Palace of Mirrors (26 page)

“The royal pendant . . .”

“The royal portrait . . .”

I’m thinking I must be the only girl in the kingdom who
doesn’t
have a royal artifact, who hasn’t been told that the dying queen placed her directly into her knight’s arms. I can’t help it: My heart pounds with jealousy and grief. I struggle to remember the logic Sir Stephen tried to teach me: If the other girls have proof, does that automatically mean that I have proof too—proof that I’m
not
who I always thought I was?

No,
I think.
Because only one girl’s “proof” could be true. If at least ten of the girls have fake proof, couldn’t all eleven just as easily be wrong?

“Please, miss,” a girl begs, “Sir Ryland is thirsty, too. . . .”

And then I don’t have time to think about logic, because I’m too busy holding the jug up to one set of parched lips after another; I’m dividing up hunks of bread, doling out one crumb at a time so everyone gets a share. After a few moments I realize Desmia is by my side helping, too, and I shoot her a silent glance of gratitude. She looks . . . stronger now, more sure of herself. For all that she’s still wearing a pale dress (the faintest shade of pearl gray today), she doesn’t look so much like she’d fade away at the first sign of trouble.

How is it that
she
didn’t get her own knight?
I wonder.
She has plenty of proof—the palace, the silks and satins, the balcony and the adoring crowd every day at noon . . . but does she have no one to tell her how the queen loved her, how the
queen’s dying wish was that Desmia be safe?

It is too much to think about when my head is still throbbing and my heart is still pounding too hard and I’m trying to divide one apple eleven ways. And when there’s still a part of me yearning after Harper, hoping against hope that Ella got to him in time, and that she can take care of Nanny and Sir Stephen and Harper’s mam, too. It is hard work worrying about so many people all at once—it was easier when all I really cared about was myself.

What must it be like to worry about an entire kingdom?
I wonder.

I am so lost in my thoughts that at first I don’t hear the tromping of footsteps, the shouts coming from the hallway outside Desmia’s chambers. But then I hear the door swing open, and Desmia screaming out, “No! I said no one was to come in!”

The footsteps don’t stop.

  29  

I see Harper first, his face pale and strained beneath his freckles. His mother is clutching his shoulders anxiously, the way I imagine the dying queen must have clutched her true child. Sir Stephen and Nanny and Ella are right behind them, Ella alternating between holding up the old woman and holding up the old man. And surrounding them, surrounding all these people I care about, is what seems to be an entire phalanx of soldiers, their swords drawn, the points of the swords aimed at my friends.

A man steps out from behind this cluster of soldiers and prisoners. An ermine robe with jeweled buttons hangs from his substantial frame; even without a crown he looks like a king. He has such an air of command that I want to ask Sir Stephen,
Is that what you meant when you always talked about taking control of a room with a single motion?

“Princess Desmia,” the man says severely.

I suppress a shiver, because I recognize the voice: This is Lord Throckmorton. I study the hard look in his dark eyes, the cruel set of his mouth, the haughty lift of his head.

He knows he has us,
I think.
He believes he’s already won. He’s gloating.

“Yes?” Desmia says in such a tiny voice that she seems to be shrinking away before my eyes, her face as gray as her dress.

“I see you have company,” Lord Throckmorton says, cocking one eyebrow at the collection of knights and girls crowded into the room. A heartless smile plays on his lips. “This might be of interest to them as well . . .” He waves his arm with studied carelessness toward Harper and the others huddled between the soldiers. “We caught these conspirators plotting to overthrow you.”

He makes it sound like it doesn’t matter if he tells Desmia this or not, like their fate’s already been decided.

“We were not plotting to overthrow Desmia!” Ella protests. “I—I was merely wishing them luck in the music competition. These are musicians! See the harp?”

I notice that Harper is clutching his harp to his chest in much the same way that his mother is clutching him. In a flash I understand why the harp was missing when I went to get the jug and bread from the tower.

Harper didn’t want to wait until after his mam, Nanny, and Sir Stephen played in the music competition. He must
have taken the harp to bluff his way into the competitors’ room. . . .

The nearest soldier jostles Ella with his sword. I see a thin line of blood appear on her sleeve. Lord Throckmorton takes one step toward Harper and yanks the harp from his arms. He tosses the harp to the side.

“Perhaps now you can see them for what they really are,” Lord Throckmorton growls. “As I was saying, these are conspirators. What could we expect? This one”—he jabs Ella on her arm, right where she’s already been cut by the sword—“this one is a Fridesian. Our enemy. We shall have to take the whole delegation into custody, to be examined. We shall have all the conspirators executed, beginning now with these five. Give the order.”

I look at Desmia. Everyone’s eyes are on her, and I wonder if everyone else’s mind is racing like mine is.
He could have had them executed on his own, without even telling her—why does he want her to give the order? Oh . . . he wants to prove that he controls her; he wants their blood on her hands; he thinks she is too weak to resist. . . .
Desmia’s face has turned completely white now. She is slumped against the wall, as if she can no longer even hold herself up.
She
is
too weak to resist,
I think.

“Desmia!” I hiss. “You’re the princess! These men”—I wave my arm toward the soldiers, the guards—“they’re sworn to protect you, to follow your every command! This is
your
decision! Not his!”

Lord Throckmorton does not even look at me. I am beneath his notice, with my stained, ripped dress, my muddy feet, my bandaged head. I am no one.

“Give the order!” Lord Throckmorton tells Desmia again. “Command your men to execute these traitors!”

Desmia looks at me. She shoots a glance over her shoulder at the feeble knights propped up by the crying girls.

“No,” she says.

Lord Throckmorton blinks. But in a second he has his composure back.

“So,” he says mockingly, “the princess is too stupid to understand what’s best for her, what’s best for her kingdom. She is only a pretty face, after all. Only a figurehead. Only a child. As her adviser it falls to me to make the important decisions. And I say”—now he is looking only at the soldiers, as if Desmia has proved herself to be beneath his notice as well—“the traitors must be executed.”

I gasp—is he allowed to insult Desmia like that? To ignore her, and order the soldiers to ignore her, too? And she won’t even argue?

But Desmia is stepping forward; evidently she no longer needs the wall for support. She’s found her spine.

“Yes,” she says, “traitors deserve to be executed.”

My heart plunges.
How could she?
I begin glancing around frantically for a weapon—I can’t let Harper go without a fight.
Anyone who tries to kill Harper or Sir Stephen or
Nanny is going to have to kill me first,
I vow.
And Ella! This is not fair to Ella. . . .

But Desmia is still talking.

“It’s just that . . .” Her voice squeaks a little. She pauses to steady it. “These people are not traitors. They are loyal Sualan citizens, and one Fridesian friend.” She puts a slight emphasis on the word “friend.” Ella nods, and that seems to give Desmia even more courage. She peers directly at the man who appears to be the captain of the royal guard, a man old enough to be her father, with graying hair at his temples.

“You need to arrest the true conspirators,” Desmia says. She’s standing up very straight now. “Arrest this man, Lord Throckmorton, for the murder of my parents, the king and queen, fourteen years ago.”

  30  

For a long moment no one seems to know what to do. None of the soldiers dash forward to replace Lord Throckmorton’s ermine robe with chains and cuffs. But none of them run their swords through my friends, either. They just freeze, as still and uncertain as everyone else.

Then Lord Throckmorton grabs Desmia by the shoulders. I am close enough to hear what he whispers in her ear: “Fool!” He slides his arm around her neck, manhandling her. Silencing her.

“The princess knows not of what she speaks,” he says. “She was only a baby then—how could she know? How dare she accuse me, her loyal adviser . . .” He stares down at her, narrowing his eyes. “Perhaps she is not even the true princess, after all.”

The captain of the royal guard lowers his sword,
then lifts it again in a slightly different direction. It’s no longer pointed at my friends. Now it’s pointed at Lord Throckmorton.

“Were I you, I would consider my words very carefully before making such an allegation,” the captain says. Behind him all the other soldiers seem to be hanging on to his every word. He clears his throat and continues. “As I recall,
Lord
Throckmorton, your claim to power, your claim to becoming the princess’s adviser fourteen years ago, was that child herself. Did you not come to the royal guard holding the baby, telling us that the queen herself placed her in your arms for safekeeping—that the queen herself, as she lay dying, said she trusted only you to raise her child, to rule the kingdom until this child was grown?”

Good grief,
I think.
Not that story again.
Still, all those years of poring over literary texts with Sir Stephen keeps me from dismissing it instantly.
Notice how Lord Throckmorton’s story is just a little bit different from all the others,
I hear in my mind, like an echo of Sir Stephen’s teachings.
Notice how rescuing a baby helped Lord Throckmorton—helped him immensely—while it sent all the knights into exile. . . .

“Ah, yes,” Lord Throckmorton says, as though he is not discomfited in the least by the soldier’s veiled accusation. “But perhaps I was tricked. Perhaps the queen herself was tricked, in her dying moments. . . . One baby looks much the same as another, does she not? Evidence has come to my attention recently that discredits Desmia’s claim com
pletely, and points to another girl as the actual princess—Suala’s
true
princess. . . .”