Authors: Jenny Lundquist
At the back of the storeroom, Patric tosses aside crates of wax candles and begins pulling at the rotted wooden planks. “Look through the supplies and grab anything you think will be helpful! If we can get out, we’re going to need to run!”
I try to stem the tide of fear rolling over me, and grab a saddlebag hanging from a peg. The shelves are mostly empty, but I find a tinderbox and a small pot and stuff them inside. Smoke billows; orange flames lick into the room and begin racing along the ceiling.
“Help me!” Patric shouts. “We need to work faster!”
I join him, and work at the planks, crying out when thick splinters from a rotted board pierce my hand.
The smoke stings my eyes, and we’re both coughing violently. With a grunt, Patric wrestles another plank from the wall, creating a space large enough for us to push through. “Now!” Patric lunges into the hedge beyond and begins hacking at branches with his sword, cutting a path for us. Gratefully, I drink in gulps of fresh night air. But the storeroom is engulfed in flames, and the heat at my back is unbearable.
“Go! The fire is following us!”
Branches slap at my cheeks and claw at my arms and legs as we push forward. We reach the end of the hedge and Patric peers out. “When I give the word, I want you to run into the cluster of willow trees over there.”
Above the roar of the flames I hear the guards shouting at each other. The frame of the lodge heaves and buckles with a loud, splintering
crack
. Patric gives me a push. “Go!”
We sprint for the trees, and a night wind pulls at our clothes as we run, accompanied by the sounds of the lodge burning, small creatures skittering, and the rustling of willow tree branches. We run for what seems like hours, until my lungs are gasping for air and a stitch pierces my side.
Patric slows and takes the saddlebag from me and slings it over his shoulder. “We need to head south,” he says.
“South? But that will take us deeper into the forest.”
“Exactly. Andrei’s guards will most likely expect us to head north, back to Allegria. So we will move south.”
Chapter 55
Elara
I
look into the eyes of Wolfram, the guard who held me captive last year in the Opal Palace’s dungeon. “Tell the others I have one of them,” he calls to another guard up ahead.
“Which one are you?” he asks, pointing his knife at me. “The Masked Princess, or the other one?”
In response, I spit in his face.
He wipes his cheek, seemingly unmoved, and smiles.
The blow comes suddenly, bruising pain across my brow and cheek. My head snaps back. My eyes water, and my vision blurs.
“Nice to see you again, too, Elara.”
I spit blood and something else from my mouth—a tooth, I think—and laugh dazedly. Now Wilha and I aren’t quite so identical.
“You think this is
funny
?” He raises his hand to strikeme again when the smell of smoke reaches us both at the same time.
“No!” He lurches to his feet, dragging me along with him. In front of the lodge, palace guards watch silently as fire engulfs the wooden structure. Glass shatters, wood splinters, and orange flames claw the night. My stomach seizes and I sink to the ground as several nearby trees ignite.
No one could survive a fire like this.
The guards’ voices come to me in snatches, though they seem very far away.
“You weren’t supposed to start the fire until we
had them!”
“You
did
say you had them!”
“I said I had
one
of them, you fool!”
While they argue, my gaze is drawn to the thick hedge at the side of the lodge. Is it my imagination, or does it shake slightly? Dim shadows fly like overgrown bats from the hedge to the thick patch of trees beyond. I’m certain I recognized Wilha’s outline. I quickly flick my eyes back to the burning inferno that once was the lodge, and go still, hardly daring to breathe. Did anyone else see them?
We watch the lodge burn until ash rains from the sky, coating our clothing like acrid snow. When there’s nothing left but a smoldering stain of earth, Wolfram sends a few men to inspect the scene.
“We found the remains of two people,” a guard says after they return. “A man and a woman, we think. We also found these.” He tosses the two jeweled masks on the ground. The white paint has melted, the jewels have blackened, and smoke rises from the scorched metal.
I lean my face to the ground, thinking. Two remains, but
four
people were in the lodge. Wilha and Patric most likely escaped; I know it was her shadow I saw. Yet it seems to me it’s to Wilha’s benefit if the guards at least entertain the thought that she’s dead, rather than go searching for her.
Uttering a guttural scream, I reach out and grab one of the masks and clutch it, not caring that it sears my hands. Fake tears fall, bathing the mask, washing away some of the ash. The guards don’t seem to know what to do with me, but my performance has them squirming.
“If we killed one of the twins,” begins one, “then—”
“Then we will have eliminated a serious threat to the king,” Wolfram says. “Saddle up the horses.” He pulls me to my feet and gives me a shake. “There’s someone in Allegria who wants to talk to you.”
Chapter 56
Wilha
W
e travel south for hours. Patric finds a small stream and we take turns drinking from the tin pot I found at the lodge. When the sky has turned from black to a deep, steel gray, we come upon a large willow tree with leaves that reach the ground.
“Let’s rest under there for a few hours,” Patric says.
We settle against the trunk in between two thick roots. For a few minutes I’m keenly aware of Patric’s nearness. Then exhaustion closes in and I’m falling, falling. . . .
I am wet and shivering in front of the fireplace in the Kyrenican Castle. There’s something I’m supposed to be doing, someone I’m supposed to be saving, but I cannot remember who. The flames in the fireplace morph into the shape of my own face, screaming for help. No, not my face. Elara’s.
“Help me!” she screams. “You’re the only one who can.”
“I’m coming.” I reach out for her. My burning sister.
But somehow it’s started raining in the castle, and already her image is sizzling and hissing. Dissolving into nothingness.
“Wilha! Wilha, help me!”
“I’m trying!”
“Wilha,” comes another voice. “Wilha, wake up.”
With a start, I open my eyes. The image of the flames is replaced by waves of willow tree branches, the sound of pattering rain, and the scent of leather oil and mint. My head rests on Patric’s chest; his arm is around my shoulders.
“How long have I been asleep?” I mumble.
“A few hours,” he replies. “I didn’t want to wake you, and when the rainstorm started I thought we should stay here awhile. You were crying out in your sleep—were you having a nightmare?”
I shift away to look up at him. A throbbing pain shoots up my arm and I groan.
“What is it?” Patric says, sitting up straight. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no. It’s nothing,” I say, grimacing. “It’s just a few splinters.” I hold out my hand.
“Those aren’t splinters, Wilha. Those are small sticks impaled in your hand. You should have said something earlier.”
“I didn’t want to stop in case we were being followed.”
Patric takes my hand and examines the wounds. “We’re going to have to remove these,” he says grimly. “It will hurt, and you might want to look away.”
He begins gently pulling, trying to ease the splinters from my hand. I grit my teeth against the pain and try to concen
trate on the sound of the rain. The willow trees form a
parasol around us, keeping us mostly dry. My eyes drift to Patric. He’s careful as he works, always stopping if I make even the slightest sound. His expression is intent, and I blush when he catches me staring at him.
When he has finally pulled the last splinter free, he examines my hand one last time. “We’ll need to put a poultice on it to prevent infection. I saw some yarrow not too far from here. Do you happen to have any extra strips of fabric with you?”
I check the pockets of my cloak and pull out the golden ribbon.
“We’ll find something else,” he says, quickly averting his eyes. “Stay here.”
I lean back against the trunk and close my eyes; the image of Elara on fire is burned onto the back of my eyelids. I assume if she was caught by the guards she will be taken to the Opal Palace. I can only hope she’ll be shown a measure of mercy.
When Patric returns, soaking wet and smelling of earth and rain, he’s holding stalks of small spindly green leaves. He fills the tin pot with rainwater and gets a small fire going. Then he drops the yarrow into the pot.
“While we wait for the water to heat, would it be all right if I ripped a small swatch of fabric from the bottom of your dress?”
“Of course.” Awkwardly, I straighten out my skirts.
Patric begins tugging until I feel the fabric give. “You never answered my question,” he says as he lays a silken strip over a rock. “Were you having a nightmare?”
“I was dreaming of Elara. She was burning and screaming for me to help her. I was trying to, but I couldn’t reach her. I
couldn’t save her.” I lean back against the tree, tears threaten
ing my eyes. “We shouldn’t have just left her there, Patric.”
“We were vastly outnumbered, Wilha. We had no other choice.” Patric checks the water’s temperature. When he looks up, his eyes are pained. “And I could not have lived with myself if something had happened to you.”
The current between Patric and me has always bubbled under the surface, hidden from view of others. But now when I have been branded a traitor and am being hunted by men from my own kingdom, what is to keep us from saying all the words we never could before?
“Do you say this to me as merely a guard, or my friend . . . or someone else?”
“The last one,” Patric says, his eyes intent on mine. “I have always been your friend, Wilha . . . but it has also never been enough.”
“It has never been enough for me, either.”
“You are the daughter of a king, and I am the son of a soldier. It always seemed to me that our paths had been mapped out for us before we even took our first breath. But now . . .” His lips curve into a smile. “Now that the world is spinning out of control, I wonder if we couldn’t chart our own course.”
He leans close, and his lips meet mine in a kiss that is everything I have ever hoped for.
Chapter 57
Elara
W
olfram finds a horse for me, and bile rises to my throat when I realize it belonged to one of Wilha’s assassinated guards. We ride nonstop back to Allegria and reach the city gates a few hours after sunrise. My hands are bound with chains, and I’m escorted to a common cart used to transport criminals. The burnt mask is hastily tied to my face; I wince when the metal presses against my bruised cheek. Wolfram instructs the driver to travel slowly. “Ride ahead,” he says to another guard. “Let the people know we’ve captured one of the twins.”
I nearly smile at Wolfram’s cunning. They want to create a scene and parade me through the city’s streets. They want to put on a show.
And I know how to give them one.
The gates open, and my driver urges the horses onward. I haul myself to my feet, ignoring the burning in my thighs from so many hours on horseback. I refuse to enter the city as a beaten down captive. I force myself to stand straight, bracing my legs against the jostling of the cart.
And though my face is throbbing, though the chains are cutting into my skin and my hands are slick with blood, I do not wince or cower. Instead, I lift my chin and keep my eyes fixed forward. I imagine I am in a grand procession, on my way to my own coronation, the chains no more than bracelets of gold around my wrists. I do not see the people, but I hear their whispers:
Which one is she?
They think the other one might be dead. . . .
What happened to her hair, did the king’s men do that to her?
She even looks like a queen. . . .
The Opal Palace nears, the golden gates are unlocked, and I prepare myself to face a madman.
Chapter 58
Elara
I
run my hands along my chamber wall, ignoring the pain shooting up my fingers from where the chains rubbed my skin raw. If there’s an embedded opal, and a hidden passageway near this room, I intend to find it.
Upon arriving at the Opal Palace, I expected to be led to the dungeon. Instead, a guard showed me to this small, windowless room with creamy gold-leafed walls and armchairs with pastel-colored cushions. I suppose this is what being the publicly recognized sister of the king has bought me: better accommodations than the last time I was held prisoner.
Though this time around, I actually am the traitor they believe me to be.
They let me keep one of the burnt masks; I suppose they intend it to be a reminder of my defeat. I place it on the mantel and think often of Wilha, hoping that wherever she is, she’s safe. Meals arrive regularly, and the guards stationed outside my door are polite, if distant.