The Princess in the Opal Mask

by Jenny Lundquist

  My thoughts are tangled, and suddenly, his face is moving toward mine—until his nose bumps against my mask. He laughs and tilts his head and finally, his lips land on my own.

  The kiss is soft and gentle, and my arms wind around his shoulders. I let myself be taken away by it, and when he draws back he says, “Will you take off your mask for me? I would love to see your face.” His fingers are fumbling to untie my mask.

  “I . . . can’t, Stefan. Not now.” I grab his hands and hold them. I want nothing else. I want to stay here and let him take off the mask and let him look at me. But not when I’m leaving. Not when it will be another girl’s face he sees tomorrow.

  “Then, will you do something else for me? Will you allow me another kiss?”

  I nod. Wilha will get a lifetime with him. But this moment is mine, this is my good-bye.

  He tilts his head. And when our lips touch again, I could swear I smell the sea.

  The sea.

  Where did Wilha say the passageway opened out to? It was the Lonesome Sea, I’m sure of it. Which means . . . my head snaps away from him, leaving Stefan looking confused.

  “Is something wrong?” he says. “Did you not like it?”

  “No,” I answer. “I mean, yes, I did. But we have been away from the ball for quite a while.” I smile. “Didn’t you just say everyone came here to see me tonight? We don’t want to disappoint them, do we?”

  Stefan grins. “One day you will make a wonderful queen.” He stands and pulls me to my feet. Then he crosses the room, opens the door, and holds it expectantly. “Come. Your public awaits you.”

  I turn and with one last glance around the room, I whisper, “I’ll come back, I promise.”

  But my voice is so low, I doubt Wilha hears.

  CHAPTER 55

  WILHA

  Bile rises to my throat as I watch them kiss. The words I was about to speak, of the danger Elara is in, of the men plotting by Rowan’s Rock, die on my lips. I quickly duck back into the bedroom, thankful that they are too en-grossed in each other to notice me. But the image of them kissing is burned into my mind.

  It is as though I have seen a vision of my future.

  What is she thinking, to have let Stefan come into her chambers? Is this supposed to be a signal of some sort? A declaration that she is not switching back?

  I’m taking what I can and then I’m leaving, I remember her once saying. At the time, I thought she just meant jewelry. I did not realize she was also prepared to take pieces of my own life with her.

  “Will you take off your mask for me?” The words are softly spoken, yet I still hear them. Words I have longed to hear all my life, but they are not spoken to me. Elara has done her job well. Too well. Because when the crown prince wakes up tomorrow morning and it is me wearing the mask, and not Elara, will he find me dull in comparison? Will he smile at me, but secretly wonder where the radiant girl he has fallen in love with has gone to?

  “Come. Your public awaits you.”

  When I am certain they are gone, I creep into the sitting room and kneel by the hearth. The fire is beginning to die out, so I grab the poker, stew the embers, and add some more wood. I remove my costume mask and hold up my palms, trying to warm myself and thaw the chill that is seeping through me.

  I inhale, and work at putting aside the dull ache in my chest. Regardless of what I have just seen, Elara still needs to be warned. The Kyrenican troops need to be alerted, all without anyone learning of the existence of another Andewyn princess.

  A slight draft caresses my neck.

  “Wilha?” comes a voice from behind.

  The sudden noise startles me. But when I turn around, relief floods my chest. “Lord Murcendor.” I rise to greet him.

  He removes his checkered gold and black mask, and I see that he is paler than usual.

  “Wilha?” he says, sounding slightly confused. “But I spoke with—” He stops as realization dawns on his face. “Elara is here, isn’t she? She is posing as the Masked Princess.”

  I nod. “We were going to switch back tonight.”

  His eyes take in my dirty dress, tangled hair, and damp bodice. My cheeks grow warm when I read his unusual gaze, for he is looking at me in a way he never has before.

  I tug at my dress uncomfortably and glance at the bedroom behind him. “You know of the passageway?” I ask, though of course I realize he must. Yet why he used it or has come here at all, I don’t know. But I don’t have time to wonder. “Can you help me, Lord Murcendor? I need to speak to King Ezebo without him knowing who I am. It is urgent.”

  “King Ezebo is beneath you,” Lord Murcendor says. “He is unworthy to even stand in your presence.”

  “Even so, I must speak with him. Elara could be in danger at this very—”

  “All will be made as it should,” he says. “Please, sit down.” He gestures to the chair behind me.

  “I can’t. Not until someone alerts King Ezebo.” I am frantic now, wishing I could make him understand. “We have to find him.”

  I move for the door, but he reaches out and grabs my arm. “Sit down,” he says with more force.

  The image of Lord Murcendor seems to change. It is as though I have been unknowingly staring at him through a kaleidoscope for a long time, and suddenly, the pieces have shifted, forming a new picture. A suspicion is nagging at me, but I refuse to acknowledge it.

  Instead I sit down, hoping with all my heart, that I am wrong.

  CHAPTER 56

  ELARA

  We take our time walking back to the great hall. Stefan stops to speak with several Kyrenican nobles. As the night has worn on, the guests seem to have fanned out around the castle. I should be in more of a hurry to get back to my chambers, and back to Wilha, but Stefan’s hand is warm in mine, and I don’t want to pull away. Not yet.

  When we reach the great hall, Stefan turns to me and bows. “Dance with me,” he says.

  I hesitate. Wilha made me wait for days before she decided to return to the castle. Why shouldn’t I make her wait, just a little longer?

  “Princess, may I have a word with you?” Lord Royce appears, and bows to Stefan. “That is, if you do not mind, Your Highness.”

  Stefan blows out an irritated breath. “If you must,” he says shortly. To me, he says, “But before this night is over, we will dance.”

  I nod, and after Stefan has left I say, “Yes, Lord Royce?” All around us, masked figures spin and whirl, and I wonder if he is also going to ask me to dance.

  “Are you quite sure you have no idea of your sister’s whereabouts?” he asks, surprising me. He uses a casual tone of voice. But staring at his expressionless white mask, it feels as though this is some kind of test. We are game players, each holding tightly to our own hand.

  So I decide to play an unexpected card.

  “In truth, Lord Royce, I know exactly where she is.” She’s upstairs, hiding.

  His ice blue eyes search my own. “Where?”

  “I told King Ezebo and Lord Quinlan she stole my jewels, but that was a lie.”

  “A lie? That does not sound like you, Wilha.” Is that a dare I see in his eyes?

  “It was Elara’s idea, of course. But the truth is, I gave her the jewels. She intended to book passage on a ship and sail east over the Lonesome Sea. We both believed it was best for everyone if she simply disappeared.” The moment I speak the words, I decide that after I leave the castle, I’ll head further north, up the Kyrenican coastline.

  “That is a pity,” Lord Royce counters. “There were things I could have told her. Things your mother wanted her to know, a message she intended Elara to have.”

  Finally, he’s showed his hand. This is a dare, plain and simple: Confess who you really are. He’s not convinced I’m Wilha, so he has set a trap. And my mother is the bait.

  This is his mistake. I am not so easily caught.

  “If I ever see her again, Lord Royce, I will let you know.” I curtsy and turn my back on him.

  CHAPTER 5
7

  WILHA

  Lord Murcendor gazes at me with his dark eyes. “It kills me to see you here in this castle, in the heart of the enemy.”

  “The Kyrenicans are not my enemy,” I say carefully, thinking of James, Kyra, and Victor. “Some of them are quite nice, actually.”

  “The whole country is diseased,” he hisses. “They are a plague, one that needs to be wiped out.”

  “Wiped out?” Ice creeps through my veins. “What do you mean?”

  “Kyrenica has no right to exist, no right to the wealth that Galandria has worked so hard to obtain. If they persist in stealing from us, we have no choice but to send them back to the dust in which they came from.”

  A wave of nausea passes over me and my suspicion blooms into confirmation: Lord Murcendor, the man who taught me how to read when others were too scared to come near me, the man who sat with me in the Queen’s Garden, and the man who has been the closest thing I have ever had to an actual father, is also the man who wants me dead.

  “You are the one who is sending Lord Quinlan’s men to burn the city down? The one who has come to kill me?” I add quietly.

  A man in his right mind might reasonably ask how I know about his plans to burn Korynth, and when he does not, I realize he isn’t.

  He doesn’t look to be in his right mind, either, not with the twisted grin he flashes. “They are Lord Quinlan’s men in name only,” he says. “But in every way that counts, they are my men and they have come, as many in Galandria have come, to see my point of view.”

  He pauses to stare at me. His eyes are unfocused and his hand looks ready to unsheathe his sword. Truly, he means to kill me.

  My stomach roils. All this time, he is the shadowy villain I feared would one day come for me.

  But you have beaten him a thousand times before, in your own imagination. The thought comes from nowhere. The ice in my veins seems to melt and is replaced by some-thing else.

  Fire.

  Does he think I will merely sit still while the tip of his sword pierces my flesh? Does he imagine I will be the good princess I have been trained to be, right up until the very end, too obedient to even raise a weapon in my own defense?

  When you are facing an opponent, never pay attention to his words, I remember Patric once saying. Use them to your own advantage if you can, but your attention should be focused only on his weapon.

  My eyes stray to the fire behind Lord Murcendor—and the fire poker lying right next to my white and silver costume mask.

  “This point of view you speak of,” I say suddenly, “the one you say Lord Quinlan’s men have come to share. What is it?”

  Lord Murcendor begins to pace about the room, his hand twitching at the hilt of his sword. “I have spent my life serving the Andewyns. Indeed, as a boy I could see no distinction between the two. By serving the descendants of Queen Eleanor herself, the greatest ruler this world has ever known, I thought I served my truest and only love, Galandria. Yet there comes a time when a boy’s fanciful illusions must collide with the crushing weight of reality. Despite my devotion, it became clear to me that your blood—the Andewyn blood—had become watered down. Diluted by generations of weak men and women, who made even weaker monarchs. And I began to understand that something had to be done to restore the glorious kingdom that once was Galandria.”

  While he speaks, I lower myself to the floor and raise my palms, as though I am warming myself. The fire poker is only inches from me. I glance over at Lord Murcendor. His hands are no longer at his side; he is raking them through his hair.

  “And then,” he continues, “destiny gave me a most precious gift: your mask. Despite your father’s incompetence as a ruler, his one stroke of genius was to place that mask upon your face, for through the rumors and intrigue of the Masked Princess, a semblance of Galandria’s glory and fame was restored. Peasants from around the world make pilgrimages to see you. Do you know what that alone has done for our treasury? You can imagine my shock and surprise when your father decided to throw it all away. To throw you away by betrothing you to the Kyrenicans, all to avoid a war he is too much of a coward to fight. A war we are sure to win. To lose you is to lose our kingdom’s glory. And I was not going to stand for it. Kings have a way of being persuaded . . . or being assassinated.” He gives a terrifying, twisted grin.

  “You?” I gasp, forgetting about the fire poker. “You were behind the attack in Eleanor Square?”

  “My men were ordered not to kill anyone in the royal family, merely to injure. And educate. I had thought with the king injured, with the evidence of Kyrenica’s wickedness on display for all to see, the Guardians would come to reason and cancel the treaty. But I underestimated their stupidity. They would rather believe that Lord Finley’s men were responsible, even though we had captured most of them by the time of the attack. And so, when it was determined that you were still to go to Kyrenica, I made a decision.”

  Pay no attention to his words, I remind myself and inch closer to the fire. “And what was your decision?”

  “Surely you did not think I would allow the Kyrenicans—those diseased, filthy dogs—to have you? No, I would rather see you dead than married to a dog. Your sacrifice was almost too high a price, yet I considered it a testament to my faithfulness that I was willing to pay it. And so, I decided the Masked Princess would have to die—at the masquerade, murdered in the Strassburgs’ own castle. My men were tasked with recruiting Kyrenicans. Worthless as they are, I knew if we paid them enough, we could hire them to burn their own capital down. It would have both Kyrenica and Galandria clamoring for war, and your father and King Ezebo would finally be forced to act.”

  His gaze strays from my face and travels down my dress. “Though perhaps, when the city burns, Kyrenica will finally rise up, and I will not have to part with you after all.”

  “What do you mean?” My hand closes around the poker. I raise it and stir the embers of the fire, my arm shaking.

  “Seeing you now, ripening into a beautiful woman, I wonder if I have been too quick to deprive myself.” He crouches down next to me, his long hair drapes over my shoulder, and his fingers graze my cheek. “Perhaps the Masked Princess does not have to die in the castle. Perhaps, instead her dear advisor saves her from being assassinated by a Kyrenican soldier.” He leans close and whispers, “And the Masked Princess, moved by his devotion, insists upon marrying him.” His hand travels up my arm and revulsion slides down my spine as he brings his lips to my cheek.

  “No,” I say, clutching the fire poker. I spin away from him and jump to my feet. I have made it around the armchairs, but he moves faster than I anticipated and blocks the door.

  “What did you say?” His eyes narrow.

  “I said no.” I raise the fire poker. It is not nearly as sturdy as a sword, but it will have to do.

  “Now Wilha, what do you think you are doing? Be reasonable. Be a good girl, and put that down.”

  “No.” I move into position, just as Patric taught me.

  He looks at the poker and seems to be amused. “This is supposed to be your makeshift sword? You’re not even holding it correctly. You should have paid more attention during your lessons.”

  I ignore his words and instead watch his body. His feet have turned sideways. His hands are at his sides, but it does not look as though he means to draw his sword. Perhaps he doesn’t consider me enough of a threat?

  Just as he lunges to my right, I quickly slide to my left.

  “Why so jumpy, Princess?” His grin has vanished, and he doesn’t seem amused now. “Put that down. In less than an hour’s time, Korynth is going to burn. You cannot stop that. But you can save your own life.”

  I shake my head. “I would never marry you.”

  He cocks his head. “You would marry a Kyrenican dog before you would marry me?” There’s a dangerous edge to his question.

  “I thought you were my friend,” I answer. “You have always been my friend.”

  “Indeed, I have been t
he greatest friend the House of Andewyn has ever had, and I have served her truly. Now, it is time the Andewyns serve me.”

  He lunges right, but I had read his intention, and slip out of his grasp.

  “Wilha, I cannot allow you to marry a Kyrenican.” He extends his hand. “But I can offer you a good life with me. A life befitting who you are.”

  I shake my head and keep the poker pointed at him, trying not to be distracted by his words. “No.”

  “Then,” he says, his voice quiet with resignation, “you will have to die.”

  He draws his sword and lunges. I block him once, and then twice, but far too late, I realize Patric was right. I never learned how to properly attack. The minute I advance toward Lord Murcendor, he knocks the fire poker from my hands. Then he grabs my arm and forces me to my knees.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this,” he says, and presses the tip of his sword to my throat. “After all these years that I have cared for you, it is destiny that we should be together.”

  I don’t have the strength or the skill to beat him. But I do have the power to say no. The power to die on my own terms, instead of living on his.

  “No,” I say.

  He presses the blade deeper to my throat. I feel a sharp flash of pain, and a warm trickle slides down my neck.

  There is a strange buzzing in my ears. Lord Murcendor stares at me, his eyes darkening with desire, his lips slightly parted, and I imagine he is looking at me—at the Glory of Galandria—one last time before he kills me.

  In the end, my family’s wealth was not enough to stand between me and the blade we all hoped would never come. So many times I have wondered if the queens of Galandria past, though long dead, could somehow see me. And if they have watched over me, have they been pleased with the life I have lived? And when I pass into their realm, will they welcome me as a fellow Andewyn traveler? Or will they deem me weak, and unworthy of them?