Like the rest of the crowd, I gasp in awe. Her mask and dress, adorned with more jewels than I can begin to count, glitter in the sunlight. A thick necklace made of jeweled keys hangs around her neck. As she steps forward to take her place next to her father, several people raise their fans to cover their eyes.
“Please, Masked Princess!” The man next to me holds a gaunt little boy over his head. “My son is ill. Only look at him, and he shall be healed!”
“Healed?” shouts a haggard woman with stringy white hair. “The princess can heal no one. A curse is what she is! Raise your fans! Protect yourself from the Masked Princess!” She holds her fan over her face and continues railing against the princess until two palace guards appear and drag her away.
I cast a look back into the crowd. I can see Cordon, but he hasn’t located me yet. I push forward, until I’m standing behind several Maskrens who are lined up only a few feet away from the row of soldiers.
Silence falls over the crowd as King Fennrick raises his hands. “Citizens of Galandria!” he says, “It is my great honor to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of Princess Wilhamina with you in our esteemed capital, the illustrious city of Allegria! To all of you who have journeyed many miles, I bid you welcome and I thank you, for it does me great honor.
“Today I come to you with the most joyous news. For months you have been hearing of an impending war with Kyrenica. Yet I say to you this day, fear not! For I have secured peace for our great kingdom. King Ezebo and I have pledged our mutual determination to avoid an escalation in hostilities. As a symbol of our goodwill, King Ezebo has pledged his son, and I have pledged my daughter—your own Princess Wilhamina—in a commitment of holy matrimony. Now the House of Andewyn and the House of Strassburg, at odds with each other for a century, shall be bound together for all time!”
I look around and see many shocked faces. “The princess should never have to marry a Kyrenican dog!” shouts a wo-man nearby. But most people in the crowd don’t hear her as they erupt into cheers, drowning out the king. My attention strays from him to Princess Wilhamina. Her shoulders quake and I wonder if she is happy over her betrothal. Or has love been unkind to both of us today?
I’m still wondering when I hear a whizzing sound above my head, and something small and red lodges into the banner hanging above King Fennrick.
It’s not until a red arrow strikes the palace guard in front of the king that I understand what is happening.
“It’s an attack!” a guard shouts.
His cry is followed by the screams of hundreds of terrified citizens trampling each other as they attempt to flee the packed square. Not too far off I hear the sound of an apple cart being upended and crashing onto the cobblestone street. The palace guards quickly form a wall and cover the Andewyns, pinning them to the ground. A guard is screaming that they need to get the royal family back into the courthouse.
More arrows fly toward the Andewyns. While everyone panics around me, I am frozen where I stand. Through a gap in between the guards I see the Masked Princess. Her jeweled mask is hanging askew, exposing half her profile. Instinctively, I begin raising a hand to cover my eyes, but stop when it strikes me that her face, feared by so many in our kingdom, reminds me of—
“Elara!”
It’s Cordon’s voice I hear. But when I turn, it’s Gunther from the orphanage I see. His steps are determined as he advances toward me. The fear that’s kept me from running away must have done something to my vision as well. Because when Gunther removes a sword from beneath his cloak, I get a glimpse of what looks to be the uniform of a palace guard.
An arrow lands at my feet. I stare down at it and blink stupidly. Are the attackers aiming for me?
“Elara—LOOK OUT!”
Pain explodes in my head, and the ground rises up to meet me. The last thing I see before blackness closes in is Gunther’s pale, pockmarked face, and his aloof brown eyes, staring into my own.
CHAPTER 13
WILHA
“Get them up! Get the royal family back into the courthouse!” screams a guard.
Arrows fall like angry red raindrops. Like the rest of my family, I am pinned to the ground by guards. Their shi-elds are up, hoping to deflect the arrows. I moan, feeling like the side of my ankle has just been scraped against the stone steps.
“Don’t move.” Patric’s breath is hot against my neck. The second the first arrow struck, he was at my side and covering me with his shield.
“The arrows are coming from the Clock Tower! Get someone up there!”
I feel the unfamiliar sensation of air directly on my face. In the confusion, my mask must have come untied, and no one seems to have noticed. I straighten it quickly. Through a gap in the guards I see people fleeing Eleanor Square. At the foot of the courthouse steps, several Maskrens and guards lie dead. Not too far away a guard is punching a boy with dirty blond hair. Nearby lies a peasant girl who seems to have fainted.
“Wilha,” Patric says, “you need to get up. We’re moving you back into the courthouse.”
He helps me to my feet and I wince. The pain in my ankle seems to be getting worse. Arrows continue to fall as guards surround me, and we move swiftly up the steps, away from the screams of the crowd, and into the courthouse.
Inside, several guards crouch over my father. He is on the ground, writhing in agony. Blood spurts from an arrow embedded in the side of his cheek.
“Someone call for the king’s physician!” screams Lord Royce.
Two guards sweep from the room, back down the hallway leading to the secret passageway. I lean on Patric, dizziness washing over me as I stare at my father. “Will he be all right?” I call out to the guards.
Patric grabs my arm and checks me for wounds. “I’m fine,” I say, yanking my arm away. “Help the others.”
Two Guardians are on the ground. One is unmoving and the other is crawling on his hands and knees, spitting blood. Blood seems to be everywhere. Near my ankle, a scarlet river runs down the white marble floor.
“Lord Quinlan,” Patric says, “Are you all right? There’s blood on your hands.”
Lord Quinlan stares at his hands as though they belong to someone else. “I don’t think this is my . . .”
His words are drowned out by the sound of someone falling to the floor.
“Another Guardian has been hit!”
The pain in my ankle grows. I must have scraped it hard on the stone steps. I walk unsteadily toward Andrei to see how he is doing.
“Are you all right, Andrei?”
Andrei, paler than usual, looks at me with his clear blue eyes. “If father dies today does that mean I will be king?”
“Father is not going to die.” I reach out my hand, but he sidesteps me.
“But if he does die,” he insists, “that means I get to be king. Right, Wilha?”
“Yes, Andrei,” I say quietly. “If Father dies, you will be king.”
Andrei nods. “Excellent.”
I turn away, nauseous from my brother’s matter-of-fact tone and my father’s anguished moans. I hear Lord Mur-cedor and Lord Quinlan shouting at each other. “I thought your men checked every building in the square!” Lord Mur-cendor rages.
“They did! Multiple times! No one could have gotten into the Clock Tower without them knowing.”
“So you’re saying your men just welcomed Kyrenican assassins into our city with open arms?”