The Princess in the Opal Mask

by Jenny Lundquist

  This dedication is split equally between my sons:

  Noah Robert and Thomas Austin.

  I love both of you all the way to forever and back again.

  Not everyone who attends the coronation wishes the young queen well.

  As the townspeople gather in the great hall of the young queen’s palace, many object among themselves. Construction has just begun. The great hall is the only completed room and already her palace is by far the grandest structure in Allegria. The townspeople see the glass windows—the first in the city—and glimpse the blustery, inky night beyond. They wish their own homes were so sheltered.

  The wind howls and flickering candles paint shadows on the walls. At the end of the hall is an altar, which displays the young queen’s crown, as well as the large stone that started it all. The First Opal. The jewel glints in the candle-light, showing veins of gold cracked through deep blue, as if lightning is trapped inside. A man whispers that if he had discovered the opals in Galandria’s soil, instead of young Eleanor Andewyn, it would be his coronation they’d all be attending.

  An elderly woman stands among the crowd. Hatred burns in her heart. Time will pass, but her son will never be returned to her. The young queen’s army has seen to that. She weaves among the people, spreading her discontent like poisonous seed.

  The whispers go still as the young queen and her newly appointed council of advisors—her “Guardians”—appear at the back of the hall. The young queen’s expression is pained. She is having trouble accounting for her floor-length gown, which trails behind her.

  The townspeople cheer and clap as she ascends the aisle. But in the privacy of their own hearts, many hope she will trip and break her neck.

  They are bitterly disappointed when she does not.

  The young queen kneels before the altar. Ambition burns in her heart. The crown has been purchased, not just with precious stones, but with blood. The people doubt her now, but time will pass. She will build a dynasty. One day her son will also rule Galandria.

  A Guardian places the crown on the young queen’s head. She jolts slightly under its weight, yet her smile does not waver. This is her first test as a queen. She will not fail.

  She stands and lifts the First Opal, raising it over her head. She turns to face her people. She is triumphant. She is their warrior queen.

  She is also off balance.

  The young queen stumbles backward and trips over her gown, dropping the opal, and she lands on her side. Loud gasps erupt, followed by a shocked hush descending over the crowd.

  But Eleanor stands up, eager to reassure them. It will take more than a fall to stop their new queen.

  However, the people’s attention is not on her. Instead it is on the First Opal. There on the ground sits not one large stone, but two. The First Opal has broken in half.

  The old woman sees her chance. Fate has smiled upon her. She points a bony finger at young Eleanor and proclaims, “An omen! Just as this stone has split, one day this kingdom shall also split in two!”

  The old woman’s triumphant stare locks with the young queen’s dismayed one. Neither can look away from the other.

  The old woman is not a witch; she cannot curse a kingdom. She is simply an angry mother who has lost her son. And the young queen is not a prophet; she cannot foretell the future. She is simply a new mother who wants to protect her kingdom and her son.

  But both the old woman and the young queen understand that the right words, spoken at the right time, can become more powerful than a thousand swords. The right words scatter like seeds. They are watered by rumor and grown by time.

  Until one day, they become legend.

  THREE HUNDRED

  YEARS LATER

  CHAPTER 1

  ELARA

  Somewhere in the kingdom of Galandria, someone knows my real name.

  When I was a small child I was dumped on the Royal Orphanage’s doorstep, like a sack of rotten potatoes. In return, the orphanage dumped me with the Ogden family and told them to choose a name for me. Mistress Ogden called me Elara, after a girl from her childhood village. (“Dirtiest, most disgusting brat I’ve ever known,” she’s fond of saying.)

  One day I intend to find the name I’ve lost. And when I do, I’ll declare the name Mistress Ogden gave me worthless, just as she has always declared me worthless.

  Somewhere in this wretched kingdom, someone must remember me.

  I tell myself this as I stare at the honey almond cake I’ve baked for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight. I had hoped to surprise Mistress Ogden with the cake and finally show her that I am not the inconvenience she says I am. I don’t need her to love me. I gave up on that a long time ago. But I do need a place to live.

  I woke up early and gathered extra wood for the brick oven. But instead of the masterpiece I envisioned, the cake is lumpy and scorched. Nevertheless, my stomach rumbles. I despise dinners with Mister Blackwell, but at least I will eat well tonight for a change.

  “Elara!” bellows Mistress Ogden. “Is something burning in there?”

  “No!” Cursing, I brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair behind my ear and sprinkle flour on top of the cake, hoping to disguise the blackened crust. Why didn’t I think to make frosting as well?

  Mistress Ogden storms into the kitchen. Her silvery-blond hair is tied back with lavender ribbons, in the fashion most respectable Galandrian women prefer. “It is stifling in here. What have you done?” Her eyes, the color of blue disdain, land on the misshapen lump. “What is that?”

  “It’s a cake.” I wipe my flour-coated hands on my skirt, a hand-me-down from Serena, Mistress Ogden’s daughter. “I thought with Mister Blackwell coming tonight that—”

  “That what? You’d bake a monstrosity and serve it to our guest?” She props open the back door with a rock. Outside, rain batters the Ogdens’ unkempt yard, turning it into a muddy marsh, and cool air wafts into the overheated kitchen. She picks up the cake and pitches it out the door.

  “You didn’t have to throw it away,” I say, and my stomach rumbles again.

  She snorts. “That thing was nearly as hideous as you are. . . .”

  She launches into one of her tirades, so I carefully arrange my features into a look of penitence. Then, as always, I tune out every word she says. It’s a game I’ve played since I was young. What I do is imagine a poor, starved kitten. I imagine feeding it Mistress’s words, the same words she has repeated over and over throughout the years like an oath. Worthless. Unwanted. Unlovable. I imagine the words are being devoured and stripped of their power, that they are carried away to someplace else entirely.

  A place where they can no longer hurt me.

  “Besides,” she finishes when she has finally exhausted herself, “have you forgotten how important tonight is?”

  As if I could. My life at the Ogdens’ has always depended on Mister Blackwell, the director of the Royal Orphanage, and the four hundred worthings he brings the Ogdens every three months. Their payment for allowing me to live with them.

  I turn away and begin stuffing rags into the window sill, intent on keeping my mouth shut. Through the smudged and cracked window, the Ogdens’ untended almond orchard stretches into the fog-laden landscape. The wood around the windows is old and rotting, giving the rain a clear path into the kitchen, where patches of mold fester on the walls.

  “Grab the bag of flour and make an apple tart,” Mistress commands. “That should be easy enough for you to do without screwing it up. Are you listening to me, Elara?”

  “I can’t make the apple tart,” I say and turn around. “We’re almost out of flour.”

  “How is that possible? I gave you plenty of worthings for flour yesterday.” Sh
e grabs the nearly empty flour sack and gives it a shake, sending white puff clouds into the air. Then she plucks a wooden spoon from the counter and raises it over her head, as though she intends to strike me.

  Without thinking, I reach up and grab the spoon. Mis-tress and I lock eyes, each of us holding either end while we silently mark this moment. The moment where we both understand I am no longer afraid of her.

  I remove my hand. “Wooden spoons leave marks, remember?”

  She slowly lowers the spoon. With Mister Blackwell visiting she must appear to love me, and a black eye or a bruised cheek won’t fit with the image she wants to project. And tonight she intends to wrangle not just the worthings from Mister Blackwell, but also get tickets to the birthday masquerade for Princess Wilhamina Andewyn, Galandria’s “Masked Princess.”

  “Mister Ogden took most of the money,” I continue. “He had a debt to pay at the Draughts of Life. . . .” I break off, because there is nothing more to be said. If Mister Ogden didn’t visit the village tavern, partaking in cards and drinking ale so frequently (and Mistress didn’t love expensive things), the Ogdens wouldn’t need to depend so heavily on the stipend they receive from the orphanage. Ogden Manor might not have fallen into disrepair, and they wouldn’t have had to let go of their servants one by one, until there was only me. The only servant they are actually paid to keep.

  “Forget about the apple tart then,” she says. “Go to the Draughts and fetch Harold. You are to return with him immediately and start on the stew.”

  “Yes, Mistress. Your every wish is my most desperate command.” I bow sarcastically in her direction. Then I leave the kitchen, before I decide to grab a wooden spoon of my own.

  While I’m pulling on my cloak, Serena hollers for me to come to her bedroom.

  When I arrive, she is scrutinizing herself in front of a mirror. She has Mistress Ogden’s silvery-blond hair. She’s plump and apple-cheeked from a lifetime of being given the best the Ogdens could afford. Today she is wearing the green silk dress Mistress bought the day after Mister Blackwell last visited.

  She holds up first a powder blue frock and then a lavender one, the colors of the Andewyn family crest. “Which do you think the Masked Princess will prefer?”

  “She has a name,” I snap. “And I don’t think she’ll care two figs what you’re wearing. You don’t even know if Mister Blackwell can get Mistress tickets yet.”

  Serena frowns at her reflection. “Mother will find a way. She always does.” She holds up the lavender gown again and turns her head side to side. “Yes, I think lavender will do quite nicely. I’ll need you to wash it and return it to my room when you’re finished.”

  “It’ll have to wait. Your mother has sent me to the Draughts again.”

  “Later then,” she says, pursing her lips. “And say hello to Cordon for me.”

  I stare blankly back at her. Cordon is the son of Sylvia, the woman who owns the Draughts of Life. He is also my best friend. He has been since I can remember, though lately we don’t talk as much as we used to. And ever since we were children, Cordon and Serena have never gotten along well.

  “I will if I have time,” I snap. “Between you and your mother I have quite enough to do already.”

  Serena’s expression softens. “Things would go so much easier if you didn’t antagonize her all the time,” she says, and I know she must have heard us in the kitchen.

  “Really, you think so?” I say. “You think if I was all sweetness and smiles she’d ask someone else to do the cooking and the cleaning?”

  Serena stiffens and her expression of concern vanishes. “You are her servant. What she asks is nothing more than what is proper.”

  “Servant,” I scoff. “Most families aren’t paid sixteen hundred worthings a year to house a servant.”

  “You’re lucky to be here at all,” she replies coolly, and holds out the lavender dress. “After all, if my family hadn’t taken you in what would have become of you?”

  I pluck the dress from her outstretched hand. The word family twists in my stomach like a cruel vice.

  When I finally step outside, I pull my cloak tight against the rain and wind. My boots squelch through mud as I make my way from Ogden Manor down the narrow path through the woods leading into town. Overhead, a canopy of almond tree branches blooms with tiny white and pink blossoms. Despite the rain, winter is finally giving way to spring.

  I kick a muddy stone as I walk. There was a time when I believed Mistress Ogden was my mother and I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I would have said anything, done anything, to have her smile at me. But over time I realized her smiles—like her love—would never be given to me, and that instead of trying to earn her favor, I needed to learn how to survive her wrath.

  And now, all these years later, I have other concerns. One day those bags of worthings from the orphanage will stop coming. And when they do, what is to keep her from tossing me out of Ogden Manor? I don’t know exactly when my birthday is, but I think I turn seventeen sometime this year. I doubt the orphanage will continue paying the Ogdens after I’ve come of age.

  One winter when I was very young, the appointed night for Mister Blackwell’s visit came and went and he never appeared. Mistress said she refused to provide a place for me if the orphanage wasn’t going to pay for it, so she threw me out of the manor. I spent the night shivering in the Ogdens’ barn, hoping I wouldn’t freeze to death.

  Mister Blackwell arrived early the next morning. A tree had fallen across the road, delaying his carriage. Like the great performer she is, Mistress immediately transformed into a loving and concerned mother. Mindful of how cold it had been in the barn, I played along. After Mister Blackwell left, we never spoke of that night. But the message was loud and clear:

  No worthings, no home.

  Sometimes when Mistress Ogden has sent me into town to buy food or supplies, I’ve wondered what would happen if I just kept walking? If I walked through the entire village of Tulan and continued beyond it, walking away from one life to find another.

  Necessity stops me every time, though. Without a way to provide for myself, where would I go?

  The snap of a twig and the sound of something, or someone, shuffling through a bush makes me stop and turn around. I shield my eyes against the rain but see nothing except for a couple of squirrels chasing each other up a tree.

  I resume walking and my hand closes over the dagger I keep hidden in the pocket of my cloak. Another twig snaps. I turn around again, hoping to find more squirrels. But this time I see a flash of deep green fabric disappear among the fog and almond trees.

  I leave my hand on my dagger and sprint the rest of the way to the tavern.

  CHAPTER 2

  ELARA

  The Draughts of Life sits at the edge of Tulan’s meager town square. Dusty and old, it reeks of ale and desperation, frequented by men who’ve watched the price of grain rise higher and higher while their wages sink lower and lower. It’s not a place that easily welcomes outsiders. But an unaccompanied young woman is another matter entirely, so I reach for my dagger again as I step inside.

  But the first face I see isn’t that of a man in search of comfort. It’s the face of a child, one I know well.

  “Timothy, what are you doing here?”

  Timothy, a small boy of about eight, stares back at me with frightened eyes. He jumps slightly at the sound of a man loudly cursing. “Cordon said he’d try to find some leftovers for us.”

  Last month Timothy’s father, a soldier, was recalled to Allegria, Galandria’s capital, amid fears that war with Kyrenica was imminent. Most days his family doesn’t have near enough to eat.

  “All right. Stick near the wall and stay quiet.” I raise my voice in case anyone’s listening. “And if someone gives you any trouble, I want you to yell for me or Cordon.”

  Sylvia waves me over. She is taking orders from a table of men who look as though they’ve had more than their fair share of ale. One of them sm
acks her on the rump. Sylvia’s eyes narrow and her lips thin, but she says nothing. Like everyone else in Tulan, she barely makes ends meet and can’t afford to lose customers, no matter how ill-mannered they are.

  “Back again, sweetheart?” says a scruffy, unshaven man with oily blond hair, a Draughts regular. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” His arm slithers around my waist. “Care for a friend tonight?”

  I pull out my dagger and point it at him. “I’ve got enough friends, thanks.”

  That shuts him up and he turns away cursing. Sylvia bites back a smile and points to a table where Mister Ogden sits. “He happened upon a winning streak for once. Good luck bringing him home.”

  Mister Ogden is short and squat with a nose the size of a pimply squash, which is flushed beet red. Even from here I can see the shiny gold worthings stacked near his elbows as he examines his cards.

  “Are you all right?” Sylvia continues. “You look a bit pale.”

  I hesitate before answering, mindful others are within earshot. I’m almost certain someone was following me, but I don’t want anyone in this tavern thinking I’m a scared little girl.

  I turn and stare at the tavern entrance, as though I’m expecting a ghastly villain to appear. Instead, the door opens and Mister Travers, Tulan’s schoolteacher, steps inside.

  I exhale.

  “I’m fine,” I tell Sylvia. “I’m just hungry. We’ve run out of most of the supplies we stored for the winter, so we’ve been saving our food for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight.” What I don’t say is that Mistress’s idea of “saving food” means forcing me to go hungry while she, Serena, and Mister Ogden eat smaller meals.

  Sylvia nods and tells me that Cordon is in the kitchen if I want to see him, then leaves to deliver more ale. I decide I’ll wait to approach Mister Ogden until he’s lost most of his worthings, which shouldn’t take long, and head for the kitchen. On the way I pass two men slumped over mugs of ale, whispering.