Authors: Jenny Lundquist
“Why do you want to be queen?” I ask suddenly. “You asked me once; now I’m asking you.”
“What I really want is to find a way to keep the three of us from tearing this kingdom apart.” Her answer is immediate, as though she has given the matter much thought.
“Three of us?” I say, my voice hardening. “By that I assume you mean Andrei?”
“He is our brother, however much you wish he were not.”
I don’t answer. I don’t want to start yet another fight over Andrei.
“Elara, I really think your attitude toward Andrei would change if—” She stops when I reach into my leather bag and pull out a jeweled mask. “What are you doing?” she asks as I tie one on.
“What does it look like I’m doing? If the ambassador is interested in the masks, then we should let him see the merchandise.” I lift out the second mask and hand it to her. “And what better way to add to the spectacle than to appear masked before him?”
Silently, Wilha ties on the mask, and soon after, Patric tells us it’s safe for us to exit the carriage.
“We searched the area and the grounds are secure,” Patric says as we head for the front door. “The guards have spread out around the premises. We will dine with the ambassador, but I do not think it wise to accept his offer of lodgings for the night. I would rather that, upon concluding your meeting, you allow us to return to Lyrisia. I would not risk traveling by daylight again if we don’t have to. The guards and I are prepared to ride through the night.”
Wilha nods. “Then that is what we will do.”
I stride ahead, frustrated that neither of them bothered to ask my opinion. When we reach the cottage, I take a steadying breath, and knock on the door.
Chapter 51
Wilha
“I
t is not customary for a queen, nor any other member of the royal family to knock on the door,” I call out to Elara.
Elara rounds on me. “I didn’t know that!”
“But Sir Vanderberg
does
know that,” I say, surprised by her sudden anger. “Let Patric handle the initial greetings. This is how it is done.”
Elara steps back from the doorstep, a murderous look in her eyes, and I have to tamp down a flood of irritation, as I have had to do so many times before in her presence. I tell myself again that she has recently suffered a great loss. Yet oftentimes these days my sister reminds me of an untrained horse. Unbroken and wild, easily angered or startled.
The cottage door opens; a young woman appears and identifies herself as Sir Vanderberg’s maid. She exchanges greetings with Patric and gestures us inside, her expression remaining carefully blank as we pass her.
Sir Vanderberg’s eyes widen as he takes in our jeweled masks. “Ghosts,” he whispers. “I’ve seen you from your balcony numerous times. I always thought you looked like a jeweled ghost.”
“I assure you, Sir Vanderberg, we are quite real,” Elara says, a lilt in her voice. Yet judging from the expression I read in her eyes she is momentarily taken aback by him. His beard is tangled and dirty; his skin is waxy and wrinkled, and spittle dangles from the corners of his mouth. His teeth are yellowed and decayed. Perhaps I should have thought to tell her of his appearance beforehand.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” I say quickly. “I am Wilhamina Andewyn, and this is my sister . . . Elara Andewyn,” I say, although her full name sounds strange to my ears.
He bows before us. “Your Highnesses, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Please, come and dine with me.”
“How did you know about this place?” Elara asks, quickly regaining her composure as we settle around a small wooden table.
“The lodge is mine. When I was a younger man I used to come here often to hunt.” Sir Vanderberg’s hands shake greatly as he gestures to his maid to get a fire going. “Use lots of wood,” he says. “My bones are old.” He turns back to us. “You’re certain no one followed you here?”
“My men checked the area; we were not followed,” Patric answers.
“How many do your men number?” Sir Vanderberg says.
“Four,” says Patric. “They are standing watch outside.”
While Patric stands behind us and looks on, Sir Vanderberg’s maid pours the three of us glasses of wine and brings out small plates of braised rabbit and stewed pears. “I am afraid this is the most we can manage in the way of hospitality here,” he says after she has excused herself from the room. He takes the candle from the table,
lights four more, and places them in the window.
“Lord Royce told us you were interested in obtaining the masks,” Elara says. “Do you find them to your liking?”
He plucks the spectacles hanging on a chain from around his neck and sets them on the bridge of his nose. He looks first at me, then at Elara. “You’re the princess’s sister?” he says.
“I am,” Elara answers, sounding slightly annoyed. “As Wilhamina just said, my name is Elara.”
“Well, you could be anyone under that mask. Take them off.”
A red stain appears on Elara’s neck, and I read the fury in her eyes at being commanded by a man she finds repulsive.
“Of course, Sir Vanderberg,” I say quickly. “We should like nothing better.”
We remove our masks, and he looks back and forth between Elara and me, clearly disappointed by our appearance. Perhaps he hoped we were incomparably beautiful. Or hideously ugly.
“You were raised in Tulan, were you not?” he says to Elara. Two thick bands of spittle form between his lips, and his breath is sour, like curdled milk.
“Yes,” Elara says, making a soft gagging sound, “I was sent there when I was a child.”
“Well, then, what makes you think you could possibly rule?” He bites into his meat. Brown juice runs down his chin, and soaks into his beard.
“I am an Andewyn. It is my birthright.”
“That’s your brother’s position, and look what a mess he’s making,” Sir Vanderberg says, brandishing his wine glass. “Many men may bend the knee to your sister, but I fail to see how
you
—raised as nothing more than a peasant—could presume to rule this kingdom.”
The flush on Elara’s neck deepens. She opens her mouth to speak, but I rush to cut her off. “But unlike Andrei, we are committed to searching out and listening to wise counsel. You, of course, would be among that treasured counsel if you were to support us.”
Sir Vanderberg does not respond. He stands and hobbles over to the hearth. While he adds more wood to the fire, I shake my head at Elara slightly. “Just let him say whatever he wants. We need him,” I whisper.
“I’m aware of that. Stop interrupting me.”
I settle back into my chair. I do not understand why Elara is so determined to lead this meeting, but I decide not to argue with her.
When the ambassador has returned to the table, Elara resumes her coquettish air. “Now that you have had time to see the masks, what do you think of them? They are quite beautiful, are they not?”
“Yes, yes.” His eyes flit to the window and his shaking resumes. “It is all in hand.”
“
What
is all in hand?” she asks, her smile becoming strained.
“Well”—he waves his hand vaguely—“it is difficult to know what the right course of action is, is it not?”
Patric and I share a look. Sir Vanderberg is shaking uncontrollably—has he been afflicted with palsy?
“Oh, I don’t know.” Elara tilts her head slightly, and her voice takes on a breathy tone. “Sometimes the right course of action is quite obvious. . . .”
Elara makes another attempt to engage him in conversation, and I resist the urge to kick her under the table. Does she honestly think she can
charm
him into supporting us? I look around the room. The maid is in the hallway, watching us. When she catches me looking at her, she quickly turns and hurries away.
“Sir Vanderberg,” Elara says. “We are here because we were under the impression that—”
Abruptly, he stands again and ambles over to the hearth.
“Why is he adding more wood to the fire?” Elara whispers. “If those flames get any larger he’s likely to burn the place down.”
I nod. It
is
stifling in here; sweat has begun trickling down my back.
“At any rate,” Elara says when he has sat back down. “We should like to know that after we leave here tonight you will write to your king and—”
Yet again he stands and moves to the window. He puts his hands out, as if to warm himself over the candle flames, before repositioning them equidistant from each other.
“This is ridiculous,” Elara whispers. “I don’t see how we’ll get anything out of him—he doesn’t even seem right in the head.” She fans herself. “I need some air before I suffocate. I’m going outside.”
Chapter 52
Elara
A
fter I’ve excused myself, I stride from the cottage, thankful to be away from the rotting corpse that is Sir Vanderberg. Wilha’s guards aren’t outside the cottage as they should be. Figures. They’re only ever around when
she
needs them.
Is this what being a queen will require of me, smiling prettily while a man with one foot already in the grave insults me? It was tempting to pull out Astrid’s letter from where I’ve hidden it in my
pocket and show him I am the firstborn, and that if Sir Vanderberg knows what’s good for him he’ll keep his putrid mouth shut.
I cross the short courtyard to the forest. The guard who was to be stationed at the carriage seems to have also abandoned his post. I open the door, but pull back when my fingers brush something wet and sticky. And red.
Blood.
A soft scream issues from my throat, and too late, I real
ize that was exactly the wrong choice. There’s a snap of a twig, and a sudden glint of silver. A knife appears near my throat and a hushed voice says, “Don’t move.”
Chapter 53
Wilha
I
resist the urge to call Elara back. Better to give her a little space, as I do not want her to lose her temper in front of the ambassador. However, Sir Vanderberg is still looking out the window and doesn’t appear to notice her absence.
“Of course,” I say, suddenly inspired, “my sister and I were thinking of giving up our claim altogether and joining the royal circus.”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” Sir Vanderberg says. He’s racked by more trembling.
Patric and I glance at each other again and frown. From the way his eyes suddenly widen and he draws his sword, I think we have arrived at the same conclusion. Patric knocks two times on the door and receives no answer.
“Did anyone know we were coming tonight?” I say, push
ing my chair away from the table and standing up.
“What?” Sir Vanderberg turns around, startled.
“Did you tell anyone Elara
and I were visiting you?”
His shaking increases, and I finally understand. It’s not palsy; it’s nerves.
“They came a week ago and questioned me,” he whispers. “They asked me if you had contacted me. When I showed them the letter Lord Royce wrote, they demanded I contact you and agree to the meeting you requested. I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes becoming watery. “My children live in Allegria, and they threatened to do terrible things if I refused. Once you arrived, I was to give the signal.”
“What signal?”
“Smoke,” Patric says, looking at the roaring fire. “That way they could watch from afar before approaching.” He turns about the room, his gaze landing on the line of candles in the window. “Four candles, for four men,” he murmurs. “Wilha, he’s already given the signal. Andrei’s men are most likely on their way right now.”
Just as he finishes speaking, the window shatters, and the cottage explodes in flames.
Chapter 54
Wilha
F
laming arrows pour through the broken windows. One strikes Sir Vanderberg’s maid squarely in the chest, and she collapses in the hallway. Another lands near my cloak and ignites. I shrug out of it, screaming, and try to stamp out not only the flames, but the panic threatening to overwhelm me.
The curtains and wooden beams are already burning. Patric, Sir Vanderberg, and I flee into the hallway.
“Is there a back entrance?” Patric shouts to be heard over the roaring of the flames.
“There is,” Sir Vanderberg says, eerily calm, “but they will have surrounded it.”
“Is there any other way out?”
“The wall of the storeroom is decaying. There’s a thick hedge beyond—it pokes right through; you may be able to get out that way.”
Patric grabs my hand. “Come with us,” he says to
the ambassador.
Sir Vanderberg shakes his head. “I’m too old to run. I have decades behind me, and most likely only days ahead of me. Besides, the smoke will get me before the flames.” And with that, he steps back into the room, his head held high.
Patric begins pulling me toward the back of the lodge.
“No!” I say, struggling against him. “We have to go back for Elara.”
“They already have her,” he shouts, pulling me forward.
“But—”
“Wilha—they have her. The best thing you can do for your sister is to flee now and try to help her later.”