Palace of Mirrors

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  “You’re right,” she agrees faintly. “You had to.” Then she winces, fear and panic shooting across her expression. “But this changes everything! It means—”

  “Fair lady,” the knight on top of the pile says, his deep voice incredibly resonant for one who looks so feeble. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Sir Anthony. We have nothing but gratitude to you and your associate. We knew when we heard your voices from behind the walls that this would be a safe place to come when we were so weary—”

  “Shh!” Ella hisses, casting anxious glances toward the door out into the castle hall. I know she’s thinking of the guards just the other side of the thin wooden panel and how difficult it would be to explain away the rumble of such a deep voice. “If anyone discovers that I’m hosting rebel knights in my chambers, then, then . . .” Her face turns three shades paler and she breaks off, as if the consequences are too dire to put to voice.

  One of the would-be princesses gingerly begins trying to untangle herself from the jumble of other girls and knights. Because her leg is caught under one person’s head and another person’s torso, she has to jerk back hard, jarring against Ella’s bedside table.

  I see what’s about to happen, but I’m not quick enough to stop it. The table plunges forward, crashing into the washbowl Ella had placed on the floor. The resulting clatter sounds like a thunderclap.

  Immediately, Ella dashes across the room to the door to the hallway. She presses her hands firmly against the wood.

  “Lady Ella! Let us in!” A guard’s voice rings out from beyond the door. “Are you all right?”

  “No, no, don’t come in!” Ella holds the door shut. “I—I’m indisposed!”

  “But that noise—”

  “Oh, I just bumped against my washbowl. Clumsy me!”

  “Are you sure that beggar girl didn’t—”

  “No, no, she’s fallen fast asleep—I think it’s probably best to let her sleep it off. So please, don’t disturb us again!”

  The whole time she’s shouting back and forth with the guard, Ella’s making frantic faces at me and gesturing wildly. This would be comical if she didn’t also look so terrified. Finally she steps cautiously away from the door, still holding her hands near it, and watching for a long moment to see if the guard is going to disobey and shove his way into the room regardless. When nothing happens, Ella rushes back toward me.

  “We’ve got to get these knights and girls out of here!” she whispers in my ear. “I think it’s best if you get them back into the secret stairway and take them up to Desmia’s room. I’ll put some lumpy pillows in the bed to make it look like you’re sleeping, and—”

  “What about warning Harper?” I protest.

  Ella purses her lips.

  “I haven’t forgotten him!” she mutters. “I’ll go down and talk to him, and then tell Desmia exactly what’s going on, and then we’ll all come up to straighten this out as soon as we can . . . to plan our next step . . .”

  She’s already scurrying past me, grabbing pillows and stuffing them down under the blankets on her bed.

  I want to protest that I should be the one to go save Harper, but Ella’s plan really does make more sense. Anyhow, I should be responsible for all the knights and girls, since it’s my fault they’re roaming through the palace so freely. I stand up, weaving slightly and wincing from the pain. I peer down at the old, feeble men and young, terrified-looking girls, who have all been frozen in place ever since the one girl knocked over the table.

  “Well,” I say, trying to sound as cheerful and optimistic as I can, in a whisper, “anyone remember the Five Principles of How to Make Yourself Go On Trying Even When You Believe You’ve Got No Chance?”

  28

  Just the thought of stepping back into the secret stairways feels nightmarish. I don’t know the directions for getting from Ella’s room to Desmia’s secretly. So, I calculate gloomily, we could easily be lost for the rest of the day, retracing the same steps thousands of times. This would be bad enough if it were just me, but with knights who are fresh from the torture chamber and girls who look rather faint themselves with their dungeon pallor—who’s going to end up carrying whom?

  To my surprise, as everyone’s squeezing back into the hidden staircase, one of the girls whispers to me, “If you don’t have a map, I could draw you one.”

  I stare at her in astonishment.

  “You know these stairs?” I ask. “You’ve used them to go to Desmia’s room before?”

  “Oh, no.” She shakes her head, her russet-colored hair flaring out behind her. “But I looked at the castle very carefully when they were bringing me in to the dungeon. And then you look out those windows”—she points to the high, narrow windows in Ella’s room—“and you can see the tower you said we were supposed to go to. I’ve calculated the gradient of the stairs we already climbed, and the general pattern of the stairways, and I remember how my tutor, Sir Brookings, always described the dimensions of the castle. So, if I drew a map, it wouldn’t necessarily be perfect, but it would be a very, very educated guess.”

  I’m still gaping at her.

  “You must have been really good at geometry,” I finally say.

  “It was my favorite subject,” she says simply. “That and architecture, of course, once we started into that.”

  “I didn’t get any architecture training,” I grumble.

  I’m not sure if any of the girls have figured out that I’m one of them. Given that I still look like the worst kind of ragamuffin, it probably sounds ridiculous that I’d expect to know architecture. But the girl just shrugs apologetically.

  “Sir Brookings loves geometry and architecture—anything like that—so once I showed an aptitude, he began focusing almost exclusively on his favorite subjects,” she says. “But he didn’t teach me much at all about manners and etiquette, which reminds me . . .” She awkwardly sticks out her hand to shake. “I’m Ganelia.”

  “Cecilia,” I say in response, taking her hand firmly, even though a curtsy would have been more appropriate. Sir Stephen always said to adapt to others’ customs rather than make them feel awkward.

  The girl rewards me with a grin.

  “Since you seem to know the way better than I do, why don’t you take the lead?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’m no good at leadership,” Ganelia quails. “That would be Lucia, or Rosemary, or Sophia.”

  She thinks she’s the true princess but claims she’s no good at leadership? This makes no sense, but I don’t have time to ask any questions.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll lead the way, but you can be the one telling me where to go.”

  We step behind the wall—the last two to do so—and I give Ella a desperate final wave and grimace. She repays me by scrunching up her face sympathetically and lifting her hands, and it almost feels like she’s whispered back, Don’t worry. Harper will be okay. And so will the rest of us.

  Ganelia and I—and all the others—have to be silent in the secret stairway, but Ganelia is very good about tapping my hand and pointing whenever we have to go in a new direction. Almost before I know it, we’re facing the faint outlines of a door in the stone wall. I press my eye against the crack between the door and the wall and can just barely make out a familiar tapestry full of extravagant reds and golds and greens.

  “Desmia’s room!” I dare to whisper gleefully. Then I shove my way in.

  I’m intending to scout out the scene first, to make sure there aren’t any maids or guards or advisers hanging about. I figure I can make up a story to explain my presence much more easily than I can explain twenty-two others. But the girls behind me are pushing forward, and whispering in great distress, “Sir Denton has fainted!” and “Please! Sir Casper needs some air!”

  Just then I see Desmia rounding the corner from the other section of her chambers.

  “Are you alone?” I gasp at her.

  Desmia gives me one look—a strange, startled, desperate look. Then she strides over to the f
ireplace and grabs the black wrought-iron poker.

  “Brigands attacked you in the secret stairs?” she asks, holding the poker high over her head, her arms trembling as much as her voice. “Where are they?”

  I’ve forgotten about the stupid white bandage swathed around my head.

  “No, no, nobody attacked me. It’s just—it’s a long story.”

  Desmia lowers the poker. She was willing to defend me? I marvel. Desmia was? But I don’t have time to thank her, because the girls and knights are pushing their way out behind me.

  “Sir Roget must have food!” one of the girls is crying. “Else he’ll surely die!”

  “And Sir Thomas!”

  “And Sir Anthony!”

  I’m guessing these girls must be Lucia, Rosemary, and Sophia, given the way they’re trying to take charge.

  “Desmia, they’re right,” I say. “I found these knights in the torture chamber below the dungeons, and I had to set them free or they would have died, and then they rescued the girls, and . . . They’re so tired they still might die. You’ve got to help.”

  Desmia freezes, but only for a second.

  “Put as many as you can on the bed. The rest can lie down on the rug,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”

  The other girls and I half carry all the knights into the other room while Desmia disappears around the opposite wall.

  “No, no, you must leave now,” I hear her saying. “You don’t need to finish dusting. But run straight to the kitchen and tell the cooks the princess is very, very hungry and can’t wait for dinner, so they must send up a huge tray of food, as if for a feast. . . . And yes, guards out, too—no one must be allowed in here except to deliver that tray. . . .”

  Then I hear the sound of a door being shut hard.

  Good for you, Desmia! I think.

  “Please, Sir Thomas, breathe! Keep breathing!” One of the girls I think might be Rosemary or Sophia or Lucia is wailing beside the most fragile-looking knight. His chest is still rising and falling beneath his thin shirt, but it’s such a faint movement, barely visible.

  “Food is coming!” I say helplessly. “And drink!”

  I remember that we don’t necessarily have to wait for the tray Desmia ordered. Harper and I still had a little bit of bread and fruit left in the tower, and there might still be a few swallows of lemonade left in the jug. I take off running for the tower stairs. The birds squawk at me—“Bawk! Be careful!” “Bawk! Watch out!” “Bawk! True princess!”—but I ignore them completely. As soon as I reach the tower, I snatch the handle of the jug. We left the food back by the tower window, I remember, right beside the harp. . . . I speed through the door—strangely, the harp is gone, but a half loaf of bread and a small apple are still there. I scoop them up and take off running back down the stairs.

  I’m panting for air and my head is whirling when I get back to the bedchambers, but at least Sir Thomas is still taking his shallow breaths.

  “Lift his head!” I command Rosemary or Sophia or Lucia or whoever the girl is who’s quietly sobbing with her face pressed against Sir Thomas’s chest.

  The girl obeys, and I pour a trickle of lemonade into Sir Thomas’s mouth.

  “That is . . . heavenly,” the old man croaks. He turns his face toward the girl, peering at her through tear-glazed eyes. “Rosemary, even if I . . . expire, know that you are the true princess. The queen herself placed you in my arms as she lay dying. She didn’t want to give you up, but she knew I would keep you safe. . . .”

  What? I think. Something like jealousy shoots through me. Sir Stephen never told me such a specific detail.

  “I promised her I would keep that secret—I would keep you secret—but since I’m dying now too . . .,” Sir Thomas whispers. “You remember where we hid your proof?”

  Proof? I think. Proof? How is it that this Rosemary has proof and I don’t?

  “My silver chalice,” Rosemary whispers, kneeling before her knight, bowing her head to speak directly into his ear. She has tears glinting in her hazel eyes too. “The one you brought with me from the palace when I was but a tiny babe . . .”

  I have to look away from this tender scene. I want to shout at the other girls, Hello? Are you listening to this? But my eyes immediately fall on the next grief-stricken girl crying at the side of an ancient knight, and she’s also murmuring, “Yes, I know where my proof is hidden. . . .” And then I pay attention to all the voices in the room, and it’s like listening to echoes:

  “The queen herself laid you in my arms. . . .”

  “The dying queen kissed you before she gave you to me. . . .”

  “The queen herself handed you to me. . . .”

  And then I hear the murmured listing of royal objects, of “proof”:

  “The royal bowl . . .”

  “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, be
cause 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.