Jenny Lundquist - The Princess in the Opal Mask

Not everyone who attends the coronation wishes the young queen well.

As the townspeople gather in the great hall of the young queen’s palace, many object among themselves. Construction has just begun. The great hall is the only completed room and already her palace is by far the grandest structure in Allegria. The townspeople see the glass windows—the first in the city—and glimpse the blustery, inky night beyond. They wish their own homes were so sheltered.

The wind howls and flickering candles paint shadows on the walls. At the end of the hall is an altar, which displays the young queen’s crown, as well as the large stone that started it all. The First Opal. The jewel glints in the candle-light, showing veins of gold cracked through deep blue, as if lightning is trapped inside. A man whispers that if he had discovered the opals in Galandria’s soil, instead of young Eleanor Andewyn, it would be his coronation they’d all be attending.

An elderly woman stands among the crowd. Hatred burns in her heart. Time will pass, but her son will never be returned to her. The young queen’s army has seen to that. She weaves among the people, spreading her discontent like poisonous seed.

The whispers go still as the young queen and her newly appointed council of advisors—her “Guardians”—appear at the back of the hall. The young queen’s expression is pained. She is having trouble accounting for her floor-length gown, which trails behind her.

The townspeople cheer and clap as she ascends the aisle. But in the privacy of their own hearts, many hope she will trip and break her neck.

They are bitterly disappointed when she does not.

The young queen kneels before the altar. Ambition burns in her heart. The crown has been purchased, not just with precious stones, but with blood. The people doubt her now, but time will pass. She will build a dynasty. One day her son will also rule Galandria.

A Guardian places the crown on the young queen’s head. She jolts slightly under its weight, yet her smile does not waver. This is her first test as a queen. She will not fail.

She stands and lifts the First Opal, raising it over her head. She turns to face her people. She is triumphant. She is their warrior queen.

She is also off balance.

The young queen stumbles backward and trips over her gown, dropping the opal, and she lands on her side. Loud gasps erupt, followed by a shocked hush descending over the crowd.

But Eleanor stands up, eager to reassure them. It will take more than a fall to stop their new queen.

However, the people’s attention is not on her. Instead it is on the First Opal. There on the ground sits not one large stone, but two. The First Opal has broken in half.

The old woman sees her chance. Fate has smiled upon her. She points a bony finger at young Eleanor and proclaims, “An omen! Just as this stone has split, one day this kingdom shall also split in two!”

The old woman’s triumphant stare locks with the young queen’s dismayed one. Neither can look away from the other.

The old woman is not a witch; she cannot curse a kingdom. She is simply an angry mother who has lost her son. And the young queen is not a prophet; she cannot foretell the future. She is simply a new mother who wants to protect her kingdom and her son.

But both the old woman and the young queen understand that the right words, spoken at the right time, can become more powerful than a thousand swords. The right words scatter like seeds. They are watered by rumor and grown by time.

Until one day, they become legend.

THREE HUNDRED

YEARS LATER

ELARA

Somewhere in the kingdom of Galandria, someone knows my real name.

When I was a small child I was dumped on the Royal Orphanage’s doorstep, like a sack of rotten potatoes. In return, the orphanage dumped me with the Ogden family and told them to choose a name for me. Mistress Ogden called me Elara, after a girl from her childhood village. (“Dirtiest, most disgusting brat I’ve ever known,” she’s fond of saying.)

One day I intend to find the name I’ve lost. And when I do, I’ll declare the name Mistress Ogden gave me worthless, just as she has always declared me worthless.

Somewhere in this wretched kingdom, someone must remember me.

I tell myself this as I stare at the honey almond cake I’ve baked for Mister Blackwell’s visit tonight. I had hoped to surprise Mistress Ogden with the cake and finally show her that I am not the inconvenience she says I am. I don’t need her to love me. I gave up on that a long time ago. But I do need a place to live.

I woke up early and gathered extra wood for the brick oven. But instead of the masterpiece I envisioned, the cake is lumpy and scorched. Nevertheless, my stomach rumbles. I despise dinners with Mister Blackwell, but at least I will eat well tonight for a change.

“Elara!” bellows Mistress Ogden. “Is something burning in there?”

“No!” Cursing, I brush a lock of sweat-soaked hair behind my ear and sprinkle flour on top of the cake, hoping to disguise the blackened crust. Why didn’t I think to make frosting as well?

Mistress Ogden storms into the kitchen. Her silvery-blond hair is tied back with lavender ribbons, in the fashion most respectable Galandrian women prefer. “It is stifling in here. What have you done?” Her eyes, the color of blue disdain, land on the misshapen lump. “What is that?”

“It’s a cake.” I wipe my flour-coated hands on my skirt, a hand-me-down from Serena, Mistress Ogden’s daughter. “I thought with Mister Blackwell coming tonight that—”

“That what? You’d bake a monstrosity and serve it to our guest?” She props open the back door with a rock. Outside, rain batters the Ogdens’ unkempt yard, turning it into a muddy marsh, and cool air wafts into the overheated kitchen. She picks up the cake and pitches it out the door.

“You didn’t have to throw it away,” I say, and my stomach rumbles again.

She snorts. “That thing was nearly as hideous as you are. . . .”

She launches into one of her tirades, so I carefully arrange my features into a look of penitence. Then, as always, I tune out every word she says. It’s a game I’ve played since I was young. What I do is imagine a poor, starved kitten. I imagine feeding it Mistress’s words, the same words she has repeated over and over throughout the years like an oath. Worthless. Unwanted. Unlovable. I imagine the words are being devoured and stripped of their power, that they are carried away to someplace else entirely.

A place where they can no longer hurt me.

“Besides,” she finishes when she has finally exhausted herself, “have you forgotten how important tonight is?”

As if I could. My life at the Ogdens’ has always depended on Mister Blackwell, the director of the Royal Orphanage, and the four hundred worthings he brings the Ogdens every three months. Their payment for allowing me to live with them.