The Princess in the Opal Mask (14 page)

“So you want me to spy?” I ask, sickened by the greedy look in his eyes. Doe he actually want Galandria and Kyrenica to go to war?

“I want you to be observant,” he corrects. “If you happen upon any information that you find useful, I will expect you to pass it along. And in doing so, you will convince me, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you can be trusted.” He cocks his head. “Agreed?”

I suppress a shiver of revulsion and look him straight in the eye. “Agreed.”

I
t’s difficult to contain my awe. Arianne helped me change into a lavender gown—the finest I’ve ever seen—and led me through a passageway from the old servants’ quarters to Wilha’s closet. It is the same one, I assume, Wilha used to visit me a week ago.

I finger the lace of my sleeve as I look around. I knew Wilha had beautiful clothes, but being trapped for the last week in the old servants’ quarters, which seemed only slightly better than some of the rooms in Ogden Manor, I couldn’t have imagined this.

The room is bursting with gowns and jeweled dresses in fabrics so bright it makes my eyes hurt to stare at them. One whole wall is covered with glass cases containing hundreds of her masks. Dark cherry wood dressers line the other walls, which probably contain more jewels and shoes and other fine things. Strewn around the room are half-packed trunks swollen with even more dresses.

“Stop gawking and get a move on,” Arianne says as the passageway slides shut behind us. She leads us out of the closet and into what I assume is Wilha’s bedroom, where silky, gossamer fabric canopies a bed covered with thick velvet blankets. We walk into an adjoining sitting room full of finely crafted furniture where Wilha, Lord Murcendor, Lord Quinlan, and Lord Royce sit in gilded chairs. They rise when they see us.

“Stand side by side so we can get a look at the two of you,” Lord Quinlan says. Wilha obeys and moves next to me. She is wearing a brown cloak, and in her hands she holds a gold-threaded mask.

While Arianne and the three Guardians squint at us, I continue looking around the room. It appears that this sitting room leads to several other rooms besides Wilha’s bedroom.

“Are all these rooms just for you?” I whisper to Wilha.

Her cheeks flush. “Yes.”

“Wilha doesn’t have as many freckles on her nose,” Lord Quinlan says, still squinting.

“That will hardly matter,” Lord Royce points out. “Elara will be wearing the mask. I should think the nobles in attendance tonight will be quite fooled.”

Tonight I am to attend a farewell dinner in the Opal Palace, where the noblemen and women will make several toasts in “my” honor. Arianne has made it clear I am not to speak to anyone, nor will anyone be given the opportunity to speak to me. Meanwhile, in just a few minutes, Wilha will leave with a convoy of guards to begin her journey to Kyrenica. They will travel through back roads in humble carriages disguised as peasants, with Wilha posing as a Maskren. It’s an ingenious plan, really. For how can the princess be on the road when she is present at her farewell dinner?

And tonight if an assassin gets past the palace guards and into the feast? No matter. I’ll be there to take the arrows for the beloved Princess Wilhamina.

Tomorrow I will leave, also posing as a Maskren, with another set of guards disguised as peasants. We will travel over the more well-worn roads leading from Allegria to Kyrenica. Then, just before we enter Korynth, our two processions will converge, and we’ll make the final journey to the Kyrenican Castle together, with me posing as the Masked Princess.

Lord Quinlan tilts his head. “We need to see what she looks like with the mask. Wilha, will you please escort Elara back to your closet to fetch a mask?”

Wilha looks at me uneasily. We haven’t seen each other since the night she appeared in my room. More than once, as I tossed and turned on my bed in the servants’ quarters, I’ve wondered where Wilha spends her nights. I guess now I know.

“Bring out the mask with the lavender colored opals,” Arianne commands. “It will match the dress.”

Wilha nods, turns, and starts walking over to the closet. With a sigh, I follow her.

The masks inside the glass cases glisten with gilt and opals and other jewels. The smallest looks as though it was made for an infant, and I recognize the jeweled one at the very end as the mask Wilha wore in Eleanor Square.

“So many masks,” I murmur.

“New ones are given to me every year for my birthday.” She turns to me, and adds, “Our birthday, I mean. Happy belated birthday by the way.”

“What?” I say, startled.

“Happy belated birthday,” she repeats. “We turned sixteen last month.” She looks at me and frowns. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, I just . . . you’re the only person who has ever said that to me. The Ogdens didn’t know the date of my birth, so we never celebrated it.” Not that they would have celebrated it anyway.

“Oh.” Wilha stares at me, perhaps seeing more than she expected to.

“How do you open the glass cases?” I ask, changing the subject.

Wilha removes her necklace of keys. “The key is here, see? The twentieth one, clockwise from the clasp. The one with the emeralds. If you look closely, you can see it is a bit more worn than the others.” She opens the case, removes a mask, and hands it to me. She opens her mouth to say something, but Lord Murcendor coughs just then. Wilha takes it as a command and she turns and hastily exits the closet.

I run my fingers over the precious stones. Instead of seeing beautiful jewels, I can’t help but see all the food this mask could purchase. It could have fed me well all those nights I went hungry at the Ogdens. Actually, the sale of this one mask alone could probably feed an entire village for several months.

Everyone is waiting for me, but I pause as I look again at Wilha’s opulent chambers. Maybe it’s a good thing no one has offered to let me visit King Fennrick, sick though he is. Because if I saw him, near death or not, I couldn’t trust myself not to spit in his face.

T
he mask is hot, heavy, and stifling. It limits my vision, and I can’t help tugging on it as Arianne ties it on. Behind me, the Guardians stand silent as I stare at my new reflection in the hand mirror Wilha holds up. The mask is painted white with lavender colored opals feathering above the eyebrows and cheekbones, forming a swirling, flowering pattern. With the dress, the mask, and the necklace of keys hanging around my neck, I look exactly like Wilha.

“Stop fidgeting.” Arianne grabs at my arm. “If you insist on acting like a dim-witted peasant, you’ll be found out immediately.”

“How can you put up with wearing this?” I say to Wilha, slapping Arianne’s hand away.

She casts a fleeting look at the Guardians before answering. “I have never known anything else.”

“Yes, but doesn’t it bother you at all?”

“No,” she says, “I suppose it does not.”

She’s a terrible liar, but I let it go and turn back to my own reflection.

“I think that’s the best it’s going to get,” Arianne says with a defeated sigh. She wipes her hands as though washing me from them. “There is only so much I can do, particularly since you insisted on dismissing Vena.”

“Vena wasn’t discreet,” Lord Murcendor answers.

“You have done an admirable job, Madame Arianne,” Lord Royce says.

“Indeed,” Lord Quinlan says grandly. “You have done us all a great kindness, and you shall be rewarded.”

I glance at Lord Royce and catch him studying me with his ice blue eyes. He has accompanied Lord Quinlan on visits to my room, but said nothing. Of the three Guardians, Lord Royce is the most enigmatic. He lacks Lord Quinlan’s pompousness and Lord Murcendor’s zeal. Oftentimes, he seems to just blend into the background, like a piece of old furniture.

Lord Murcendor rises. “It is time to see the princess off.” He eyes Lord Quinlan. “I trust you have selected only the best men to escort Wilha?”

“As Guardian of Defense,” Lord Quinlan replies icily, “I have managed just fine.” He turns to address Wilha and me, “Your guards are never to see your face, and you are to avoid contact with the villagers as much as possible.”

Wilha glances at me before addressing Lord Quinlan, “And my father?”

At this, Lord Quinlan shifts uncomfortably. “He has given his approval of the plan. He sends you both his farewells and bids you a good journey. His health is improving, and when he feels stronger, he promises to write.”

He promises to write? I can’t help but feel a little sorry for Wilha. So King Fennrick the Handsome is now conscious enough to confer with his advisors, but has chosen not to say good-bye to either of his daughters? Not even the daughter he’s known all these years?

“Thank you,” she says stoically to Lord Quinlan. “Tell him I hope he recovers soon.” She turns to me and nods. “See you in Korynth, Elara.” She exits the room, followed by Lord Murcendor and Lord Quinlan. Arianne enters Wilha’s closet, grumbling about needing to pack more gowns.

“I bid you a safe and good journey, Elara.” Lord Royce’s voice startles me. I had forgotten he was still there.

“Thank you, Lord Royce.”

He turns to leave but stops and turns back. “Suppose Lord Finley’s man had contacted you in time and told you of his plans? What would you have done?” His voice is casual and his blue eyes are impassive as he stares at me. But it’s a dangerous question, and one Lord Murcendor and Lord Quinlan haven’t thought to ask.

“I would have laughed and told him to cut back on the ale,” I answer, which is true enough.

“Would you?” he asks. “If the opal crown was being offered to you?”

“I would have refused him,” I say. “Galandria has done nothing for me. Let someone else rule this wretched kingdom.”

Lord Royce nods and silently leaves. I blow out a breath, thankful to finally be alone. Thankful to soon be leaving the Opal Palace, and the Guardians’ watchful eyes.

O
ur procession bumps over the Kyrenican terrain and rattles to a stop at a patch of trees just outside of Korynth. I step out of my carriage and take a deep breath of air that bites and smells of salt—so different from the warmer, still air of Galandria. My hands are shaking. My heart flaps in my chest like a bird trying to escape its cage.

Miles behind me lies the kingdom I have known all my life. And here before me lies the kingdom I will one day rule as queen of Kyrenica. Upon my shoulders, I carry the expectations of two kingdoms.

I know little about Stefan Strassburg. But sitting in my father’s court, I often glimpsed many a lord treat his wife as nothing more than a finely adorned possession. Is the crown prince such a man? Will he care to know me, or will he care only that with this treaty his kingdom has acquired the famous Masked Princess?

I pull a white handkerchief from my cloak pocket. Every night after dinner I have sat in my tent embroidering. On the left side of the handkerchief in gold thread is a curling, ornate
A
with the Andewyn coat of arms next to it. On the right side is an
S
with the Strassburg coat of arms. I suppose I intend it to be a present of sorts to the crown prince.

Yet at night when I sleep, I still dream of him locking me away in a crypt.

Behind me I hear the clomping of horses and the voice of Garwyn, the leader of my guards calling. “Your Highness? They’re here.”

I refold the handkerchief and tuck it back into my cloak. “Thank you, Garwyn.”

The guards have been kind to me, but aloof. At night, after bringing dinner to my tent, they usually retreat to the campfire to whisper among themselves. They have not seemed all that eager to speak to me. Odd behavior, it seems, given that Lord Quinlan said they volunteered to accompany me to Korynth.

The arriving procession comes to a halt, and then Elara exits her carriage. As planned, she is dressed identically to me: a brown traveling cloak, black boots, and a gold-threaded mask. The only difference is that Elara carries a brown leather satchel.

“Did you have a good trip?” I ask.

She does not reply, but instead brushes past me with only the briefest of glances, before entering my carriage. I turn and follow her.

Our procession, which has grown significantly now that we have the carriages that traveled with Elara, starts up again. After I draw the curtains Elara unties her mask and tosses it aside. “I hate this thing. I don’t know how you wore one all these years.”

I nod, and after a moment’s hesitation, untie mine as well. “How was your journey?” I ask.

“Bumpy,” she answers curtly.

“And the farewell dinner, did they believe that you were . . . that you were me?”

“Why shouldn’t they? I’m an excellent liar,” she says. From the tone of her voice, I cannot tell if she is boasting—or bitter. “Besides,” she adds, “Arianne wouldn’t let me speak to anyone.”

“Yes,” I answer quietly, “she is often like that.”

Elara turns and stares at the drawn curtains, and I cast about for something else to say. All these weeks on the road, staring out the window of my carriage, I have wondered so much about her. She grew up in a small village, not in Allegria, that much I have understood. I can’t help but wonder what it was like, walking about with no guards before or behind her, no citizens screaming her name in either adoration or hatred.