Authors: Jenny Lundquist
When I finally acknowledge there’s no way to escape, I collapse into an armchair. I had intended to come back to this palace a queen, not a captive. I had planned on walking through every room, exploring every tunnel, and truly getting to know the place that should have been my childhood home. I had wanted to find the golden cradle Astrid spoke of, and take a walk with Wilha in the Queen’s Garden. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever see my sister again. But I refuse to give in to the panic pricking at my heart.
Because I know what’s coming. And I know I need to stay alert.
My wait is over the next day when the door unlocks, and Wolfram enters. He holds out an empty brown bag.
“You know the drill,” he says flatly. “Put it on.” He leads me through a series of twisting halls. Dank air fills my lungs, so oppressive I think I may actually choke on it. My body turns instinctively without much guidance from Wolfram; my legs have trod this path before.
As I walk, I tell myself to be strong. Stronger than I have ever been. I tell myself I survived a childhood with Mistress, I can survive an afternoon (is it the afternoon?) of Lord Murcendor’s company.
There’s a sharp knock and a door opens. The bag is jerked off my head.
This time, the torches are already lit. The gruesome paintings on the wall are in sharp focus, showing me all
the ways Lord Murcendor and Andrei could hurt me. Lord Murcendor himself sits behind the same wooden table, but this time there’s no feast. No wine bottles. No jewel-encrusted goblets.
“Your hospitality seems to be lacking this time.”
“Sit down,” he says. After I’m settled, he gets straight to the point. “Your brother has grown enamored of your cunning and wishes to know you—the sister whose very existence was denied to him all his life. He is not eager to see you die.”
I glance at the paintings on the walls, the closest of which features a woman being strangled, and suppress a shudder. “And what will I be required to do in exchange for knowing my brother?”
“We know Lord Royce, Lord Nichols, and many other of your supporters are in hiding. I want to know where they are. Your brother is prepared to pardon you, if you will only cooperate with us.”
“Pardon me? And then what? Will we live a happy life, here in this palace, my brother and I?”
“I’m offering you a deal, Elara. I suggest you take it.” He glances meaningfully at the paintings. “Your brother doesn’t want any harm to come to his sister.”
“Any harm?” I say incredulously. “So burning down Sir Vanderberg’s hunting lodge, and killing Wilha—his
other
sister—was . . . what, exactly?”
“A grave mistake. And the guard who started the fire has been dealt with. But if you do not want to talk, I feel sure I could
make
you do so.” His lips curve in a malicious grin.
His threats don’t fill me with fear. They don’t cause me to shake or tremble. Only tiredness, bone deep, descends over me. Months ago Lord Royce easily convinced me to give up Wilha’s location, all because I didn’t want to fall into Andrei’s hands. Now that I’m here, will I betray her again?
As a small child I learned to tuck away my pain somewhere deep inside of me, where I wouldn’t have to feel it. Could I do it again, one more time? Could I withstand whatever methods Lord Murcendor chooses to employ, and keep not only the pain hidden, but the words they want?
I think I’ll try.
Whatever promise or
deal
Lord Murcendor offers me, I know he won’t keep it. And for once, I’d like to believe I could be just a little bit more than my father ever thought I could be.
“I’m sure you could employ any number of vicious tactics to gain the answers you seek. I’m also sure you know there are enough ears in this palace to make certain that whatever you do to me will become known to the public.” In truth, I am confident of no such thing. But it seems to give Lord Murcendor pause.
“Do you employ spies in the palace?” he says.
“I don’t have to pay anyone. You and Andrei are hated enough on your own account. If you harm me, it will only fuel more people who are bent on seeing Andrei—and you—overthrown. But this is a pointless conversation.” I lean back in my chair. “You can do whatever you like to me; I will still tell you nothing.”
More than anything, I just want this to be over. Whatever Lord Murcendor says, whatever he promises, I know the end of this story.
I knew it the minute I walked into this room.
Chapter 59
Wilha
I
t takes us nearly a week to backtrack and return to Lyrisia. Patric is concerned guards may be searching for us, so we travel only at night, staying off the forest paths and following the small stream until it connects to the Eleanor River. A group of children playing in a patch of wildflowers are the first to catch sight of us. A few of them sprint toward the village, shouting the news of our arrival.
One by one villagers swarm us, their faces etched in relief. The crowd parts for Lord Nichols. “Princess Wilhamina, thank Eleanor you are unharmed! When news of the fire reached us we feared you were dead.”
“And my sister?” I ask. “Have you had any news of her?”
The villagers grow silent, and Lord Nichols stares at me sadly. “I think it’s best if you go to Lord Royce. He’s asked to speak to you immediately.”
“Of course, Lord Nichols,” I say, exchanging a frown with Patric. “I will go right now.”
Inside his cottage, Lord Royce sits at the long wooden table poring over a stack of parchments. He looks up when I clear my throat.
“Lord Nichols said you wanted to see me.”
“I have news, and I thought you should hear it from me first.” He picks up a bowl of blueberries and cream and offers it to me. I wave it away impatiently, although after so many days of traveling a part of me wants nothing more than a good meal, and a good sleep.
“What is it? What have you heard?”
“Your sister is under house arrest at the Opal Palace. Andrei—or Lord Murcendor, most likely—has decided to execute her.”
Shock waves roll through me, chasing away the fogginess of traveling on the road for so many days, and I grab the table for support. I suppose I should have expected this news, but a week spent in the Weeping Forest walking next to Patric, speaking freely with him, made everything else seem far away, like a once vivid dream I was starting to forget.
“What are we to do in response?” I say, sinking into the chair opposite him.
“Nothing. Stefan Strassburg sent Sir Reinhold to the Opal Palace to beg for mercy. When that failed, he threatened to march a Kyrenican army right into the heart of Allegria—and Lord Murcendor has moved the date up in response. There is little else the crown prince—or anyone else—can do at this point to stop it.”
“When?” I say, feeling
light-headed. “When is the
execution scheduled?”
“She is to be beheaded in four days’ time.”
“But surely there is something—”
“There’s nothing,” he replies in a clipped tone. “Elara is lost to us. We need to cut our losses and move on.”
“
Move on
,” I repeat, stunned. “Is my sister dead already to you?”
“We are lucky only Elara was captured, Your Highness. You could easily have been taken along with her. And your own safety is far from secure. Your sister has reportedly refused to disclose our location, but it has become too dangerous to stay in Lyrisia.” He pulls out a parchment and quill. “I’m in the process of arranging for us to leave in a few days. So if you don’t mind . . .” He dips his quill into an inkpot and begins writing, as though I’m nothing more than his bothersome child, and he’s just dismissed me.
Yet this man is not my father. Nor is he my king.
“Yes, Lord Royce, I
do
mind. Quite a bit, actually.”
“Excuse me?” he looks up, clearly annoyed that I’m not leaving.
“This conversation is far from finished.” I lean forward. “
You
came to Elara with ideas about claiming the crown—it was not the other way around.
You
convinced her to become a queen . . . and now you’re just going to let her die?”
“What would you have me do?” he says. “I no longer have any influence in the palace, or have you forgotten?”
“Surely there is something. Up until now, your resources have seemed unlimited.”
“Even a man such as myself has his limitations—it will be difficult enough finding another village to hide in. But once we are safely settled, we will begin spreading the news that you survived the fire, and still plan to pursue your claim to the throne.”
“My claim?” I repeat vaguely. Are we already discussing life after Elara’s death?
“Yes, I should think these recent turn of events will gain you much sympathy.”
All at once, I read his intentions, and I think I understand. Lord Royce has never been comfortable with the idea of Elara and me ruling as joint queens. And as long as he thinks he can still get me on the throne, then he really has little use for Elara.
“Sympathy is no substitute for a sister,” I say, standing. “And this isn’t over.” I whirl around and stalk from the cottage, where Patric is waiting for me.
“They’re going to execute her,” I say, a sob escaping my lips.
“Lord Nichols told me,” he says as he enfolds me in a hug. “I’m so sorry, Wilha.”
I lean my head against his shoulder, but my eyes are wide open. All around us, the villagers are husking corn, sorting blueberries, and weaving quilts, as though nothing is wrong. As though the earth itself hasn’t just shifted.
“Does Lord Royce care at all for my sister and me?” I ask, pulling away from Patric.
“I think he genuinely believes the two of you are better suited to the throne than Andrei,” he says carefully. “And I think he really wants to create a better kingdom for the people. But”—he sighs—“no—I don’t think he carries any personal affection for either of you.”
Behind the doors of the cottage, Lord Royce sits writing letters and plotting my ascension. Yet if it’s me he wants on the throne, at some point, shouldn’t
I
be the one making the decisions? It does not appear this is power he will cede to me.
I shall have to take it on my own.
“I will not see her executed, Patric.”
“What do you mean?” he says warily.
“I mean, if I am truly queen among these men, will they follow me?”
“Wilha—
no
.” A grim understanding dawns on his face. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s too dangerous.”
It
is
dangerous, and my heart twists with the choice before me. How easy it would be to sit back and do nothing. To let forces seemingly beyond my control determine the course of my sister’s life. To claim there was nothing I could have done. Could I tell that lie to myself, day after day, year after year, and believe it?
Because if I am surrounded by men who claim me as their queen, the truth is, I am far from powerless.
“Assemble the men. Inform them I wish to send a rescue party after Elara. If there is a way we can get my sister out of the city, I intend to see it done.”
Chapter 60
Wilha
L
ord Royce does not oppose my plans so much as he tells me it cannot be done.
“Why can it not be done?” I say. I have never directly questioned Lord Royce before, and judging from the tension I suddenly read in the room, everyone is aware of it.
“Gone are the days when you could live anonymously,” he says. “Your face is now known to most in the kingdom. Your guards’ faces are also recognized, as well as those of my men, which means none of us can hope to get past the city gates. And even if we could, there is no way we could gain entrance to the Opal Palace. Every passageway will be watched.”
“With all due respect, Lord Royce, that’s not necessarily true.” The men step aside to make way for Lord Nichols, who clutches a yellowed, flaking scroll in his hands. “Princess Wilhamina asked me to examine plans of the palace, and I have come across something that may prove quite useful.” He spreads the scroll across the table. It is a map of Allegria and the surrounding area. “In the weeks following Queen Rowan’s return to Galandria after being held prisoner in Kyrenica, she secretly commissioned her masons to begin a building project. A note in the accounts kept at the time indicates that whoever participated in the project was paid handsomely—and sworn to secrecy, under pain of death, should they ever speak of it to anyone, even their own family.”
“And you think this building project was for another tunnel in the Opal Palace?” I ask.
“I do,” says Lord Nichols.
“Another passageway doesn’t help us,” Lord Royce interrupts. “Queen Rowan would have passed that information on to her heir.”
“I am not so sure. Queen Rowan died suddenly in her sleep while her heir was still young. With an unexpected death, and the tunnel not being completed until a few years after she died, it’s possible the news was not properly passed on to the surviving Andewyn heirs.”
Lord Nichols turns to me, as does everyone else.