The Princess in the Opal Mask (30 page)

“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 the 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?

Lord Murcendor raises his sword above my chest. The room starts to spin, and the buzzing grows louder. Behind him, in a swirl of iridescent powder blue, I see a hazy shape grabbing the satchel off the table.

“History,” Lord Murcendor says, breathing heavily, “will judge me as the man who restored glory back to Galandria.”

Just as he begins to lower his blade, his features contort and his face whitens.

“History,” comes Elara’s voice, “will judge you as a madman.” She raises a dagger coated with wet blood and stabs him—for the second time, I think—and Lord Murcendor falls away, striking his head on the table.

I
just killed a man. The words pound in my brain, insistent like a hammer. I just killed a man. I stabbed him with my dagger when his back was turned. The knowledge sends me to my knees, and I clamp my hands over my ears.

“Elara? Elara, are you all right?”
Wilha is at my side, though she seems far away, and I stare at her through the black spots that dance before my eyes. She is damp and dirty and smells like the sea.
“Elara, take a few deep breaths and listen to me.”

I just killed a man. I’m floating away, being carried along by the wave of dancing black spots that beckon me into the darkness.

“Elara, I need you. I need you to stay with me.”
Her voice is soft and warm. I reach out and tether myself to it like a child clutching a kite.

I watch Wilha, seemingly quite calm. She steps over Lord Murcendor and pours a cup of tea from a silver pot, and thrusts it into my hands.
“Drink this, Elara. There is something I need to tell you. . . .”

“I killed him.”
I can hear my voice, but it doesn’t sound like my own.

Wilha is bending over Lord Murcendor.
“I don’t think he is dead. . . . It is difficult to tell with his cloak. But his wound doesn’t appear to be very deep. Perhaps he is unconscious from hitting his head?”

I sip the tea and slowly feel the wave turn. It carries me away from the darkness and back toward Wilha. The black spots dissolve, and strength returns to my arms and legs.

She grabs my arm and gives me a shake, “Elara, I need you to listen. Lord Murcendor is not the worst of our problems.”

“What?” I look at Wilha straight on, and realize that despite her calm voice, she looks panicked. “What do you mean?”

Wilha takes a deep breath. “He is planning to burn the city.”

A
ll of those old buildings. So flammable. So easily destroyed. That’s all I can think of once Wilha finishes relaying the conversation she overhead.

“The city will burn fast,” I say.

“What do we do?” She turns questioning eyes on me, and I realize this is my problem to solve. She has carried the message, but the decision to act must come from me.

“When did you say they were to start?”

“At midnight, when the fireworks begin.”

I look at the clock above the fireplace. “That’s less than an hour from now. Stefan must be told so he can send guards to the docks, but the streets are packed with people and carriages,” I say, thinking fast. “You said the passageway leads directly to the beach by Rowan’s Rock, and that the men are camped out near there?”