The next morning I awaken groggily, stiff and numb with cold, to the sound of seagulls and pounding surf. At first I wonder why my mattress feels so hard, why my covers are so rough. But I remember the abandoned tarp on the docks I hid under last night and wake up to the full horror of what I have done. I have walked out of the castle as though the life the Kyrenicans presented me with is nothing more than a new dress I do not care to purchase. Not the fulfillment of a treaty preventing war between two kingdoms all too eager to believe the worst of each other.
Cautiously, I peek out from under the tarp that covers me. It looks to be midmorning judging by the bright sun. Several ships have just come into port, their white sails billowing in the breeze, and sailors haggle with shopkeepers over the price of their wares. No one seems to be looking my way, and so I quickly slip out from my hiding place and stumble to a nearby bench. My cheeks are hot, not from sunburn, but from shame.
Last night I could not bring myself to return to the castle, but neither could I work up the courage to journey into the city. Instead I lingered at the docks for hours, frozen in indecision, until it was clear I would need a place to spend the evening. I glimpsed the tarp in a neglected portion of the docks, and hid under it for hours (just like the coward Elara believes I am) until sometime in the middle of the night, I must have fallen asleep.
I look over to the cliffs, and the stone steps that are hidden under the moss. Fleeing the castle and leaving Elara to face my own fate is the most selfish act I have ever committed, and I know I have to come to my senses.
Yet is this really how I want my adventure to end? I imagine my ancestor’s stone faces in the Queen’s Garden, and the disapproval I have always read in their eyes. Do I want to come creeping back to the castle, defeated and dirty, without so much as having walked the streets of the city?
No doubt Elara was all too happy to tell the Kyrenican guards of my cowardice. At any moment I am sure soldiers will be storming the streets looking for me. In the mean-time, is it selfish to want to continue my charade for just a little longer?
I replace the image of my stone ancestors with another. I imagine myself, years from now as a middle-aged queen, looking into my daughter’s face and saying, “Yes, it is true when I was younger people thought me incompetent and fearful. But once upon a time, I changed their minds. For I did something truly and wonderfully mad. . . .”
I stand up. Yes, that is the story I want to one day tell. After all, the soldiers should be here any moment.
But they never come. For hours I walk through the crowded streets, marveling at how they smell of salt, sweat, and fish. Everywhere I look I see new construction, evidence of a younger, thriving kingdom. The older buildings are made of wood and are tall and narrow. Their roofs bottleneck into chimneys, reminding me of giant wooden wine bottles. Clotheslines are strung up high across the streets, and women lean out of second- and third-story windows, calling out greetings to one another as they hang laundry to dry.
The streets are packed with sailors, traders, and townspeople, and I force myself not to flinch when they brush past me. From an inn called the Sleeping Dragon wafts the warm smell of fresh bread. My mouth waters, and I realize I have not had anything to eat or drink since just before we reached Korynth yesterday.
I follow the smell into the inn, where a fire roars in a large hearth. Most of the wooden tables in the room are empty, and what few customers there are seem bleary and only half-awake. A boy about my age, who is thin with a mop of flyaway brown hair, is polishing the bar with a rag. “Can I help you, miss?” he asks when he sees me.
“That bread smells wonderful.”
“We buy it from the bakery next door,” he says, flashing a crooked smile. “Would you like some?”
“Yes, please.” As I speak, I realize I am swaying.
He frowns. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll bring some out?”
Feeling lightheaded, I nod and find a seat near the fire. I stretch my hands out to warm myself, and then lean back into my chair, nearly dozing off to the low hum of nearby conversations. But my ears prick up when I hear someone mention Galandria.
“You’re sure, Anton?”
“Positive. He spoke with a Galandrian accent. Said he just arrived in town yesterday and needed men for a job. Jaromil—I think we should consider it.”
Cautiously, I turn my head and look over. Two men are sitting at a nearby table, holding goblets. The first one, whom I take to be Anton, is young and thin, while the second—Jaromil—is older with a belly so round he looks to be with child. Yet both of them have tanned faces and leathery skin, as though they’ve spent most of their lives outdoors. Are they sailors?
“I’m not working with a barbarian.”
“I told him as much at first—but he said his master would be willing to pay us more money than our scruples could possibly be worth.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“Not sure. Said his master had something planned for the masquerade ball for the Masked Princess.”
At this, I feel my hands growing numb again, despite the warmth from the fire.
“Is his master a Galandrian or a Kyrenican?”
“Didn’t say. Didn’t want to say, it seemed like. He just said King Ezebo—”
Jaromil curses. “King Ezebo is a traitor, to bring an Andewyn into our land. If I caught sight of the Masked Princess, you can bet I’d wring the little freak’s barbaric neck.” He spits onto the ground. “All right, I’ll hear the man out. Where did he say to meet?”
“Tomorrow morning, just after dawn, on the beach.”
“All right,” Jaromil says again. “And don’t worry, Anton. I never had that many scruples to begin with.” They laugh and clink goblets.
I stare into the fire, my heart racing, hoping they won’t realize their voices have carried. Of course I should have understood that, just as many Galandrians hate the Strass-burgs, so too, it must be that many Kyrenicans hate the Andewyns—hate me. I remind myself they could not possibly recognize me. Today, my own uncovered face is a mask.
It sounds like these two men, Anton and Jaromil, are being hired to do something, something that has to do with the masquerade. But what?
The boy returns with several slices of bread and a cup of water. “That’ll be two klarents, please.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I say, startled. I start to reach into Elara’s satchel, but freeze. I don’t have any klarents, the Kyrenican currency, only worthings and opals. And with Jaromil and Anton sitting so close, that is not something I want anyone discovering.
“I—I do not have any klarents.” I stand up to leave, though it is everything I can do not to snatch up the bread and water. “I will go. I am sorry to have bothered you,” I take care to shorten my vowels, as the Kyrenicans do, all too aware of my accent, and that Anton and Jaromil are staring at me with interest.
“No, no,” the boy says. “You don’t have to leave.” He calls over his shoulder. “Victor, can you come here?”
“What is it, James?” A burly and grizzled old man approaches. The boy James whispers something to Victor, who looks at me.
“I see,” Victor says when James finishes.
Victor takes a seat next to me and crosses his arms over his massive chest. “When was the last time you ate?” he says gruffly.
“Um, yesterday,” I say.
“You’ve only just arrived in Korynth, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” I answer.
He nods, as though he expected this, and says, “I know who you are.”
CHAPTER 31