The Princess in the Opal Mask (6 page)

“You did?” At this, Mister Blackwell looks at me. For once, his grim manner has vanished and he seems amused.

“Yes, sir,” I lie. And for good measure I add, “I also used to stand at the top of the stairs and wave, like it was a balcony.” I mimic a grand wave with a smile. Serena rolls her eyes but says nothing.

“I used to live in Allegria very briefly.” Mistress gets a wistful look on her face. “I performed with the Royal Theatre Company. Once upon a time, I was quite the actress.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Mister Blackwell casts an unreadable look at Mistress Ogden. And for a moment, I wonder if he knows we’re all just a bunch of pathetic liars.

“I tell the girls all the time that Allegria’s the most beautiful city in the world. Though it is difficult to describe to someone who has never been there.” Mistress Ogden sighs. “I have so wanted to show the girls the Royal Opera House and Eleanor Square, and take them to see the Opal Palace.”

“Do you intend to visit Allegria soon, then?” Mister Black-well asks.

Mistress Ogden shakes her head. “We’ve had a tough few months. And a trip to Allegria costs money. Though it would be a good lesson for the girls, a bit of living history, don’t you think? Something a schoolteacher just can’t explain.” Mis-tress leans back in her chair, looking utterly defeated. Her gaze finds Mister Blackwell, and I know she is gearing up for her grand finale. “I don’t suppose—”

“As it happens, Elara and I saw the girls’ teacher today.” Mister Ogden, who, up until now has seemed content to silently drain his goblet, suddenly rouses himself.

“What?” Mistress Ogden frowns, caught off guard and clearly not happy he has changed the subject. But she doesn’t let it phase her. “You mean Mister Travers?” she asks, feigning interest. “However is he?”

“Well, it was quite strange,” Mister Ogden begins, and relates what happened at the Draughts of Life.

“Where do you suppose they were taking him?” Serena asks once he’s finished.

“Perhaps he was a convict,” Mister Blackwell speaks up. “Many criminals flee Allegria, hoping that the farther they get from the Crown, the surer they will be able to evade the justice that is due to them.”

“A criminal?” Serena says. “I wouldn’t have taken Mister Travers for a criminal. But then he didn’t grow up in Tulan. I wonder why he chose to settle here?”

Outwardly I give no sign that the conversation troubles me. But inwardly I feel faint and my stomach churns. A possibility I hadn’t considered earlier enters my mind. Why
would
an outsider choose to settle in Tulan, a small, insignificant village, unless he had a very good reason for doing so? To what lengths would a hunted man go to protect his family? If he’d had a daughter, would he hide her? Would he have gone so far to deliver her to an orphanage, only to find her later when he thought he would be safe now?

Is Mister Travers my father?

Mister Blackwell turns his dark gaze to me. “Did you see him in the tavern as well? Did he say anything to you?” His words seem casual enough, as though he’s just making po-lite conversation. I’m considering my answer, weighing each word carefully, when I notice something that makes my blood run cold.

The large opal ring on Mister Blackwell’s pale hand. Exactly like the one the man in the carriage wore.

Mister Blackwell is the man who had Mister Travers taken to Allegria? And yet just a few hours later he sits here, acting as though he’s only just arrived in Tulan, in the shabby carriage we’ve always greeted him in, not the royal one bearing the Andewyn coat of arms.

“Did you see him?” Mister Blackwell repeats.

My face becomes still. “I never noticed him until the guards arrived. I was talking to my friend Cordon the whole time. What will happen to him in Allegria?”

Mister Blackwell’s face is a veil of shadows in the flickering candlelight. “If your schoolteacher is in some kind of trouble, he will be put in prison to await trial.”

Mistress Ogden grabs my hand and squeezes it. Hard. I know I should drop it and steer the conversation back to what she really wants. But what I want is answers. Mister Travers knows something about my mother and somehow, I need to find him.

And suddenly, it occurs to me that I can.

“Well, I suppose there is no use talking about it anymore then,” I say with a wave of my hand. I turn to Mistress Ogden and give her such a look of sunny adoration that she seems momentarily confused by my sudden change in attitude. “I know things are difficult, Mother”—I force myself to choke out the word—“But isn’t there some way we could go to Allegria? I so want to see the Masked Princess.”

The confusion on her face vanishes, and it’s replaced by a look of approval. I know she hates me. But I think a small part of her grudgingly respects me for learning to be somewhat of the performer she herself is.

She shakes her head before smiling sadly. “I’m sorry, but tickets to the masquerade are just impossible to get.” She turns to Mister Blackwell. “Aren’t they?”

“Actually,” Mister Blackwell says, “many of us in Allegria were given invitations. Perhaps the orphanage could sponsor your trip to Allegria, as well as provide you with tickets.”

“Why Mister Blackwell, that would be just lovely.” Faster than I’ve ever seen her move, she reaches across the table and snatches the four tickets and bag of worthings Mister Black-well holds out. From the look in her eyes, I can tell she thinks she’s gotten the best of him.

Yet as I listen to them speak, I’m not so sure. He knows more about Mister Travers than he is letting on. And he just happened to have exactly four tickets to a ball that’s supposed to be nearly impossible to get into? I look at Mister Blackwell, at his shadowed face, unreadable black eyes, and his opal ring glinting in the candlelight. I can’t help but wonder if it hadn’t been his plan for us to travel to Allegria all along.

I don’t care about the Masked Princess, or her masquerade ball. But if Mr. Travers is still in Allegria by the time I arrive, somehow, I’m going to find him.

T
he gardens surrounding the Opal Palace are famous for their beauty. My favorite has always been an apple orchard known as the Queen’s Garden. Off limits to everyone but the royal family, it is located on the southwestern end of the palace grounds. Interspersed between the trees are white stone statues of every ruling queen of Gal-andria, from Eleanor the Great to my mother, Queen Astrid. Next to my mother’s statue is an empty space, which is to be filled once a new queen is crowned.

It is a place I come to when I need to be alone, away from the whispers and the rumors. A place where, except for the guards keeping watch along the garden’s wall, the only eyes that see me are made of stone.

A weak spring sun shines upon my mother’s statue, and I try to find within her stone face some resemblance to myself. There is no law in Galandria, with its rich history of strong queens, decreeing the crown must pass to the firstborn son. No law saying that I, as the eldest, cannot be the crown princess of Galandria and one day have my own statue in this garden, right next to my mother’s. Yet I have always known, from the time such thoughts could enter my head, that my brother Andrei would one day rule Galandria. That the next statue to grace the Queen’s Garden will be of Andrei’s wife.

A breeze stirs up, sending blossoms swirling from the apple trees, and for a moment it seems my mother’s statue weeps pink flower petals. Her lips are pressed together. Her hair is coiled on her head, her chin is raised, and her arms are at her sides. She looks strong, as though she could stare down an entire army by the sheer force of her will.

I see nothing of myself in her.

I
t is several minutes later, when I am staring at the empty space where a statue of me will never be, that I hear something behind me. I turn, and see Lord Murcendor approaching. He wears a thick emerald green robe identifying him as a member of the Guardian Council.

Lord Murcendor’s appearance is oft-putting to many. His sleek dark hair, pale face, and grave manner make others uneasy. But they do not know him like I do. As the Guardian of the Opal Mines, and therefore the protector of Galandria’s wealth, the safety of the Andewyn family rests heavily upon his shoulders.

“You called for me, Your Highness?”

“Please do not call me that,” I say. “Not today.”

“Very well, Wilha.” He pauses. “The last time I saw you, you were sitting here as well.”

“I have a training session with Patric soon,” I reply, touching the lightweight red velvet mask I am allowed to wear during our lessons. “Besides,” I motion to my mother’s statue, “I wanted to look at her while I still could.”

“I see.” Lord Murcendor settles himself on the bench next to me. “Your father told you then?”

I nod, and the tears I have been holding back the last few days start escaping. Lord Murcendor waits patiently for me, as he always does. “Father says I serve Galandria by marrying the Kyrenican crown prince,” I say when I regain my composure.

“The Kyrenicans are dogs,” he retorts, and I read the anger in his eyes. “Their rightful place is under Galandria’s boot.”

I turn to him. “Please, can you not change his mind?”

“You overestimate my influence, Wilha. It is Lord Royce who has your father’s ear on this matter, and as usual he will only tell the king what he wants to hear. And what your father wants to hear, like many kings, is that he is right. During our sessions in the Guardians’ Chambers, Lord Quinlan made an excellent case for declaring war and the wealth it could bring us. But your father is a fool. He is so keen to avoid a war—a war I believe we have every assurance of winning—because he and Lord Royce are too cowardly to risk going into battle. I alone argued your case and told him it was madness to hand you over to our enemy without any regard for your safety or happiness. You are the Glory of Galandria. It kills me to see so great a treasure as you pass into the hands of such despicable men.”

I look away from his fiery gaze. I know he means well, but his words bring no comfort.
The Glory of Galandria
is the same thing as
The Masked Princess
. A nonperson.

I swallow. “I have been dreaming again.”

For years I have been plagued with nightmares. Right after Rinna died, I used to dream that all the boys and girls in Allegria would surround me. They would slap and grab at me, and when one of them would succeed in pulling off my mask, they all promptly fell to the ground, dead.

Or I would dream that I was playing by the banks of the Eleanor River and slipped into the water. But when I tried to surface, I found I could not because my mask was too heavy. And no matter how much I thrashed about, it kept pulling me downward, until I could no longer see the sunlight.

“What do you dream of this time?” he asks.

“I dream that when the crown prince and I meet he decides the mask is not enough.” I close my eyes. “I dream that he decides to lock me away in a crypt, where I am hidden from others, unable to cause harm.” I breathe deeply and open my eyes. “Please, tell me what I should do.”

“Do not give up so easily.” His voice is sharp. “There is still time.” His gaze strays to my lips and his voice lowers. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this. I will not let you go.”

He continues staring, and then quickly stands up and straightens his robe. “I am afraid I must be going,” he says, calmness returning to his voice. “It seems your brother has been giving his new tutor trouble. Your father has asked that I speak with him.”

“Of course,” I say, blinking rapidly. “Of course you must.”

He leaves and I continue to sit on the bench, feeling more disoriented than before.

I give myself a small shake, trying to clear not only the fog in my head, but the unease that has suddenly sprung up in my heart.

T
he day I had my first training session with Patric, my arms shook from the weight of the sword and we had to end the lesson after only several minutes of practice. After that I swore to myself I would not be the weakling I am sure everyone believes me to be. Most nights I practice with my sword, trying to memorize the footwork and techniques Patric has taught me.

In my imagination I battle an unknown, shadowy enemy. An enemy who assumes the freakish Masked Princess will be easy prey, but is shocked to discover a warrior just as capable as the fiercest palace guard.

In these moments I feel less like the Masked Princess and more like someone else. A dawning glimpse of someone I could be. Someone who is real and solid, made of flesh and sinew, blood and bone.

Of course, I win each of these imaginary battles with ease.

But in my real training sessions with Patric, he often has to repeat his instructions two, three, sometimes four times. Despite all my practicing, the techniques do not come easy.