Jenny Lundquist - The Princess in the Opal Mask

“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.

WILHA

The 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.

“That was sloppy,” Patric says, his mouth set in a firm line. “You are distracted today.”

I do not reply. Instead, I adjust my mask and step toward him. He blocks my lunge and slaps my sword away. “Mind your position!” He takes a menacing step forward. “You’re being clumsy. You’re not a circus performer, though right now you look like one.”

I stop, taken aback. “What is the matter with you?” I lower my sword. “Why are you being so mean?”

Patric sighs and lowers his own sword. “Princess, I wasn’t being mean. I was trying to distract you and it worked. When you are facing an opponent, never pay attention to his words. Use them to your own advantage if you can, but your attention should be focused only on his weapon.”

As he speaks, he raises his sword and points it at my neck. “See? What if I had been your enemy?”

“But you aren’t my enemy,” I say.

“You can’t afford to think like that.” He shakes his head. “Not now, anyway.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, stepping back and looking from the tip of his sword and into his eyes. “Are you saying I am in danger?”

“No,” he says quickly. “That’s not what I said.”

I stare at him, unsure if I should believe him. Patric may be my friend, but he is also one of my father’s most valuable soldiers, and will follow whatever orders are given to him. Even if that means keeping things from me. “Then why have I been required to take these lessons? How many princesses are trained to defend themselves?” I gesture to the soldiers standing along the wall. “Isn’t that why we have guards?”

“The lessons are for your own education, Wilha. You have nothing to worry about.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing it is useless to question him further. “But can we please take a break? I am feeling tired,” I add, although I could easily train for another hour.

I fake a yawn for the benefit of the guards, in case any of them are watching. “Please, just give me a minute. Come sit with me.” I lead him over to the bench in front of my mother’s statue. I arrange my skirt over the bench and hide my hand underneath. Patric’s hand finds mine and our fingers lace together.

“I passed Lord Murcendor on the way over here,” he whispers. “Did he visit with you today?” When I answer yes, his hand tightens on mine. “I do not trust him. And I do not like the way he looks at you.”

“He has devoted his life to protecting my family.” I think of the unease I felt with him earlier, but quickly dismiss it. “And he is the only Guardian who has ever bothered to speak to me.”

And he is also the only one trying to stop my betrothal, I add silently.

We sit in silence for a while until he whispers, “I heard a couple of noble boys talking in the city the other day. They are both attending your birthday ball. One of them was trying to pluck up the courage to ask you to dance.”

“I envy those who don’t have to go,” I say. “I don’t want to endure the stares.”

“And I envy those who will dance with you,” he says quietly, turning to look at me.

My heart thumps in my chest and I am keenly aware of the pressure of his hand in mine. And of his green eyes, and the longing I read in them.

“Vena was inquiring about you the other day,” I say suddenly. “She wanted to know if you were, well . . . if there was someone else in your life.” I fumble over my words, aware that my voice sounds far from casual.

“Are you asking me if there is anyone whom I care for?” he says, still staring at me.

His question hangs over us like a storm cloud and we are silent. For all my family’s wealth, love is the one luxury royalty cannot afford. Something we both know well.

Our gazes hold, until he sighs and looks away. “I heard you met with the Kyrenican ambassador a few days ago,” he says in a normal tone. “Do you think it is possible to avoid war?”