The Opal Crown (34 page)

I blow out the candles and leave my father’s study. The work will still be here in the morning.

I step into the Eleanor Throne Room; it’s empty of all the nobles who stood queuing before Elara and me earlier this morning. Next to the gilded throne sits another throne, a wooden one that was hastily constructed soon after Elara and I assumed our place as queens. “
How ironic
,” Elara had whispered when she saw the two sitting side by side. She seems to take a curious pleasure sitting in the wooden throne, and will not let us
replace it with a more ornate one.

Elara sits there now, looking silently at the statue of Eleanor the Great. The Split Opals in Eleanor’s stone hands glimmer in the flickering candlelight. Palace guards surround the statue, keeping watch, as always.

“Are you having trouble sleeping again?” I ask, sitting down in the golden throne next to her.

“Yes,” she replies, not looking at me. “Are you working late again?”

“Not anymore.”

“How do you think our kingdom’s history—our family’s history—would be different if Eleanor hadn’t stumbled on her coronation day?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Aislinn may still have betrayed Rowan. We may still have been separated. Who can say what would have been different? Maybe nothing.”

“Or maybe everything.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Elara so reflective and still. So often these days my sister seems like a complicated force of barely contained energy. I look at the statue, enjoying this moment of silence with her. Yet it feels like that one moment of true peace, just before the storm breaks.

“What’s troubling you?” I ask her finally.

“While we both sit on these thrones, the kingdom will hold its breath, waiting for the day when we decide we can no longer rule together.”

“I know,” I admit. “I can feel it. I can
feel
them waiting.”

“When I was younger,” Elara says, still staring at the statue, “all I ever wanted was to find my name and my family.” She turns to the guards standing watch and says, “Leave us, please.” After they’ve gone she slides a letter from her pocket and offers it to me. “This is from our mother. . . . I’m so sorry, Wilha.”

“Our mother?” Hastily, I open the letter. Reading my mother’s words, hearing her voice through them, is like drinking from a cup of cool water, when I didn’t realize I was parched. . . .

Until I reach the end, and the letter falls from my hand.

Did I read that correctly?

“You did,” Elara says, and I realize I must have spoken the words aloud.

“Then we are sitting on the wrong thrones,” I say. “We should switch.” How many more lies have our parents told? How can they reach out, even from the grave, and haunt us still? “It’s me,” I murmur. “
I
am the one with no name.”

“In Tulan there was once a woman whose husband wanted her to name their daughter Eleanor,” Elara says. “But she refused. She said it was too much to live up to.”

“It’s a powerful name,” I say, feeling as though I might be sick. I need time. I need to excuse myself, but I find I cannot move.

“But Eleanor wasn’t always Eleanor. Once she was just a small village girl, the daughter of a family of miners. The name became great, because
she
became great. The name
Elara was given to me in hatred, and for years I wanted noth
ing more than to shed it and claim another, one I thought would be a truer representation of who I am. But I wonder now if that isn’t too much to ask of one small word.” Elara turns, and finally she looks at me. “I’ve thought long and hard about this, Wilha, and I no longer think it matters what name you carry. What really matters is what you do with it.”

Her expression is fierce as she picks up the letter. Where did she find it? How long has she known?

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask. “Are you saying you want me to claim another name?”

“What I want,” she says, “is to find a way to keep the two of us from tearing this kingdom apart.”

I recognize her words. They were once my own. “What do you mean?” I say.

Elara beckons me closer. And with Eleanor’s statue watching over us, my sister whispers of new beginnings.

Chapter 73

The Queen of Galandria

T
he opal crown sits heavy upon my head. I reach up to straighten it, and catch my sister looking at me. She smiles, and I offer her mine in return. Today we are dressed identically in gowns of lavender and powder blue, the colors of the Andewyn family crest. Our hair is tied back in ribbons. The only difference in our appearance is that I wear the crown, while she does not.

My sister and I, along with my new advisors, have all gathered here today for the unveiling in the Queen’s Garden. The sheet falls from the statue and my sister and I step forward to make sure they have the inscription right. We smile when we see they did:
Wilhamina Andewyn, Queen of Galandria.
In the statue’s hand she holds a mask, in remembrance of the years I covered my face. I suppose now if I come to the Queen’s Garden looking for wisdom, it shall be my own face I look to.

Somewhere in a vault locked deep within the Opal Palace is my mother’s letter. Elara wanted to burn it, but I could not bring myself to agree. The letter reminds me that even the smallest action, borne out of grief or madness, has the power to affect countless lives. I am certain it is a reminder I will need often in the years to come.

Elara’s insistence that she no longer wished to rule came as a welcome surprise to our advisors. I do not believe I have ever seen them smile so widely as they did on the day
she formally signed away any claims upon the Galandrian throne, a ceremony that paved the way for her betrothal to Stefan.

Next to my new statue is an altar, upon which sits the two Split Opals. Elara and I raise our hammers high above our heads and bring them down on the stones. Amid colorful
shards, the two opals have been reduced to a pile of
smaller—albeit still very valuable—jewels.

My sister and I begin handing a single small opal to each man who approaches and bows before me. Gone is the ten-member Guardian Council. In its place, I have appointed a General Assembly composed of a representative from each village in Galandria. The assembly shall instruct me and have far more power than the Guardian Council ever did.

No doubt one of their first orders of business will be to dangle princes from various kingdoms before me, in an effort to secure a betrothal that benefits Galandria. I glance over at Patric and smile. Little do they know, the question of my marriage has already been decided. And while I intend to serve my kingdom to my last dying breath, I will reserve for myself this one thing: The right to marry someone who has loved me, whether I am a masked curiosity, or a coronated queen.

Lord Royce—Allegria’s representative—is the only member of the General Assembly who isn’t smiling. He scrutinizes the small opal I hand him. His jewel is equal in size to the others; I have no doubt he wishes it was quite a bit larger.

Already there are those who say I am a weak queen to allow more power to pass to the people.
I
say it takes strength to recognize that change is coming, and yet even more strength to welcome it—to bridge the gap between who we are now as a kingdom, to whoever we shall become in the future. Eleanor Andewyn forged this kingdom three hundred years ago. But three hundred years from now, will a monarchy even exist in Galandria? Long after I am dead, how will people read of me? Will I be considered a great leader, like Eleanor Andewyn? Or a weak one, like my very own father?

History will be my judge.

I turn about the garden, meeting each of the statues’ gazes without flinching and without shame. I no longer fear the eyes of my ancestors. For I am one of them. And with the help of the General Assembly, I will rule this kingdom with everything I am.

Three Years Later . . .

Chapter 74

Elara Strassburg,

Princess of Kyrenica

I
sleep well most nights, but tonight the pain in my back is too much to bear. I throw back my covers, heave myself from the bed, and walk to the place that has always been my refuge in the castle.

Well, these days I don’t walk so much as I waddle.

I find Stefan in the kitchen lingering in front of the fire. Sleep still does not come easy for him, particularly now that the day-to-day tasks of running the kingdom fall solely on his shoulders.

“How is our little one?” he asks, pressing a hand to my stomach.

As if in answer, the child growing within me stirs and bumps against Stefan’s palm. Normally the action brings a delighted smile to my husband’s face, but tonight he merely turns back to the fire.

“What did the physician say?”

“He said we should prepare ourselves.”

I wrap my arms around him and hug him silently. This is the news we’ve been dreading for months.

“Was your father lucid at all during the examination?” I say once I’ve settled next to Stefan.

“He was.” His lips twist into a weak smile. “He said the physician was a fool, and that the only thing
he
was preparing for was the large mug of ale he planned to drink after his first grandchild was born.”
His face falls and he sighs. “But he also gave instructions for his burial—and for our coronation.”

With a crown comes a price, and one day soon we will have to pay it. Stefan and I keep hoping for the daily miracles we so often take for granted. That Ezebo will continue to draw breath. That the peace in the region continues to hold. That there are many good days still to come. But it seems our time is running short.

I cup my hands over my swollen belly. My stomach is large and round; so much more so than any other of the ladies whom I’ve seen give birth, including Wilha. Yet in my womb I carry the future king or queen of Kyrenica, and in my frequent letters to Wilha I write the fears I dare not speak of to anyone save Stefan:

What if?

What if history repeats itself?

Wilha’s own fears were laid to rest earlier this year when she gave birth to a single son whom she and Patric named Andrei. Stefan and I have already agreed that if twins are born we will announce the birth of both of our children. Immediately, and joyously.

And we will not be alone. In the years since she was crowned, my sister has become a wise queen. Galandria is slowly but surely recovering, driven by the strength of Wilha’s dogged devotion to her kingdom. Already the people call her Wilhamina the Warrior.

Wilha has assured me that if my fears are proved true, she will join me in proclaiming the existence—the blessing—of two children. My sister and I will shout it from the depths of the Lonesome Sea, to the tallest peaks of the Opal Mountains.

And together,
we
will be heard.

Acknowledgments

This book was written in the midst of an extremely busy season in my life, and I wouldn’t have been able to do it without the love and support of my husband. Ryan, thank you for the camping trips you took the kids on so I could catch up on my word counts. Thank you for the meals you cooked, the nights you listened, and the support you always give. You are my biggest fan, my own personal knight in shining armor and prince charming, all rolled into one, and I know I am so lucky to have you.

To my friends and family who unceasingly support me, thank you for understanding when I have to hole up in my writer’s cave sometimes. To Kerry Sparks, my agent, this book never would have been written if you
hadn’t believed in me and told me to just go for it and start writing Elara and Wilha’s story. If I was a sculptor, I’d craft my own statue of you to commemorate your awesomeness!

To Marlo Scrimizzi, Teresa Bonaddio, Valerie Howlett, and the rest of the team at Running Press Teens, thank you for always taking such great care of me and my books.

To Elizabeth Thompson, Xochi Dixon, Chris Pedersen, and the rest of the lovely gang at Inspire Christian Writers, thank you for always being so quick to offer a prayer, a word of encouragement, or a meal when it’s needed. I am thankful for you all.

To my two sons, Noah and Thomas: Thank you for waiting patiently so many nights and weekends while I finished my book. We made it!

Finally, thank you God, for that long ago day at the beach, when I told you I wanted a story to tell. I hope I have done this one justice.