I offer the Guardians no protest, no indication that, in deciding to send me to Kyrenica, it feels as though they have just signed the order for my execution. Instead I nod and offer them my thanks for their quick handling of the matter.
One by one the Guardians begin bowing themselves from the room, and I try to still my shaking hands.
Behind me a throat clears. I turn around again and see that Lord Murcendor, Lord Quinlan, and Lord Royce remain in the room. Lord Murcendor pulls a chair close and sits down next to me. “They are fools,” he says, casting a furious look at Lord Royce. “Mark my words, if we send her to Kyrenica, only treachery and loss can come of it.”
“The king himself ordered the betrothal,” Lord Quinlan says. “I would like nothing more than to declare war on the Kyrenicans, but we must move forward.” He turns to me. “The council has ordered me to oversee security arrangements as you travel to Kyrenica, and I have a plan in place to insure your safety.”
I glance over at Lord Murcendor. Judging from his scowl, whatever this plan is, I know he does not approve of it.
“What is it?” I ask.
At this, Lord Quinlan glances at Lord Murcendor.
“Leave us,” Lord Murcendor says to the guards stationed at my father’s bedside.
After Lord Royce has closed the door behind them, Lord Murcendor continues. “The plan is only known to Lord Quinlan, myself, and Lord Royce,” he says carefully. “It is not something known to the rest of the Guardians, nor to anyone else.” He pauses, before adding, “Do you ever wonder why you have been made to wear the mask?”
“Of course,” I answer, startled at the change in subject. “I recall asking you many times when I was a child.”
“You are not a child anymore, Wilha.” The look he gives me appears to be an invitation, one that has never before been extended.
I whisper the words and my voice carries the question. “Why have I been made to wear the mask?”
In response, he glances at Lord Royce and Lord Quinlan. Lord Royce says, “It is time.”
Lord Murcendor nods and turns to me. “A long time ago, the three of us—as well as Lord Finley—had to make a difficult decision. One that we kept from the other Guardians. Indeed, we concealed it from the whole world.” He pauses, glancing again at my father.
And then Lord Murcendor begins to tell me a tale so unbelievable, I have no doubt it is true.
CHAPTER 16
ELARA
What is the king’s secret? I spend my days in darkness. I never see Mister Travers again and I am left alone pondering his words.
My days fall into a hazy routine. In the morning (or what I assume is morning), a guard appears and brings me a bowl of broth that faintly tastes of onions. A few hours later I am given stale bread and small hunks of moldy cheese.
The fear of being taken to wherever Mister Travers has been sent to fades after the first few days and is replaced by several other concerns. Small creatures skittering around and biting at my feet. Fleas that seem delighted with my blood. The unimaginable cold of the cell, and a deep, gnawing hunger.
At first I tell myself this is nothing. There were mice and fleas in Ogden Manor. And I know what it is to be hungry. But the guards begin to withhold water as well as food. My throat rots, and I’m not always sure if I am waking or sleeping. Mis-tress Ogden appears to me often, whispering, “Worthless . . . Unwanted . . . Unlovable . . .”
On what I believe is my second or third week here, a guard carrying a torch enters my cell. I feel his foul breath on my face. “Someone wishes to speak with you.” Rough arms close in around me. A bag smelling of grain is yanked over my head and all is black again. The guard shoves something into my back as we walk, and I suck in gasping, grain-smelling breaths. A stitch pierces my side, and all I want to do is sit back down.
We continue walking for what seems like miles, and the air around me begins to change. It feels lighter and less damp. I hear the creak of a door opening and then closing. The guard shoves me forward and says, “As you requested.”
A deep voice replies, “Thank you, Wolfram. You may go.” Wolfram grunts and the door shuts again. Soft foot-steps approach.
The bag is jerked off my head and sunlight scorches my eyes. I hear sharp gasps around me, but I can’t see anything. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I raise my arm to cover my face.
“Give her a moment,” says the voice.
When my eyes begin to adjust, I see that I’m in a circular room. The late afternoon sunlight streams in through high windows and a large crystal chandelier with several lit candles hangs from the ceiling. Carved into the walls are ten marble thrones with plush pastel cushions. Three of the thrones are occupied, and as the men’s faces come into focus I do a double take, for I know one of them.
“Mister Blackwell?” My voice is dry and raspy from lack of water.
The men ignore me. The two I don’t recognize stare at me in a kind of awe.
I look at Mister Blackwell. “What is going on?”
“Lord Murcendor,” says one of the men I don’t recognize. He’s bald with severe-looking eyes and wears several rings and necklaces. “Make introductions.”
Mister Blackwell casts a dark look at the bald man, and I shake my head in confusion. What did he just call him?
“I wasn’t aware I took orders from you, Lord Quinlan,” Mister Blackwell says.
The bald man—Lord Quinlan—flushes and his eyes narrow. “Make introductions, please,” he says.
“Perhaps we should start by telling the girl where she is,” says the third man in an annoyed tone. He is barrel chested and has thick, gray hair and an equally thick gray beard. He looks less polished than the other two. His face is tough and tanned and grooved, like weathered wood. He stares back at me with impassive blue eyes.
“Indeed you’re right, Lord Royce,” says Lord Quinlan. He turns to address me. “You are in the Guardians’ Chambers in the Opal Palace.”
For the first time it dawns on me that all three men are wearing thick emerald green robes. I remember seeing the Guardians wearing them in Eleanor Square. My stomach clenches as I remember, too, Mister Travers’s feverish words.
“What do you want with me?” I murmur, glancing from Lord Quinlan to Mister Blackwell. “Why am I here?”
“You are here because in some sense, you belong here,” says Mister Blackwell. “You are not an orphan as you have been led to believe, and I am not Mister Blackwell, nor do I work for the orphanage. I am Lord Murcendor, Guardian of the Opal Mines.” He pauses. “And you, quite simply, are the daughter of King Fennrick.”
The three Guardians look at me, but I stare back at them, unmoved. I don’t know what game these men are playing, but I don’t believe it.
“You’re mad,” I say.
“Am I?” Mister Blackwell—or Lord Murcendor—says. “Have you ever wondered why the Royal Orphanage paid for your care all these years? Do you really think such an arrangement was made for every orphan in Galandria? Do you have any idea how difficult it was to find a family desperate enough to accept you and the money, and too stupid to ever question it?”
His words stop me short, and blackness creeps at the edges of my vision. Everything seems to fade away, except for Mister Blackwell, sitting on a marble throne and draped in a Guardian’s robe.
Don’t trust the Guardians. The king’s secret has poisoned them.
“But that can’t be,” I say. “I remember my mother. She was a villager with red hair. She used to sing to me—”