The Lost Princess

Chapter Four

I sat there by my desk. It was gilded gold, a fancy shimmering color. Strange, I could never afford this. A knock came at the door and I rose to unlock it. A young plain-looking woman stood there with a plain brown skirt with an emblem of a gold moon overlapping a silver sun, that was completely unfamiliar, yet I recognized it, at the hip. She bowed. “Mistress, if that is all, I will take my leave,” she said. I nodded, a reddish brown curl slipping over my shoulder.

Reddish-brown?

This was not me, yet it was. I was living the life of someone else. I yearned to leave but it seemed I couldn’t. “Yes, that will be all, Phea. Thank you,” I—she said. The young woman smiled happily and bowed again. I closed the door. I stood still as the sound of her shoes faded. Giving a soft sigh, I retreated to the desk again.

I noticed the clothing I wore. A soft green gown that perfectly set off the rich red of my hair set over a white shift. The same gold moon over a silver sun was sewn into the bottom hem of the skirt, but much tinier. I wore no corset, I noticed, but my posture was perfect.

I sat rather roughly, more like dropping into the seat. I tilted out head back, closing my eyes. I heard a gentle creak.

“I do not wish your company, Phea. You may go,” I said tiredly.

The sound of shoes moved closer. The sound was heavier than Phea’s light taps. I sat up sharply, a tad annoyed. Opening my eyes, I turned. “Phea, I said—"

A hand in a rough glove slapped over our mouth and we froze. “I am not Phea,” a thickly accented man’s voice growled. “Now shut up.” I sat still, frightened. Who was this man? How did he get in? I must alert the guard somehow, I thought. No, no, it did no good to panic. The trick is to stay calm. Stay calm. “Go, the coast is clear,” the man called behind him, hardly over a whisper.

After a moment, I heard the sounds of climbing as more and more men came. During this, the man wrapped a rough cloth over my mouth tightly, so much I could not move at all. He knotted it at the back of my head and tied my hands and feet, even though I struggled, to no avail. I glared daggers at him and he only sneered.

He was a buff and large man, tall and intimidating. He was scarred, arms, legs and most of all, face. A thick scar ran though his right eye, making him forever glowering. His left eye was an emotionless black and his right was a cold, cold gray. He wore a dark tunic with breeches and heavy brown boots. He watched us coldly as a regal man with white eyes entered from the window sill. The scarred man turned and bowed deeply. “My lord,” he said politely.

“Thank you, Jourge,” the white-eyed man replied, turning slightly in acknowledgement. He turned his frightening eyes to me. What frightened me was that the white was simply the color of his eyes—his irises— not blindness. His eyes could have been mistaken for blindness, was there not a thin circle of the lightest gray between his irises and the whites of his eyes. I could see the black of his pupils. He was odd then, the man with snowy eyes. If not for his white eyes, he could have been handsome. He was tall and had a fine complexion. His silken fair hair was carefully combed and hung close to his jaw. He had a handsome face that his unusual eyes seemed to distort into an emotionless mask with a meaningless smile.

He observed me carefully, walking in a circle around me. I sat stiffly, unwilling to let him know my fear. Finally, he stopped in front of me. Leaning forward, his face was in front of mine and he looked me in the eye. Taking his hand, he gripped my chin and I clenched my teeth tightly. He moved me this way and that. “She is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” he said absentmindedly. No one answered him and he smiled widely. “What a pretty little doll. She will surely be missed, which means the king will undoubtedly do what we want. Good. Very good,” the man nodded slowly in satisfaction.