Most citizens in Allegria would have believed him, had it not been for the page who had been sent to summon the Guardians. The following night he got drunk at a tavern and swore loudly to anyone who would listen that he had heard the king shouting about the birth of his first child. That the child was not a blessing, but a curse.
When I was finally shown to the public, I was wearing a tiny, opal-encrusted mask over my face. No formal explanation for the mask was ever given. Royal officials—who themselves seemed bewildered by my father’s decision to cover my face—assumed that it was a stunt, a device for King Fennrick to gain even more glory and fame for Galandria.
But many remembered the words of the page, who had disappeared shortly after his drunken confession, and other rumors began to circulate. Some believe that I was born with a facial defect and my father, brokenhearted his good looks had not been passed on, decreed I should wear a mask to hide my ugliness. Others believe that my mother looked upon me and became seriously ill, surviving just long enough to bear a son, my brother, Crown Prince Andrei, and that the mask is to ensure the protection of everyone else, lest they suffer the same cursed fate as the queen.
And one rumor that some desperately want to believe is that one look from the Masked Princess can bless or heal those in need. But I know my face can help no one.
Over the years, these rumors of the Masked Princess have spread far and wide, perhaps just as my father intended. Most sensible people in Allegria take no notice of them. Yet still, the most superstitious believe any one of them.
My father and his advisors have always assured me there is nothing wrong with me or my face. Yet it is difficult to believe them, as they never offer a real explanation for the mask. Once when I was a small child I took off my mask in front of Rinna, my favorite nanny. It was summer, and I didn’t understand why I still had to wear the mask, even on the hottest of days, when all I wanted was to press my cheek to Rinna’s cool palm.
I can still remember the shock and sorrow on Rinna’s face, and her strangled voice crying, “But Princess, you know the rules!”
“Rinna, please,” I sobbed, clinging to her. “I forgot. No one has to know. Please.” Back then, I believed I would receive a good lecture and a paddling from my father, whose wrath was a fearsome thing to behold. Yet the punishment was far worse. Rinna, too noble to lie, even by omission, went to my father and reported the indiscretion.
And that was the last I ever saw or heard from her.
Lord Murcendor, one of my father’s Guardians, visited me the next morning. “Rinna became seriously ill last night. Unfortunately, she can no longer be of any service to the royal family.”
He paused, and added, “Is it true you took your mask off in front of her?”
“Yes,” I replied in a little girl whisper. “Did that make her sick?”
“Of course not.” Lord Murcendor said quickly. “But Wilha, you know what your father says. Be a good girl and keep the mask on.”
After word spread in the castle about the incident, most other nannies and servants in the Opal Palace kept a careful eye on me, making sure I never again lifted my mask. And for several years afterward, I would ask what had become of Rinna, but no answer was ever given. As I grew older, and began to understand why some people would cover their eyes upon seeing me, and the whispers that always followed, I stopped asking about her. I was not sure I could handle the answer.
Oftentimes when I am alone I remove my mask and spend hours gazing at my reflection. And I cannot help but wonder . . .
Is this the face of Death?
My father’s private study is located just off of the Eleanor Throne Room, a large hall where he receives visitors and conducts state business. At the end of the hall on the north end is his gilded throne. On the western end, as though she is watching over the room, stands a white statue of Galandria’s founder, Queen Eleanor the Great. In each of her hands she holds one of the two Split Opals she dropped during her coronation. Fifteen palace guards surround the statue and they bow as I pass through the hall.
As I enter the study my father and Lord Quinlan, the Guardian of Defense, are standing over my father’s desk examining a stack of parchments.
“. . . Gathered enough information and they are in pursuit of him as we speak,” I hear Lord Quinlan saying. “We should have word very soon. And as for the other matter . . .”
“As for the other matter, my mind is already made up,” my father answers sharply. “I will not hear—” He stops abruptly when he sees me standing in the doorway.
Lord Quinlan turns to look at me, his thick jeweled necklaces glinting in the candlelight, and he quickly gathers up the parchments. “Have a care, Fennrick,” he says, as he exits the room. “Done right, war can be quite profitable.” He sweeps past me with a brief bow.
My father scowls in response and signals that I should wait while he scribbles on a strip of parchment. Though still handsome, he seems to have aged overnight. I wonder if what everyone is saying is true, if war with Kyrenica is now inevitable.
My father rolls up the parchment and begins to speak. “Daughter, you are aware I have been negotiating a treaty with Sir Reinhold, Kyrenica’s ambassador?” He removes a pigeon from its cage and attaches the parchment to the bird’s leg. Then he releases the pigeon and it flies out the open window and into the rain.
I nod. “I am.”
He rubs his temples and opens his mouth but seems to be at a loss for words. In that moment I see him, as I suspect many do, as merely a second son, never properly trained to rule. Crowned king only after his more competent older brother died of the same fever that took my grandfather the king.
“I am convinced the Kyrenicans mean to attack us. Yet Sir Reinhold plays his role well. He says King Ezebo believes Galandria is poised to invade Kyrenica. I have assured him that, so long as I am king, Galandria is committed to peacefully coexisting with Kyrenica.
“Kyrenica’s strength grows each year,” he continues. “So we must not be idle. We must secure peace now, when we can offer what the Kyrenicans desire. Rather than waiting until they are strong enough to take it by force.”
I am unsure where my father is going with this. He does not often discuss politics—or anything else—with me. Mostly, he seems to prefer pretending I do not exist.
“And what is it they desire?” I ask.
“Mining rights over the northern range of the Opal Mountains. They have demanded that we allow them passage without interference from our army. If we do not grant them this, then they shall eventually engage their own army. In exchange, they will remove their trading restrictions on Galandria, which has been crippling our economy. And . . .” He pauses to clear his throat. “And King Ezebo demands your betrothal to his son, the crown prince of Kyrenica.”
I feel the blood drain from my face and my body goes rigid. Marry into the Kyrenican royal family? There could be nothing worse.
A century ago, Kyrenica, Galandria’s premier seaport, declared independence from us. The revolt in Kyrenica was led by Aislinn Andewyn, the twin sister of my great-great grandmother Queen Rowan the Brave. Aislinn was said to be bitterly jealous that Rowan, older by a mere seven minutes, was crowned queen of Galandria instead of her.
Queen Rowan traveled to Kyrenica to resolve the dispute. She was betrayed by Aislinn, who came to be known as the Great Betrayer, and was taken prisoner inside the Kyrenican Castle. Rowan was sentenced to death. However, the night before she was to be beheaded, she miraculously escaped. Aislinn was held responsible for Queen Rowan’s escape and was executed instead by King Ezebo’s great grandfather, Bronson Strassburg, the nobleman who helped Aislinn incite the Kyrenicans against Queen Rowan. War began in earnest and continued for several years until Galandria was forced to admit defeat. Bronson Strassburg declared himself king of a newly independent Kyrenica and annexed several other coastal regions, leaving Galandria virtually land-locked.