Authors: Jenny Lundquist
More than anything I want to turn away and not deliver my message, for I do not want to burden her further.
“Sometimes the fog is so thick,” Stefan is saying, “that you cannot see your hand in front of your face.”
“Hello,” Elara says when she sees me approach. She rests her head against the trunk of the tree. “Stefan was just telling me about life on the Lonesome Sea.”
I nod politely at Stefan. “I have just spoken with Lord Royce. Nicolai wrote to him with his findings now that he has had a chance to visit Lord Nichols’s manor . . . as well as the surrounding area.” I phrase my words carefully.
“I’m sure Andrei’s men were quite thorough,” she says. “How is Lord Nichols taking it?”
“I don’t know. I believe Lord Royce has gone to inform him, but it seems the men were not content to merely destroy the manor. It seems they moved northeast. To Tulan. It appears they wanted to make a statement that anyone who comes into contact with either of us and does not report it to the king will suffer.” I pause. “So . . . they burned Ogden Manor as well. Lord Ogden was away . . . at a tavern, according to Nicolai . . . but the Lady Ogden was inside, and I’m told that she was ill, and would not have been able to get out and—”
“Are you telling me that Mistress burned to death?” Elara says, and I’m surprised to see that she looks stricken. Is this not the woman who abused her all those years?
“Yes, but . . .” I pause, wishing I did not have more grief to add. “It is hard to tell—the remains were unidentifiable—but it also appears as though her daughter, Serena, returned and tried to save her. And then . . . Serena’s husband went in after her and . . . he perished, too.”
“They’re all dead?” Elara’s stare is eerily vacant.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “They are dead.”
Elara slumps against the tree, her eyes unfocused.
“If that is all of your message,” Stefan says, “would you mind terribly if you left us alone?”
I hesitate, wanting to comfort my sister. But from the way she grips Stefan’s hand I know it’s not me she truly needs right now.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “I will be in Lord Royce’s cottage if you need me.”
Soon after I step out of sight, Elara begins screaming.
Chapter 49
Elara
T
he pain claws its way up my throat and I yield to it. I yield to all the memories it brings, all the words I have ever heard from Mistress Ogden.
Worthless. Unwanted. Unlovable. . . .
Everything I thought I’d stuffed away and forgotten, it bursts forth in a scream that shakes my bones.
Stefan pulls me into his arms and I cling to him. How can they all be dead? Just when I thought I was doing something right, when I thought I was offering help, it turns out I was merely hastening Mistress’s death. And not only hers, but Cordon and Serena’s as well.
“They’re dead because of me,” I say, pulling away from Stefan. “Because I was stupid and—”
“No.” Stefan cups my chin so he can look into my eyes. “They’re dead because Lord Murcendor and Andrei are cruel and vindictive. All you did was try to offer help to someone who needed it. That’s an admirable thing, Elara.”
But all being admirable has bought me are bodies burnt beyond recognition and the destruction of the only place I have ever been able to truly call home, miserable though it was. And the death of my friend, the only one I ever had as a child.
I push Stefan away and stand up. Then I’m flying down the hill, and Stefan is behind me calling my name. I burst through the door of Lord Royce’s cottage where I find Wilha
and Patric seated around the wooden table. They look
up, startled.
Wilha stands. “Elara, are you all right? I think you should sit—”
“I want Andrei executed the minute we take the crown from him,” I say.
“We don’t know that Andrei is behind this,” Wilha says, going pale. “From all the accounts that I—that
we
—have received, it appears that Lord Murcendor is ultimately in control.”
“That is nothing more than an excuse and you know it.
Andrei
wears the crown. He could have Lord Murcendor arrested, or whatever he should like. But he does not.”
“He does not because Lord Murcendor has been the closest thing Andrei has ever had to a father. Elara, please, you do not understand what it was like in the palace. Andrei is surrounded by—”
I slam my hands down on the table. “Don’t tell me what I don’t understand, Wilha! I am fed up with your constant excuses for Andrei. I understand enough to know that he is far from innocent. And when I am queen, I intend to make him pay for his crimes.”
A beat, and then Wilha says, “I assume you meant to say when
we
are queen?” Her voice softens. “Please, Elara. You’ve just received horrible news. Can we not—”
“No! You need to choose, Wilha. Is it going to be Andrei or me?” I ignore Stefan, who has come up behind me and is pulling at my arms. “If you cannot support me on this, then I shall hold you responsible as well.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” Patric stands, his eyes blazing.
“She doesn’t mean anything.” Stefan’s arms wrap around my shoulders. “She’s had a shock, that’s all.”
“That doesn’t give her the right to issue threats against Wilha, Your Highness,” Patric says. “And I will not—”
“Everyone, please just
stop
!” Wilha places a hand on Patric. “We don’t need to make this decision now.” She turns to me. “I understand you are upset, Elara. It’s only natural that—”
“Don’t condescend to me, Wilha,” I say, struggling out of Stefan’s embrace. “I’m telling you
I want him dead
.” The words hiss from my mouth, ugly and twisted, but they do nothing to ease the grief and rage blowing in my veins.
“And I’m telling
you
,” Wilha says, “that I will not see our own brother executed. And if ever
we
are queen, I will not support that decision.”
I reach into my pocket and take out Astrid’s letter. I no longer care what the truth will cost Wilha. It can’t be higher than the price Cordon, Serena, and Mistress—and who knows how many others—have already paid.
But before I can say anything, Stefan is tugging at my elbow. “Elara, let’s go. Let’s go cool off.”
“No—”
“Whatever it is you want to say can wait until you’ve both had time to think.”
Wilha and I continue glaring at each other, until I grudgingly admit Stefan is right. I slide the letter back into my pocket. But I know at some point now I’m going to have to show it to her.
Because I think it just became clear to everyone that Wilha and I cannot rule together.
Chapter 50
Elara
A
s our stay in Lyrisia has dragged on, Wilha has become the favored twin. No one says it, but I see it.
I see it in the wide berth Wilha’s guards give me, in the way Lord Royce’s men—many of whom once bowed before me in a dusty tavern—look at me warily. In the way Wilha and Patric whisper while he trains her to use a sword. In the way Lord Royce seeks out Wilha more often for her opinion. It seems after living her whole life in Allegria, she has accumulated a wealth of knowledge.
Knowledge I don’t have.
That night at the opera house, Lord Royce rode safely out of the city and took Wilha with him. Who’s to say he won’t one day decide Wilha would make a better queen and leave me behind again?
But should Wilha be allowed to rule, even jointly? After all Andrei has done, all the death and destruction he’s caused, it’s clear she pities him.
Pities him
, when with a snap of his fingers he could begin righting so many of the wrongs in this kingdom. If Wilha became queen, would she hold him accountable for all the evil things he’s done, all the ways he’s made people suffer? Or would she continue to make excuses for him? Should someone who’s sympathetic to Andrei, someone who’s never truly seen the suffering of the villagers, be allowed to rule them all?
When I first agreed to Lord Royce’s plan, I admit it had more to do with wanting to come out of hiding than any sense of duty I felt to Galandria, or her people. But now I wonder . . . shouldn’t someone who actually knows what it is to go hungry, someone who knows firsthand how a decision made in a palace affects the people in the villages, be the one to sit upon the throne? Someone like . . . me.
Me alone—without Wilha.
With all this in mind, for the time being I’m not showing Wilha—or anyone else—Astrid’s letter. I fear if I did, it would change nothing. What is my proof, really, but a small slip of parchment? Lord Royce has shown himself to be nothing if not determined. I don’t believe he would allow something that could be so easily destroyed to stand between him and his prize.
No, I will have to bide my time and earn back everyone’s favor. Then I will show them the letter.
“Promise me you will not do anything rash after I have gone,” Stefan says once he’s packed and ready to leave. Behind us, his guards wait on horseback for him to say good-bye. His eyes stray to my mouth, and I wonder if he’ll try to kiss me. We’ve spent many nights by the fire. He has held me as I have cried for Cordon; he has listened to me rage. But he has never once tried to kiss me, even when I’m certain he has wanted to.
“I promise.”
He nods, and my heart pounds, hoping he’ll show some sign that he’s truly forgiven me.
“Rest assured, I am thoroughly committed to your cause. I have already sent messages to my father detailing my belief that Andrei cannot retain power for much longer. Now I will return and tell him in person my findings.”
He reaches out, as though to hug me, but seems to change his mind at the last second. “Send a pigeon if you need anything.” He mounts his horse, and with one last wave, rides away.
I watch until he’s out of sight, disappointment thread
ing my insides.
“Excellent job, Your Highness.”
I jump, startled at Lord Royce’s voice behind me. “How so?”
“Your charms have solidified the sympathies of the future king of Kyrenica. We now have a powerful ally.”
“I’m glad my grief could be of service to you, Lord Royce.” I brush past him and return to the village, determined to find a way to earn back his favor, so he can help me become queen.
And then once I do, my first official act will be to dismiss him from my service.
8
T
he temptation of the mask proves too much to resist for Sir Vanderberg, and he finally agrees to a meeting. He asks us to visit him at his old hunting lodge four days from now.
“Tell him no,” Lord Royce instructs Lord Nichols after he’s finished reading the ambassador’s reply. “I will be seeing someone about obtaining more grain for the village that day.”
The men gathered around the wooden table all nod, and I see my chance.
“Tell him yes—Wilha and I will meet with him.” I look at Lord Royce. “If we wish to secure his support, turning down his first request is hardly the way to do it.”
“I need to be there,” Lord Royce says.
“Why? It is Wilha and I who hope to rule this kingdom one day, not
you
.”
“Sir Vanderberg is quite old and particular. I do
not think—”
“I can handle an old man with a predilection for fine things,” I say. “And I don’t believe either Wilha or I require your permission on this matter. After all, when we are queen, you will merely be advising us; you will not command us.” I turn to Wilha. “Don’t you agree?”
Wilha smiles tentatively, a hopeful look in her eyes, and nods. And for the first time, I feel the power of being a twin. As Wilha and I stare back at Lord Royce with the same face I say, “Send a pigeon to Sir Vanderberg. Tell him we accept.”
8
T
he ambassador’s hunting lodge is located in the Weeping Forest. We travel in a plain carriage that bumps its way into a forest canopied by drooping willow trees with spindly branches and knotted trunks. We continue through overgrown paths strewn with moss and wild mushrooms, until the carriage shudders to a halt just as the sun is setting. The hunting lodge before us is small and decrepit with a thatch roof and splintering wooden walls.
Patric tells us to sit tight while he and the guards search the area.
“What do you know of the Azarlin ambassador?” I ask Wilha as we wait. I’m thinking ahead, trying to calculate the best way to secure his support. If we return from this meeting without it,
Lord Royce will most likely place the blame solely on me.
“He’s been in his position since I can remember. He enjoys Galandria, and I think he much prefers to live here rather than in Azarlin. I was once told that he is quite snobbish and cantankerous, and that it’s best to appear accommodating when you are negotiating with him.”
“Who told you that?”
Wilha pauses. “Lord Murcendor. You remember I told you he once served as my tutor? He told me then.”
I slide my hand inside the pocket of my cloak, grip my mother’s letter, and wonder if I should just tell Wilha, only Wilha, of its existence. We have avoided each other since the day I learned of Cordon’s death, and our last disagreement still hangs in the air between us.