Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  It seems that Desmia and Harper and I are just going to let Ella, this Fridesian, figure everything out. We Sualans are just lumps, just blobs. Useless. We can’t think for ourselves. We don’t want to. We’re too afraid of where such thoughts lead.

  Then Desmia whispers, “I think I know why the girls were brought to the castle. To the dungeons.”

  We all turn to her, and she wilts a little under the attention. She takes a step back.

  “Why?” Ella asks gently.

  “To control me,” Desmia whispers. She is twisting her hands again. I think about differences: Harper is holding my hand so steadily, but Desmia has no hand to hold but her own. She brings both hands up to her face and covers her mouth—it looks like she’s trying as hard as I am to hold back her words. They break out anyway.

  “Lord Throckmorton, Lord Suprien, Lord Tyfolieu,” she says, spitting out the names as she drops her hands to her chin. “My advisers . . . they don’t talk about the ‘pretender to the throne’ so much anymore. Or about how they want to keep me safe. They talk about how, really, one girl is pretty much the same as another, and really, no one outside the castle’s ever seen me except at a distance of hundreds of feet, and at that I’m always covered by a veil. And how, really, except for them, the only people in the castle who’ve seen me up close are servants, and servants are so easily dismissed, their testimony so easily discredited. . . .”

  Desmia is whispering again, her voice barely sounding at all. But the other three of us are so silent, we hear every word.

  Harper’s jaw drops.

  “These guys,” he says incredulously. “They’ve told you they want to replace you?”

  “Not in so many words,” Desmia says.

  “You have to understand,” Ella explains. “These Sualan officials, they’re not the types where you could hand them a rose and ask what color it is and they’d say, ‘It’s red.’ They’d say”—she puts on a tone of supercilious pomposity—“‘That tint is one of great distinction, one of the fine shades found only in our great land—we’re sure that blossoms in Fridesia are so far inferior that we’d have to shield our eyes from a horror such as viewing what passes for beauty in your land. And since you are our enemies, you should find symbolism in the fact that this bloom has the same hue as the blood shed on the battlefield by all who choose to oppose us, all who, inevitably, lose. . . .’”

  Desmia giggles.

  “You’re making them sound too nice,” she says. “Too humble.”

  I close my eyes weakly, thinking about how I could have been captured so easily at Nanny’s hut, or at Sir Stephen’s if we’d followed the trail of hoofprints. Or how if Harper and I had managed to escape from the castle tower that first day, we would have run straight to the palace officials, probably to these very lords. Then those men might have thrown me in the dungeon with the other girls. Or, if Desmia’s theory is correct, the lords just might have replaced Desmia with me right away. And I would have happily gone along with that plan. How long would it have taken me to understand what those men were really like?

  A long time, a tiny voice in my head tells me. You would have just thought that you’d gotten what you wanted. What you deserved.

  “Wait a minute,” I challenge Desmia. “You were judging the music competition. People saw you then. You’ve met with the Fridesian peace delegation.”

  “Nobody cares about the Fridesians,” Desmia says. She shoots an apologetic glance at Ella. “Sorry,” she whispers. Then she turns back to me. “And at the music competition I was in the shadows. Nobody looked at me but you. What I did that day . . .” She looks down, then looks back up with blazing eyes. “I surprised myself. It felt like I was almost . . . fighting back. When you came to me and told me you were the true princess, I couldn’t let you be locked in the dungeon with all the other girls. I couldn’t let Lord Throckmorton have his victory of capturing all twelve girls—from what I overheard, I think there are just twelve of you.”

  I wince at that—No, I want to correct her, there’s only one of me—but I let it go.

  “Because I think when he has all twelve,” Desmia continues, “I think then he’ll feel safe setting all his plans in motion. Maybe then he won’t care if he just kills us all.”

  I notice how Desmia says “us,” grouping herself with the girls in the dungeon, too. I forgive her.

  “So I locked you away in the tower, keeping you safe,” she says. “But I didn’t know what else to do, because I didn’t think you’d believe anything I told you. And there was just one of me, and two of you, and you can’t know what it’s like, always living in terror, feeling so powerless. . . .”

  “I do,” Ella says softly. She reaches over and gives Desmia’s hand a squeeze.

  “But—but—,” Harper breaks in, trying to get his ideas out so quickly that he actually sputters. “You’re the princess! You’re the one wearing the crown! Can’t you do whatever you want to with the girls in the dungeon? With those lords who want to control you?”

  “‘Royals must be firm and decisive in their words and actions,’” I quote. “As it says in A Royal’s Guide to Dealing with Subordinates. ‘The royal who hesitates to wield his power entices his lessers to wield it against him.’”

  Desmia snorts, an ugly sound.

  “Don’t you see?” she asks. “I have no power. I’m just a figurehead. An endangered one. How did you put it?” She narrows her eyes at me. “I’m just a doll that waves.”

  We are staring each other down. I break the gaze first, shifting my stare to the stone wall.

  “But the true princess is the supreme ruler of Suala,” I say in a ragged voice. “A single word from her can stay an execution or stop a battle. Or . . . start one. From the loftiest palace official to the lowliest shepherdess, everyone in the kingdom is subject to her judgment, her jurisdiction, her rule. She is Suala!” I’m not sure if I’m quoting now, or if these are words embedded in my soul so long ago I might as well be stripping off my own flesh, laying it in front of Desmia as a sacrifice. The true princess should be able to inspire that sort of devotion.

  “I’m nobody,” Desmia counters. “Nothing. A pawn.”

  Ella looks sadly from Desmia to me.

  “It’s that way in Fridesia, too,” she says gently. “Princesses are more commodity than ruler. I have never heard of any kingdom where a princess gets to use her power.”

  Somehow this seems cruelest of all—that the position I’ve risked my life for is worth nothing. I turn and bury my face in Desmia’s pillows—the soft, deceptive pillows, the empty trappings of power. I sob, and it seems that the others can do nothing but listen.

  Then someone is gripping my shoulders, shaking me.

  “Okay, okay, Eelsy, stop it!” Harper begs. “Don’t you think I’ve already heard enough crying to last me a lifetime?”

  I’m shocked enough that I stop sobbing for a moment. The next sob that comes out half turns into a giggle.

  Harper shoves at my shoulder, forcing me to turn over and look at him.

  “I knew you for fourteen years before I knew you were a princess—supposedly a princess—and I never thought you were the type to just give up,” he says roughly. “You were never afraid to climb the tallest trees in the woods. You were never afraid to put your hand into a full bucket of night crawlers. You were never afraid to swim in the pond, even though you were a sight coming out, covered in leeches. So why are you afraid of some uppity guys with stupid fancy names?”

  “Because, because . . .” I sniff. It is hard to completely turn off sobs so quickly.

  Harper pokes me in the shoulder.

  “So maybe you’re not a princess,” he says. He turns and points at Desmia. “And maybe you’re not a princess with any power.” He turns his gaze on Ella. “And you say you’re not a princess either.” He claps his hands on his own chest. “And God knows, I’m nothing but the son of a dead soldier, who was nothing but cannon fodder. And I don’t have anything to defend any of you wit
h except a harp. But—but—don’t you see? There are four of us, and no one else knows that Cecilia and I are here. And no one knows that any of us know anything. And no one knows that you”—he’s spun around to point at Ella again—“are on our side. And we know that Sir Stephen and Nanny and my own mother are here in Cortona, and they’d help us too, if we could get word to them. So I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am not just going to roll over and play dead until the time comes that they actually kill us!”

  “I wasn’t playing dead,” I say stiffly. “I was crying.”

  “Baby,” Harper jeers.

  “I am not!” I protest. I scramble up and actually shove Harper, to get him back for all his trying to push me around. “Just because I actually have feelings—I should be allowed—”

  “You had days and days and days in the tower to get over yourself,” Harper says. “So you’re not a princess. So what? Aren’t you done yet with all that caterwauling?”

  “I—I—”

  Desmia steps between us.

  “‘Our side’?” she quotes numbly. “You said ‘our side’? Like we’re all in this together? On the same team?”

  “Well, yeah,” Harper says, squinting at her. “Aren’t we?”

  “You mean, because you’re scared of Lord Throckmorton and his cohorts?” Desmia asks. “As in ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’? And then if—this is crazy!—if we succeeded in vanquishing him, she’d still want the crown?” She is pointing at me, her eyes narrowed to accusing slits.

  I am still mad at Harper. I don’t like the way Desmia is glaring at me. It would be rather satisfying to just pitch myself down to the ground and beat my fists and kick my feet, to throw a good, long, royal tantrum. But, for all that Sir Stephen must have been wrong about me being the true princess, I still have everything that he taught me rattling around in my head. You know how to handle this, that annoying little voice cheers in my head. Think. Ten Ways to Turn Potential Enemies Into Friends. Twelve Ways to Cement an Ally’s Loyalty. Five Ways to . . .

  I see that the finger Desmia has pointed at me is shaking. I see that the corners of her mouth are quivering. I see that she’s having trouble holding her glare, and has to squeeze her eyes tighter and tighter together to keep the fierceness in her gaze. I think about how frightening it must be to have absolutely no one to trust. I think about how she’s already begun to fight back against her advisers. A little.

  “I won’t lie to you,” I say, and somehow my voice comes out sounding dignified and calm. Almost royal. “I don’t know who deserves to wear the crown. It may be you. It may be me. It may be one of those girls down there in the dungeon. But I think all of us deserve to know the truth. I think Suala deserves to know the truth. I can’t promise you what I’ll feel like when we solve all the mysteries. But I can tell you—I can swear to this—I’ll do whatever’s best for my kingdom.”

  Desmia’s eyes widen, the menace slipping out of her stare.

  “That’s good enough for me,” she says. She smiles at me, hesitantly. Then the smile turns wistful. “But what can we possibly do?”

  Ella steps up into our little circle.

  “A lot, actually,” she says. “I have some ideas.”

  She drapes her arms around us—one arm on Desmia’s shoulder, one on mine—and the four of us begin to plan.

  22

  I squat on the hard stone step, my ear pressed against a chink in a stone wall. This is my role in our little plot: eavesdropping on the palace officials. It makes sense that this is my job—I am the one who must stay hidden, and there’s no better hiding place than the secret stairways. Ella and Desmia have to appear at state dinners and such (you know, the entire kingdom would probably fall to pieces if Desmia didn’t appear on the balcony at noon each day) and we agreed that Harper is the best person to try to sneak out of the palace to look for Sir Stephen and Nanny and Harper’s mam.

  In truth I was eager for this assignment. I wanted to hear everything the advisers had to say. It’s not that I don’t believe Desmia—it’s not that I don’t trust her. It’s just . . . well, maybe it just comes down to Point Nine of the Guidelines for Wise Rulers: “Trust, but verify.” I can remember being baffled by that one, when I used to huddle over my books back in Nanny’s cottage. But now I do want to hold up what I hear from Lord Throckmorton’s room against what Desmia told me about life in the palace, against what Sir Stephen told me about how the palace power structure is supposed to work.

  Someone is coming into Lord Throckmorton’s office. The chink I have my ear against is at floor level, so I hear footsteps particularly well.

  “Sign here, sir.”

  There’s a rubbing sound, undoubtedly from a quill pen traveling across parchment. Then a growl: “Dismissed.”

  I sigh soundlessly. I was eager for this assignment, but that was hours ago. So far, that “Sign here” / “Dismissed” conversation is about the most significant one I’ve heard. And now my legs are cramped and my back is stiff from not moving, and—you wouldn’t think this was possible—even my voice box aches from not speaking to anyone in so long. I plan what I will tell Harper about this tedium when I see him again: “It was like all the worst parts of fishing without any of the fun. Or the tasty fish.”

  Or, no—I will not complain to Harper again. I remember what he said last night in Desmia’s room: You had days and days and days in the tower to get over yourself. . . . Aren’t you done yet with all that caterwauling? I know what he thinks. He thinks I’m a spoiled whiner, a selfish brat. I can imagine what else he might have wanted to say: You know, I’ve known all my life that I wasn’t royalty, that I wasn’t anyone important, and you don’t see me crying about it. . . .

  “You don’t know how it feels,” I whisper, and I actually dare to make the s sound audible. If Lord Throckmorton hears me, on the other side of the wall, he’s going to believe the palace is infested with snakes.

  No footsteps tromp over toward me, so I think I’m safe. I go back to imagining how I could explain this to Harper. All I can think of is the beef that Nanny used to buy from the village butcher for special occasions. She could only afford the gristliest, toughest cuts of meat, so when she got it home she’d pound it with a spiked mallet, beating it for hours sometimes, until it was soft enough to chew.

  I feel as though someone’s used that mallet on my heart. I feel as though I’ve been cut open and bloodied and beaten limp. I feel like if I think about this much more, I will start screaming and wailing again, and I will be discovered here in the secret stairway, and . . .

  Footsteps sound on the other side of the stone wall again. I hear a door creaking shut.

  “No one suspects, do they?” This is Lord Throckmorton’s growl.

  Suspects? Suspects what? I wonder. I press my ear harder against the chink in the wall.

  “Well, sir”—it’s another man’s voice, higher pitched with anxiety—“surely the jailer must realize—”

  “No, dimwit, no one who matters.”

  “Well, there’s your answer, then. No one matters but the people in this room, do they?”

  There’s a cackling laugh in response. Lord Throckmorton doesn’t seem like a cackler—is there a third person in the room?

  I turn my head and try to peek through the chink in the stone, but I see nothing but the brown wood of a table or desk leg. Then a heavy black boot kicks against the wall, covering over my chink. Even though the stone wall is at least a foot thick, I react as though I’ve been kicked in the eye. I reel back, smashing my head against the opposite wall of the stairway, the jagged stone tearing into my scalp. It takes all my willpower not to cry out. I press my hand against the wound, which is already sticky with blood, and dizzily force myself back to the chink. If Lord Throckmorton knows I’m here—if he kicked the wall on purpose—I need to be prepared to run. Desmia showed me several entrances and exits from the secret stairway: Should I scurry back to her room, even though it’s still two flights up? Or should I try for
the door in the hallway behind the theater where the music competition is, amazingly, still going on?

  I press my eye back against the hole in the wall. The boot has swung away again. Ah. Lord Throckmorton’s desk is right beside the wall, and he only happened to scrape his boot forward. I’m safe. I turn my ear to the chink again.

  “—find the last one?” Lord Throckmorton is asking.

  “It appears that she knows we are looking. She’s vanished.”

  Are they talking about me? I press my ear so tightly against the chink in the wall that I think I’m going to have permanent indentations in my head from the stone. Still, I’m afraid I’ve missed something, because the next thing I hear is, “Yes, and someone must have warned Sir Stephen, because he left right after we searched his house.”

  “Idiots!” This is definitely Lord Throckmorton’s growl again. “Should have captured him right away and been done with it!”

  “They’re using him as bait, sir, following him, watching who he talks to, where he goes. . . .”

  I jerk back again, but this time I manage to avoid bashing my head against the wall. I barely notice. If Lord Throckmorton’s men are using Sir Stephen as bait, I know who they’re going to catch.

  Harper.

  23

  It suddenly seems as though there is no air in the secret stairway. I scramble up anyhow. I can run without breathing, if I have to. And I have to. For I can’t stay here listening to their plotting—I can’t. I have to go find Harper, to warn him, to keep him safe.

  I rush down the stairs, my desire for haste warring with the need to be quiet, the need to keep from slipping and plunging to the ground. Desmia gave me a new pair of shoes last night, and they’re not as slick as my now-discarded filthy felt. But they’re a little big, and my feet slide forward and back inside them, like unmoored boats. I force myself to watch my step and concentrate on the directions Desmia gave me to that ground-floor door, the one in the hallway behind the theater.