against my ear. Then Harper yanks me toward him. Thanks a lot, Harper—I guess you’re counting on the fact that at least my other arm will still work, and all I’ll really need it for is to sign royal proclamations. . . . My body slams against his side; he releases my hand and grabs my waist instead.

  “Hold on to the harp,” he mutters.

  He’s taken it from his back and is holding it in front of him. Together, we use the harp to plow our way through the crowd. I’ve never really thought much about this, but it is an impressive instrument: skillfully carved willow wood, shiny strings . . . Harper and I look like we belong in a backwoods village—a very poor backwoods village—but the harp looks like it belongs in Cortona, and so people step out of the way for it.

  “Look,” Harper breathes.

  The crowd has pushed us into a wide courtyard. There’s an impressive clock tower in the center of the square, with huge clock hands pointed very nearly to noon, and at first I think that’s what Harper’s referring to. Then I see that just about everyone else in the crowd has turned to the right, to gaze up at . . .

  The palace.

  I see suddenly why the crowd has fallen silent and stopped pushing and shoving. Several people have even let their jaws drop open. The palace is overwhelming—overwhelmingly large, overwhelmingly beautiful, overwhelmingly grand. It has graceful arches and frilly turrets, and you would think that that would be like putting a lace bonnet on a soldier. But the arches and turrets and other flourishes just make the palace look more majestic, more imposing, more daunting. I realize that my notion of impressive architecture is a one-room cottage without any holes in the roof, but I think anyone would be stunned and amazed by this palace.

  “She’s coming!” “Up there!” The people around us begin shouting and pointing.

  I tilt my head back farther, so I can see the balcony that soars out over the crowd. It seems so high up that I wonder if it’s hidden by clouds on less sunny days. Six men in regal black stand at alert on the balcony. They’re too far away for me to see their eyes, of course, but just by the way they stand, I can tell that they’re constantly scanning the crowd, looking for any possible danger at every moment. Behind them, at the window—or the door? Is a door still a door if it’s entirely made of glass?—a figure dressed in palest yellow is stepping out into the sunshine. Maybe it’s just because of the gauzy dress and veil she’s wearing, but the figure seems unreal, like a spirit in a dream.

  “It’s the princess . . .”

  “Princess Desmia . . .”

  “Our beloved princess . . .”

  The awed whispers flow through the crowd, as if everyone thinks that speaking out loud would break the spell and Desmia would vanish.

  “She’s so beautiful,” a boy murmurs behind me.

  “How can he tell?” I mutter to Harper. “Her whole face is covered with that veil!”

  I expect him to join me in sarcasm—kind of like how we always join together to make fun of Herk the tailor and his cowbell concerts. But Harper just looks from Desmia to me and back again without saying a word.

  Great. He’s apparently fallen under Desmia’s spell too.

  What? Are you jealous? A little voice in my head taunts me.

  I stare at the figure on the balcony as she raises one hand and gracefully waves it back and forth. It’s like watching a willow tree sway in a gentle breeze, the movement so delicate and dainty that it could be set to music. I could never wave like that. Hoisting buckets of water and stacks of firewood isn’t very good practice for such tiny motions.

  Thanks a lot, Nanny, I think bitterly. You too, Sir Stephen—what were you thinking? Didn’t you know I’d need to wave like that? Couldn’t you have slipped in a few lessons in gracefulness along with the geometry?

  Desmia keeps waving.
Her veil ruffles in the breeze, and even that doesn’t break her concentration or the precise motion of her hand. She’s like a perfect china doll.

  Really, I think, I wouldn’t want to have to wave like that. Too careful. Too tedious. I’d rather carry water buckets. The people of Suala are just going to have to get used to a princess who waves her arm back and forth wildly. People like exuberance, too, don’t they?

  Desmia leans out over the balcony, the bottom of her veil pinned against the railing.

  “Blessings,” she calls in a faint, bell-like voice. “Blessings upon my subjects.”

  The crowd cheers. They love their china-doll princess.

  Maybe when I take up my rightful position, I’ll have to hire Desmia to keep waving from the balcony every day. Just to keep the people happy. But will they still love her so much if she’s not the princess? And would that endanger her? If the point of revealing my true identity is to keep Desmia safe, would it be fair to expect her to keep appearing before the public?

  And . . . if Desmia’s their idea of a princess, will they ever love me?

  I’m so dizzy with questions and doubts that I almost miss Desmia’s exit. She’s backing away from the railing now, gliding back through the glass door. The six guards peer out suspiciously at the crowd for another few moments; then they, too, retreat out of sight. The balcony hovers high above us, completely empty.

  Many of the people in the crowd around us let out great sighs—maybe they’ve been holding their breath ever since their first glimpse of Desmia, and they just now remembered that they need to breathe. Or maybe they’re sighing with disappointment because she’s gone. Or maybe they’re still so filled with awe and disbelief at what they saw that they have to express it somehow. Maybe they’ll be sighing for hours—no, years. Decades from now they’ll be telling their grandchildren, “And once I went to Cortona and stood in the courtyard by the palace and saw Princess Desmia on her balcony. . . .”

  “Cecilia?” Harper whispers. “What do you want to do now?”

  Slowly I turn and focus my eyes on my friend. The crowd is thinning out around us now, and people are giving us a wide berth because we look so ragged—and probably because of how we smell, now that I think about it. But to me the sight of Harper’s dirty, freckled face is a comfort. Just looking at him shores up my resolve and banishes some of the more unpleasant questions hanging around my mind.

  “We need to gather information, remember?” I tell him.

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Come on,” I say.

  I’m tempted to grab his hand again—just to pull him along, for no other reason, really—but I chicken out. Instead I beckon him forward, toward the palace. The closer we get to it, the more it seems to soar overhead. I think it really must be as tall as the tallest mountain in the kingdom, Mount Valerian, and that’s more than fourteen thousand feet high.

  The huge doorway leading to the palace is surrounded by double rows of guards. I go and stand directly in front of the nearest guard.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I say. I clear my throat and try to forget that I’m barefoot, ragged, and filthy. I’ll be wearing royal finery soon enough. “What must one do if one wishes to arrange a private audience with the princess?”

  He looks down at me. The sides of his moustache begin to twitch.

  “By ‘one,’ you mean yourself?” he asks. “It’s you who’s wanting an audience with the princess?”

  “Yes,” I say, making myself stare straight back into his eyes, even though it’s really hard to do that, the way he’s looking at me.

  “Then”—he begins laughing—“there ain’t nothing you can do, because the princess ain’t never going to have anything to do with the likes of you!” His laughter bubbles over, and spreads, and soon the guards beside him are laughing too.

  “Imagine, a beggar thinking she can meet with the princess!” one whispers to each other.

  “Hey, girly!” another one calls. “The princess expects her visitors to wear shoes!”

  I’m thinking that as soon as I reveal my true identity, my very first official act should be firing these guards.

  “Let’s go,” Harper says, tugging on my arm.

  But the guards aren’t done making fun of us.

  “Hey!” one hollers after us. “If you can play that harp—if you didn’t just steal it—maybe you can get to see the princess by entering the palace music competition. She’s one of the judges!”

  This makes some of the other guards double over with laughter.

  “Imagine! Beggars in the royal music competition!” They chortle.

  “I’ll have you know—,” I begin.

  “Er—thanks for the advice,” Harper interrupts. He jerks on my arm so hard that I’m sure it’s dislocated this time. Or maybe not, because the rest of my body seems to realize that it has to follow along. He jerks me completely off my feet and all but drags me away, my shameful bare feet scraping along the flagstones.

  “Stop it!” I hiss. “I can walk on my own!”

  “Fine,” he says, letting go so quickly that I fall to the ground.

  I glare at him and toss my head, because the guards are still watching, laughing so hard they’re practically rolling on the ground as well. We’re like a comedy show to them, maybe a Punch and Judy routine. With as much dignity as I can muster I stand up, turn around, and walk away. I don’t even check to make sure that Harper’s following me until we’re outside the city walls once more.

  “Wait!” he calls. “Where are you going?”

  I don’t answer. I veer off the road and climb a small rise in the shadow of the walls. Away from the crowd I sink down onto the bare ground. I want to curl up into a little ball and sob my eyes out, but I’m still trying to hold onto a little bit of dignity.

  Harper sits down beside me.

  “The ragamuffin look is a horrible disguise,” he says. “You were right—we should have at least washed our faces.”

  I shrug.

  “At the moment it’s all we have,” I say, trying my best to keep the humiliation out of my voice.

  I tell myself that I shouldn’t care about the guards making fun of my bare feet and rags, because that’s not who I am. It’s only a disguise, and soon everyone in the kingdom will know that I’m the true princess. I’ll wear gauzy dresses like Desmia. I’ll stand on that balcony, and people will cheer for me even louder than they cheered for her. And when my enemies are vanquished, then I’ll come down from the balcony and walk directly through the crowd, shaking hands and patting heads and kissing babies. And if I see anyone in ragged clothes and bare feet—even someone filthier and more ragged than Harper and me—then I will be especially kind to that person. I will invite all the beggars into the palace, and I will feed them the most exquisite foods in the royal larder. I will give them shoes. I will . . .

  “What are we going to do now?” Harper asks, as if to remind me that there’s the slight matter of revealing my identity before I can take up my role as Lady Largesse.

  I peer off into the distance, toward the hordes of people streaming in and out of the city gate.

  “I still think Desmia’s the first person I should tell,” I say. “She’s the only one I’m sure I can trust.” I think about all the lessons Sir Stephen has given me in the art of negotiation and compromise. You have to think about what other people truly want. You have to listen to what they’re not saying. You have to make them think you care about their interests as much as your own. . . . In this instance that last part shouldn’t be hard, because all I’m trying to do is help Desmia. I don’t know anything about her advisers and courtiers and guards; I don’t know whose side they’re on. But I know Desmia will be very happy to see me, if I can ever get close enough to her to talk.

  I tilt my head back. From this vantage point I can see the very peak of the turret that rises above the balcony where Desmia stood. Maybe if Harper and I got a very, very long rope, and managed to fling one end of it up on the balcony i
n the middle of the night, and then . . .

  I dismiss this possibility as completely insane.

  “There’s got to be some way to get in to see her,” I say.

  “The guards had a suggestion,” Harper says sulkily. He’s tugging at the blades of grass at his feet; he pulls so hard that an entire tuft comes up in his hand, scattering clumps of dirt onto his harp.

  He doesn’t bother brushing it away.

  “You mean the music competition?” I ask. “That only gets you in, not me. And Harper, if you hate it so much, I can’t ask you to do that.”

  Harper shakes his head.

  “Do you believe in fate?” he asks. “Do you think that God made each of us for a certain purpose, and no matter what we want, we have to do it? Even if we try to run away, even if we try to make some other choice, he shoves us back onto the path he wants for us?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, because I really haven’t thought much about fate before. None of the books Sir Stephen gave me were titled A Royal’s Guide to Fate. I always kind of thought being royal meant I’d get to make lots of choices. Once I came out of hiding, anyway.

  “I mean, look at us,” Harper rants. “You’re the true princess, I’m the harp player—and there’s no way we can be anything else, we have to fulfill our destinies.” He kicks at the wooden frame of his harp. “I might as well have this thing nailed to my hands!”

  “It’d be kind of hard to play, then,” I tease. He doesn’t laugh. I sigh. “Look, Harper, once I’m on my throne, I’ll pass a royal decree that says you never have to play the harp again. I’ll make you, I don’t know, Lord High Chancellor of Fishing Ponds. You can spend the rest of your life fishing. Or whatever else you want.”

  Harper snorts, and stands up. He picks up his harp and begins striding down the hill.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.