An Imposter with a Crown

by Jordan Rivet

  Jessamyn must have sensed her nerves because she reached out to squeeze her hand. “You know about the common people and their ways, Micathea. I am sure you can work something out with them.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Mica wasn’t so sure she could do this. She might be a commoner, but diplomacy was still the most difficult part of this role. “Hopefully, I can at least get Lady Lorna back safely.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  Mica felt warmed by the princess’s faith in her, until Jessamyn went on. “I suppose if you’re killed, I will be forced to reveal myself. I shall tell the people of Silverfell that my injuries occurred while I was trying to save Lady Lorna. They will admire my bravery.” She tapped a finger on her scarred lip. “Yes, it is much better for you to do this without me.”

  Mica’s jaw lengthened as she gaped at the princess.

  “Come now, Micathea, I don’t want you to be killed. I simply need to consider every possibility.”

  “Okay. I guess it’s settled, then.”

  They started to emerge from behind the flower arrangement, when Jessamyn put a hand on Mica’s arm.

  “Oh, I need you to do something else in Birdfell.”

  “Yes?”

  “Get me that formula.”

  Mica froze. “What?”

  “I gather from the meaningful glances between you and Caleb that you believe you’ve solved your barren fortress riddle. Some potion or process is making those invincible Fifth Talents. Now that I’ve seen the results in battle, I want it.”

  “But—”

  “It’s better than letting them have it,” Jessamyn said, not allowing her to voice further objections. “You will go to this barren fortress, and you will bring the Fifth Talent potion back for me.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was quickly decided that Lord Fritz would take Lord Bont’s place on their journey to Birdfell.

  “I cannot cave to the rebel demands,” Lord Bont declared, not quite meeting Mica’s eye. “Silverfell will remain loyal to the empire, and my future son will be reunited with Lorna sooner.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Mica began.

  “I must go,” Fritz said. He had calmed somewhat, though he was still clutching Lorna’s ransom note to his chest. “Please, Princess Jessamyn. If you are a friend to us at all.”

  “Very well. You will be one of the three, along with Lord Caleb,” Mica said without looking at the real Jessamyn for approval. She was feeling ambivalent about following her wishes at the moment. Jessamyn couldn’t seriously be contemplating using the Fifth Talent formula, not when they knew what Ober had done to perfect it, could she?

  Her brother’s voice came back to her, questioning whether she was certain the princess always had the empire’s best interests at heart. It was getting harder to know for certain.

  The arrangements for the following day made, Lord Bont at last succeeded in ushering the princess and her entourage to their rooms. Mica’s teeth were chattering audibly, and Banner had a drip at the end of his long nose. Lord Bont looked as if he might collapse if the future empress were allowed to remain in such a bedraggled state for much longer.

  “If you’ll follow me, I think you’ll find that the manor has been made still more beautiful since your last visit. If I can draw your attention to this mural of a pear orchard along this corridor. It was painted by a folk artist from the remote town of Dustwood . . .”

  Mica could hardly believe Lord Bont was giving her a tour in light of everything that had just happened, but she listened patiently to the descriptions of the artwork, the architecture, and the historical significance of every sconce and window dressing on the way to her rooms. The manor smelled of fresh pine and mountain flowers, and she was sorry to trail her waterlogged satin gown across the fine floor.

  “I wish to show you the utmost hospitality, Your Graciousness,” Lord Bont said, tugging at the silk straining across his belly. “I’m grateful for what you’re doing for my daughter. Come. You will find the views from the manor are outshone only by your beauteous face.”

  An elegant suite of rooms had been prepared for the princess, with a well-framed view of the mountains hiding Silverfell’s famed mines. A gentle breeze blew through diaphanous curtains, carrying only a hint of smoke from the harbor. As the afternoon sunlight glittered on a silver tea set awaiting them, Mica realized she was ravenous.

  “I shall have food and warm bathwater sent to you,” Lord Bont promised. “I fear I must attend to other matters, but perhaps you would like to walk in the rose garden before dinner? And do let me know if I can provide anything to improve your stay in Silverfell.”

  “I need a new knife, actually,” Mica said, drawing the only one she had managed to save during the battle. “Preferably one about this size. I have a sheath already.”

  “Of course, my princess.” Lord Bont bowed deeply, hiding his surprise at this request. “Anything you desire.”

  At last, Mica managed to shoo Lord Bont away, leaving her and Jessamyn alone to change into dry clothes.

  “Finally,” Mica said when she was sure he was gone. She went to the huge silver-inlaid wardrobe in the inner room and began pulling out the silk dresses and embroidered riding clothes that had hastily been prepared for them. The only thing missing was a crown.

  “I don’t know how you stand it, Princess,” she said as she dug through the wardrobe for something more practical for her journey. “All that fawning.”

  “Don’t be ungrateful, Micathea,” Jessamyn said. “Lord Bont has gone to great trouble to welcome you.”

  “I appreciate the effort, but there are more important things going on here. Does that old lord have to be so . . . so . . .”

  “Welcoming? Complimentary? What exactly is your problem?”

  “It’s all fake, isn’t it?” Mica said, still sorting through the clothes. “It’s the same with all these lords and ladies. They put on faces, just like Impersonators. They don’t actually like us.”

  Jessamyn didn’t reply, prompting Mica to look up from the pile of garments. The princess had gone stiff, as if she’d been slapped across the face.

  Mica wished she could take back the words. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know exactly what you meant,” Jessamyn snapped.

  “I’m sure all the nobles like you,” Mica said. “But when they grovel so much, it feels—”

  “I’m aware of how it feels. I have been a princess for far longer than you have been an imposter.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mica realized she had hurt Jessamyn’s feelings. “I—”

  “That will be all.”

  “But—”

  “You do not have permission to speak to me.”

  Mica sighed. “Yes, princess.”

  She changed into a simple wool dress and set aside a few things for her journey to Birdfell, trying not to disturb Jessamyn as she crept around the chamber. She supposed it wasn’t the best time to broach the issue of the Fifth Talent formula again.

  The princess stared out the window at the mountains, still in her wet clothes, her scarred arms folded tight around her. Mica couldn’t see her face, but once she heard a quiet little gasp, as if the princess was crying—and trying desperately to hide it.

  Guilt twisted at Mica’s insides. She shouldn’t have lashed out like that. Jessamyn had been through the same hell she had that morning, and she had just as much of a right to be delicate right now. Mica still sometimes fell into the trap of seeing the princess as the larger-than-life person she was in public instead of an actual person. She deserved better.

  “Princess?” Mica said after a while. “Can I make you some tea?”

  Jessamyn didn’t answer. Mica poured the tea anyway and fetched a warm blanket from the canopy bed.

  “You’ll get sick,” she said, holding out the steaming teacup. “That’ll be no good for anyone. Please take this.”

  Jessamyn’s shoulders slumped, and she surrendered to Mica’s
care at last.

  “It’s too much,” she said quietly after she shed her damp clothes and settled in a chair, the blanket wrapped tight around her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Obsidian invasion, the rebels, the Fifth Talents. I feel like everything is blowing up around me, and I don’t know what to do anymore.” She sipped her tea, her brown eyes large above the rim of her cup. When she set it back on her saucer, her gaze lingered on the damaged skin on her hands.

  “I wish my father were here,” Jessamyn whispered. “He always said being a leader is the loneliest job in the world.”

  Mica curled up in the chair across from her, thinking of her own father, so close now to enemy lines. And her brothers, wherever they were.

  “You’re not alone,” she said. “You have me. You have Caleb.”

  “Lord Caleb.”

  “Exactly. We’re your friends, and we care about you. You, not just the empire. We’ll help you find a way to solve all these problems.”

  “How?”

  Mica sipped her own tea and did her very best Jessamyn voice. “I haven’t the faintest idea. Honestly, Jessa, I can’t be expected to know everything.”

  Jessamyn burst out laughing, and Mica realized it was the first time in ages she’d heard a genuine laugh from her. Maybe the first time ever.

  The princess’s laughter faded, and she sighed. “I wish . . . never mind.”

  “What is it?”

  Jessamyn’s cheeks flushed beneath her scars. “I wish I were brave.”

  “You are brave.”

  “Not like Caleb, who lives every day with a dangerous illness. Not like your brother and all the Talents who risk their lives to protect us.”

  “You don’t have to be like them. You have your own way.” Mica thought of Jessamyn forcing her to swim through the war-torn harbor when Emir’s loss threatened to pull her underwater, of Jessamyn cracking open a man’s skull with a teapot when he tried to kill her, of Jessamyn facing every day even though she’d lost what she believed to be her greatest asset. “You should let people see what you’re really like, and I don’t just mean your new face.”

  “What if they don’t like what they see?”

  Mica hesitated. She knew the princess had spent her entire life creating a persona for herself, one she was certain would be both enchanting and effective at achieving her goals. Mica had spent her life learning to assume different faces for essentially the same reason. But Jessamyn had been a master at it. She was beautiful while still potentially attainable. She was charming without being threatening. She made people feel special while communicating that she was the most special of all. But now she was confronted with the reality that all that might not be enough. Mica reminded herself that Jessamyn was still very young. Even though it seemed as if she was this incredible force, she was still human.

  “I know it’s scary,” Mica said, speaking slowly as she sorted through what she wanted to say. “Everything is scary right now. Maybe they won’t like the truth. Maybe they won’t respond to you the same way they used to. But you can’t hide forever. With everything going on, I think people need the real you more than they need what this face used to represent.”

  She gestured to the impersonation she wore all the time now, the face of a pretty princess who wore silver crowns and danced at starlit balls. Then she let her features contort, the skin sliding and reshaping, the hair shortening, the mouth becoming lopsided but resolute.

  “I think they need this woman, who will fight like a hurricane to save her friends and who’s willing to admit she can be wrong.”

  Jessamyn studied the face she had assumed, and Mica remembered when the princess had scrutinized her very first impersonations the day she arrived at the Silver Palace. Her sharp eyes filed away every detail, her lips pursed in concentration. She clearly didn’t like what she saw, but she didn’t turn away either, as she often did when she glanced at herself in a mirror. It was a start.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Princess?” Banner stuck his head through the doorway. “Lord Aren wishes to see you.”

  Mica and Jessamyn exchanged identical glances.

  “Well?” the princess snapped. “What are you waiting for?”

  Mica jumped, forgetting that answering was supposed to be her job. “Why don’t you start with Aren? I think he’s the sort of man who will look past the surface.”

  Jessamyn seemed to consider it for a fleeting moment, but then panic flickered in her eyes.

  “I’m not ready. You talk to him.”

  Mica was disappointed, but she quickly reset her face and invited Lord Aren into the sitting room.

  The Pegasus lord’s shirt was splattered with blood, and his hair had come loose from its tail. He nodded politely to Jessamyn, who still sat, unveiled, in her chair. Then he turned to Mica and explained that he had learned the princess was heading into danger. He had come straight to her rooms to demand to accompany her.

  “I reckon that going to see the rebels is the right thing to do, Princess,” he said. “I trust your judgment, but I can’t let you go alone.”

  “I’ve chosen my escorts already, my lord.”

  He shook his head with the kind of calm certainty only a man who knows his exact place in the world can convey.

  “Be that as it may, I refuse to leave your side.”

  Mica arched one of Jessamyn’s eyebrows. “You refuse?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “What makes you think you can protect me better than anyone else?”

  “Because I would die for you, Jessamyn.”

  Then Aren advanced toward her, his resolute strides suggesting he was about to give Mica a terribly ardent kiss.

  Jessamyn stuck out her foot.

  Aren tripped, losing his balance, and crashed hard into Mica. They fumbled for a moment, confused, and Mica managed to dodge his romantic overtures.

  As soon as Mica and Aren extracted themselves from the tangle and regained their footing, Jessamyn stepped between them.

  “I have something to tell you.”

  The princess was still wrapped only in blankets, her shoulders bare and her face uncovered. Then, despite saying she wasn’t ready, despite all her fears about facing the world without her pretty mask, she looked up into Aren’s eyes, took a deep breath, and finally told him the truth.

  “I am the real Jessamyn. I am the girl who played with you in the fields and taught you how to bow properly. I’m the one who was afraid of horses—and even more afraid to admit it. I’m also the one you rescued from the river, even though you didn’t know that was what you were doing.”

  “You have been Jessamyn all along?” There was something like recognition in Aren’s voice, and Mica wondered—hoped, really—that some part of him had suspected the truth.

  Jessamyn nodded at Mica. “This is my Impersonator, Micathea. She has been acting in my place since I was poisoned nearly four months ago.”

  Mica quickly scrubbed the old Jessamyn’s features from her face to confirm the story. Aren looked her over for a moment, seeing her true face for the first time, then he turned back to the real princess.

  “Who did this to you?”

  Jessamyn’s lips quivered for a moment. “Lord Ober of Timbral. I thought I could outwit him, but I was naïve. I underestimated how far he would go—and the mistake nearly killed me.”

  “He nearly killed you,” Aren said. “But I am so glad he failed.”

  Then, without a second look at Mica, he got down on his knees before Jessamyn and took her mottled hands in his.

  “Allow me to stay at your side. I swear I will do anything in my power to protect you and prevent you from being hurt again.”

  “Even though I look like this?”

  Jessamyn’s eyes welled up with tears, and Aren rose to wipe them away with a gentle, calloused hand.

  “You are exquisite,” he said softly, cupping her scarred cheek. “You are the most captivating woman I have ever
met.”

  Mica quietly retreated from the pair to give the two some privacy, her heart swelling with pride and relief. The Pegasus lord was taking the revelation even better than she could have hoped. She hoped he would use the line about wanting to make her happy again. If he did, she fully expected Jessamyn and Aren to be engaged by the time she returned from her expedition.

  She slipped out of the room, feeling that they’d won a little victory at last.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As promised in Lorna’s ransom note, their rebel guide arrived at dawn the next day to escort them to Birdfell. He appeared at the gates to Lord Bont’s manor wearing the grim face and dark hair of Emperor Styl.

  “I think we’ve met before,” Mica said when Bont’s guards brought him up to the marble portico. She wore the old Jessamyn’s face, but she felt as if the day was nearing when she would once again be nothing more or less than the princess’s Impersonator.

  “So now you remember,” said the Styl imposter. Then the color drained out of his hair, and he became the blond, bearded man with watery eyes she had met back in Carrow. “I volunteered to be your guide when I learned you rather than Lord Bont would be meeting with my comrades.”

  Mica frowned, wondering who had carried that bit of intelligence to the rebels. She wouldn’t put it past them to have spies inside the manor. She hadn’t expected to travel with a true Fifth Talent, though, and it made her more nervous than she already was.

  “You never told me your name.”

  “You may call me Ed, seeing as we’re friends now.”

  “When did you arrive in Silverfell?”

  “The same day you did, Your Highness.” He offered no further explanation. Mica hoped he hadn’t hurt anyone when he escaped from Lord Gordon’s prison. They had known those earthen walls wouldn’t hold him once he decided to leave. He could have hitched a ride on their ship as an imposter for all she knew, or gone on ahead with his Blur speed.

  She introduced Ed to Caleb and Fritz, who waited beside her with packs on their backs and hands on their swords. She made sure they understood that the Dwindlemire rebel had four fully-fledged abilities, but she did not disclose Caleb’s Talents.