Jenny Lundquist - The Princess in the Opal Mask

None of them want to look past the Masked Princess’s costume and see the girl underneath.

T he chanting grows louder, until it seems the palace walls shake in anticipation. I hurry down the corridor with Arianne and Vena following closely behind. A group of nobles who have come to call on my father sweep out of our way. One woman discreetly brings her hand to her eyes as we pass, in case I suddenly decide to rip off my mask and curse everyone with my abominable face.

Patric stands in front of all the other guards at the entrance to the balcony. His black hair, broad shoulders, and strong arms and legs give him the distinct build of a soldier.

“Good afternoon, Princess.” His voice is formal and he bows appropriately.

I nod. “Good afternoon, Patric.” I am careful to match his tone.

“Will you be joining us on the balcony today?” Vena, standing beside me, tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

“Not today,” he answers, though he looks at me as he speaks.

“Pity,” Vena says in a lilting voice. “A stray arrow might be worth the risk if it were you coming to a lady’s rescue.”

“Stray arrows are nothing to joke about,” Patric says curtly. “Especially while the princess stands beside you.”

“Of course. Please forgive me.” Vena curtsies in my direction, yet I read the irritation in her eyes.

“Forgive me for detaining you, Madame Arianne,” Patric says with a brief glance in her direction. “I have come with a message for the princess. We will have to cancel our training session today.” He pauses, and I read the slightest disappointment in his eyes. “After your appearance on the balcony, the king requests your presence in his study. We are instead to have our lesson early next week.”

I nod briefly, as though he is just another guard.

Patric bows and leaves, and while Arianne gives instructions to the other guards, Vena leans in close, her eyes lingering on Patric’s retreating figure. “During your training sessions, does he mention anyone? He is of age. Is he betrothed?”

“I wouldn’t know. I do not make inquiries of his personal life,” I say, dismayed to realize this is the truth. I turn away, unwilling to discuss Patric any longer.

Arianne orders the guards to open the doors to the balcony, and we are greeted with the smell of rain and wet cobblestones. Cheers from the crowd below mix with the roaring of the wind. Vena holds a parasol over my head and I step forward.

Even with the rain, the courtyard is packed. People are still streaming through the gilded gates, past the gardens and water fountains, and up to the stone steps, where a line of palace guards stand.

Peasants dressed in simple clothes mix with rich Alle-grian noblewomen, who carry their own pastel-colored parasols. Several men and women appear to be on a pilgrimage judging by their foreign-looking robes. At the very front of the crowd are several men dressed in brown cloaks and masks made of gold thread. I know them to be “Maskrens,” a cult devoted to the Masked Princess.

I look, too, at the masks some of the women in the crowd wear: simple costumed ones for the merchant class, and jeweled—but less ornate than mine—ones for the noblewomen. A scream wells in my throat, clawing for release. But I swallow it, because who will ever understand?

“Smile and wave, for Eleanor’s sake,” Arianne hisses in my ear. “Stop standing there looking like you are facing the chopping block.”

I obey and force myself to wave. The crowd parts for two men, each of whom hold the arm of a third man. All three of them look ragged and dirty. But the third man has a bloody nose. His left eye is swollen shut; his lips are bruised. His shirt is torn, and he is fighting to free himself from the other two.

The first man says, “Masked Princess, we have a crime to report,” and he gives the third man a shake. “This man stole grain from a family in our village. One of the little ones got sick from hunger and died. This man is guilty of murder!”

“We have come here to demand justice!” The second man raises his voice. “Take off your mask and curse him. Give him the punishment he deserves!”

A hush falls over the crowd. Even the wind ceases its wailing. Horror twists my insides as his words register. I grasp the balcony railing and look down at the bruised and bleeding man, who stares back at me with terrified eyes. The men who hold him are superstitious. Yet they are not asking for healing or a blessing, as some have before.

They are asking me to kill this man.

A few women gather up their children and hurry away. Several other citizens cover their eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone,” screams the bleeding man as his captors shove him to his knees. “I was hungry!”

“Everyone is hungry,” shouts a peasant woman in the crowd. “Everyone except the Andewyns and the rich!”

Arianne’s grip on my shoulder is vice-like. “Say something!” she hisses. “Before this turns ugly.”

I look out at the crowd. The air is thick with silent expectation. I open my mouth, but no words come out.

Arianne curses under her breath and then shouts down at the men. “Take him to the courthouse if you feel he has wronged you.” She begins ushering me back into the palace. “Get back inside, unless you want to be the cause ofanother death.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from Vena and the guards. Arianne goes pale as she realizes she has just uttered the unspeakable.

“Your Highness,” she says, for once using my proper title, “I apologize. I was out of line.”

I nod blindly and follow her back inside the palace. Vena hurries away, muttering something about errands.

After she is gone, I lower my voice and ask Arianne, “Did she die? After what happened, did Rinna die?”

Arianne refuses to look me in the eye. “Your father has asked to see you in his study. You don’t want to keep the king waiting.”

“Please,” I beg. “No one will ever speak to me about her.”

Arianne sighs. “It is not my place to ask questions,” she says carefully. “But shortly after . . . the incident, Lord Murcendor told me Rinna had to return to her village due to family obligations.”

“And did you believe him?” I whisper.

Arianne doesn’t answer. But I read the truth in her eyes and know that she, just like so many others, believes I am a monster.

WILHA

All my life I have been forbidden to show my face. Yet I don’t know why. All I know is the scandal surrounding my birth. While my mother Queen Astrid lay laboring in her bed, my father ordered the Opal Palace be emptied of all its staff. A few members of the Guardian Council were summoned to the palace, and no word was heard from them, or my father, for two days. Everyone in Allegria assumed my mother had died, and possibly, the baby she carried as well.

Yet on the third day my father, King Fennrick the Handsome, appeared on the palace balcony. Tired and care-worn, he declared that Queen Astrid, though severely sick, was alive and had given birth to a healthy baby girl, who they named Wilhamina. When my mother finally reappeared in public she was unrecognizable. Gone was Astrid the Regal, the strong queen who bore the monarchy with grace and compassion. Instead, I am told that she seemed a pale, haggard shadow of her former self. My father said she had been weakened by child birth and did not fully recover.

Most citizens in Allegria would have believed him, had it not been for the page who had been sent to summon the Guardians. The following night he got drunk at a tavern and swore loudly to anyone who would listen that he had heard the king shouting about the birth of his first child. That the child was not a blessing, but a curse.