Cavern of Secrets

by Linda Sue Park

  Ong reddened a little. “I beg the Deemers’ pardon. We need the recess to—to check that certain preparations are in place. These will”—a pause—“ensure that there are no further delays to the proceedings,” he finished firmly.

  “Very well,” Regnar said. “A quarter of an hour, Lawtender, no more.” She tapped the gong.

  The three Deemers rose and exited through the door behind the platform while a guard led Pelanade out of the chamber. To the witness room, Raffa thought. He must be the only witness, if they’re not going to call the rest of the guards. No one else was at the compound.

  The Chancellor rose and went to speak to another guard standing near the cell. He left the room, which was now rustling with quiet activity. Some people stood and walked about; others chatted with their seatmates. Raffa lowered himself to his bottom so he could stretch out his legs.

  The Deemers returned, and the gong was struck. A guard escorted Pelanade back into the chamber. As Pelanade took his place before the Deemers again, the double doors opened. Yet another guard entered, along with a woman and two children, a girl around ten years old and a boy perhaps four or five. The guard had a firm grip on the woman’s arm. She was looking around the chamber in confusion.

  No, Raffa thought. She’s not just confused. She’s frightened.

  “Da!” The little boy had spotted Pelanade and was trying to push past his mother, who clutched at his arm. “No, I want to go to Da!” he whined, struggling against her hold.

  Raffa saw Pelanade’s eyes widen in surprise—more than that, in shock—at seeing his family there. Then he looked at the Chancellor, and even from the gallery, Raffa could sense Pelanade’s alarm.

  “You’re all right there, Nel,” he said to the boy, his voice tight with anxiety. “Stay with your mam now.”

  Deemer Regnar spoke sharply. “Excuse me, Missum. I must ask you to leave. Audiences are not permitted at hearings.”

  “Y-your pardon,” the woman said, her voice quavering. “There must be some mistake. They came and fetched us, but I don’t understand why—no one told us—”

  “Guard,” the Chancellor interrupted, “please escort the missum and her children out of the chamber. The hearing must continue.”

  Raffa watched them leave, feeling as bewildered as the woman had looked. He could not shake the sense that something important had just happened—but what was it?

  “Now, then,” Ong said. “I will ask you again, Mannum Pelanade. Can you describe the arsonist?”

  “Do better than that,” Pelanade said, his voice rough with belligerence. He turned and pointed at Mohan in the cell. “Him—he’s the one I saw!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  HE’S lying!

  Raffa’s world reeled. He closed his eyes against the dizziness, then opened them and looked through the gap at his father. Mohan’s face was blank, his expression impossible to read.

  Why was Pelanade lying now? He was telling the truth before—that he couldn’t see clearly. Why is he suddenly saying it was Da?

  Meanwhile, Lawtender Ong was making a pronouncement. “All heed that the witness has pointed out the accused. There are no more questions for this witness. He is hereby dismissed.”

  Pelanade could hardly leave the chamber fast enough. As the double doors closed, Raffa heard him calling out, “Nel! Nel, boy, come here to me!” His family must have been waiting outside the chamber.

  Ong was speaking again. “Next witness. Senior Ansel Vale.”

  Raffa had sense enough not to gasp—just barely. He clutched the carved posts of the barrier as his uncle entered through the double doors. Ansel passed right in front of Raffa, who could see him much more clearly than he had from across the yard at the pother quarter. Slender, with fine features and wavy brown hair . . . Raffa had forgotten how much Uncle Ansel looked like his sister—Raffa’s mother, Salima.

  Ansel took his place on the emblem.

  “Ansel Vale, how long have you known the accused?” Ong began.

  “For at least twenty years. Since we were in our teens.”

  “What is your relationship? Are you friends?”

  “Friends, yes. Colleagues—we often worked together. And brothers. I mean that literally—he’s my brother-in-law, married to my dear sister.”

  “So you know him well.”

  “Yes.” A pause. “Or perhaps I should say, I thought I did.”

  Raffa seethed at that response. “I thought I did”? What was that supposed to mean?

  “Has the accused been a guest in your home?” Ong asked.

  “He has,” Ansel replied. “Off and on, these past few months.”

  Ong paused. “Was he at your home last night?”

  Ansel shook his head. “He was not, Lawtender.”

  “Do you know where he was?”

  “I understood that he was traveling. He was expected back today. I was surprised when he arrived at my home sometime after daybirth, I had not expected him so early.”

  “And you do not know where he was last night.”

  Another shake of the head. “I do not.”

  Raffa found himself trembling. On the one hand, Uncle Ansel was telling the truth, and Raffa could hardly fault him for that. On the other hand, he seemed to be casting doubt on Da, in slight, subtle ways.

  In the hidden center of his heart, Raffa had been hoping—no, he had been assuming—that one day, some way, somehow, he would be reconciled with his uncle. But every word Ansel was speaking now diminished that possibility. He should be doing the opposite—he should be speaking up for Da!

  “You do not know where he was, but he was definitely not with you in your home.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Thank you, Ansel Vale. You may step down.”

  “One moment, please,” Deemer Regnar said. “Lawtender, if the purpose of this testimony was simply to establish that the accused was not at Senior Vale’s home last night, I must object to the waste of the chamber’s time. We seek to know where the accused was, and specifically if he was at the site of the fire. Where he was not is of no relevance.”

  Ong bowed his head, visibly chastened by her words, then mumbled something inaudible. Raffa’s eyes widened in relief and gratitude. It seemed clear now that Ong was grasping at smoke to implicate Da—probably at the Chancellor’s behest. But at least for the moment, Deemer Regnar appeared to be out of their malicious reach.

  Ansel went to sit in one of the chairs. Raffa saw his father’s gaze sweep the entire chamber, from the Deemers to those seated, including Ansel and the Chancellor. Then Mohan looked up at the windows, the ceiling, the gallery. . . .

  Raffa blinked. He could have sworn that Da’s eyes met his for the merest of moments. But neither Mohan’s face nor his body gave any sign of recognition or surprise. I must have imagined it.

  “Next witness, please,” Ong said. “Senior Salima Vale.”

  Raffa clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from crying out.

  Mam!

  The door to the chamber opened, and his mother entered. She was wearing a simple tunic, pale yellow. Raffa knew it well; he remembered helping her tint the fabric: Last summer, out in the back dooryard . . . a dye made of onion skins . . . stirring the fabric in the big basin with a stout stick . . .

  He was puzzled that his mind should fix on those details at such a moment. Then he realized that it was a scene from home. That’s what Mam is. She’s my home.

  Salima took her place on the emblem. Raffa didn’t even want to blink; he was staring at her so hard that his eyes burned.

  “What is your relationship to the accused?” Ong began.

  Salima raised her chin. “He is my husband,” she said, her voice clear and firm. “We have been married these fifteen years now.”

  “As married to the accused, you have the right not to give testimony against him. Do you invoke that right?”

  “I do,” she said in the same strong voice.

  As the chamber buzzed and hummed at
her response, Raffa’s heart leapt. It was all he could do not to cheer.

  “Salima Vale, by the same measure, you have the right to testify in your husband’s favor. Do you wish to do so?”

  A long pause. Then Salima lowered her head—and shook it.

  “The witness must voice her response,” Deemer Regnar said.

  “No,” Salima said, in a voice like a shadow. “I—I do not wish it.”

  Raffa’s fist flew to his mouth as dismay flooded through his whole body. She must have been with him—she has to know that he didn’t do it! Why won’t she say so?

  He wanted to throw himself down the stairs and into his mother’s arms. He wanted to hug her as tightly as he could and at the same time, beat at her with his fists. What reason could she possibly have for refusing to speak on Da’s behalf?

  “The witness is excused,” Ong said.

  Salima joined those who were seated. Raffa noticed, with a rawness burning his insides, that she sat in the chair next to Uncle Ansel.

  Raffa tore his gaze from them to look at Da. Mohan’s expression was unchanged; his eyes were on Ong, not Mam.

  Then his father raised his bound hands and covered his mouth with one of them, as if he were thinking hard. He leaned back so he was looking up at the ceiling, then moved his head slowly from side to side. As he looked to his left, he stared directly at Raffa, then patted his mouth a few times. Finally he lowered his hands and looked at the Deemers.

  Stunned, Raffa could not mistake what he had just seen: Da had secretly signaled him.

  His hand covering his mouth. He was telling me to keep my mouth shut! But how can he possibly know—

  Raffa thought of the conversation with Trixin that morning. She had talked to Garith. And Garith said he’d told Da and Mam that I was in Gilden, and that I was going to the secret shed compound.

  Da could not know everything that happened last night, but he seemed to have assumed—rightly—that Raffa was somehow involved.

  “No further witnesses,” Ong announced.

  Regnar said, “Mohan Santana, you now have the opportunity to defend yourself. What have you to say?”

  Mohan held his head proudly but said nothing.

  “Do you deny the charges?” Regnar asked.

  No answer again.

  Raffa could barely keep still. First Mam, and now Da himself! What was the matter with them—had they both gone daft? Someone must have seen you last night—tell them! Why aren’t you defending yourself?

  Then realization stung him so hard that he almost jumped: He wants to be convicted! He’s going to take the blame so that I’ll be in the clear!

  “In accordance with the rules of this chamber,” Ong said, “because the accused does not deny the charges, the Deemers need not pass judgment. It is hereby determined that the accused is guilty of arson—”

  “WAIT! DA, NO!”

  Raffa leapt to his feet. Every head turned his way.

  “It wasn’t him! I’m the one who did it!”

  The sibilance of voices grew to a buzz as Raffa rushed down the gallery stairs and was immediately pinioned by a guard. He could hear Mam’s voice calling him. Deemer Regnar rang the gong over and over, shouting for order.

  When at last the noise began to subside, Mohan was the first to speak.

  “Deemers! I cannot fathom the reason for my son’s falsehood. Perhaps he wishes to be a hero.”

  “So you are now prepared to confess to the crime?” Lawtender Ong said.

  “I am,” Mohan said.

  “Da!” Raffa cried out. He struggled against the guard holding him. “He didn’t do it, I swear to you! I’ll tell you exactly what happened! The sheds—”

  “Silence him, guards!” the Chancellor shrieked. “Take them both to the Garrison, by my command!” Her face and her voice were distorted by fury.

  A hand was clapped roughly over Raffa’s mouth and nose. He tried to bite, but the guard was wearing thick gloves. Raffa gagged, barely able to breathe.

  “Please, no!” Salima’s voice, begging. “He’s only a child!”

  Raffa stopped struggling, and the guard loosened his grip enough to allow a breath. Salima had risen from her chair in an effort to reach him, but Ansel gripped her arm, holding her back.

  He saw, too, that the Advocate seemed unmoved. His head was tilted, his eyes oddly unfocused.

  Deemer Regnar struck the gong again. “Silence in this chamber!” she ordered, her voice like iron. Then she stood. Raffa saw that she was quite tall; standing on the raised platform, she towered over everyone in the room.

  “Chancellor, with respect,” she said sternly, “the Deemers are independent of your office. You have no standing to give orders in this chamber!”

  The Chancellor’s face smoothed out in an instant. “Deemers, your pardon,” she said, her voice completely calm. “In cases of more than one confession, is it not the law that all who confess be held until the facts can be established and guilt correctly assigned? We have just witnessed two different people confessing to the same crime.”

  Regnar was silent for a moment. “That is correct,” she said at last. “But again I register my objection. Within these walls, it is my colleagues and I who command the guards and deem as needed.”

  “Your pardon again,” the Chancellor said. “I apologize sincerely.” She bowed her head over her joined hands.

  With a nod, the Deemer sat down again. She and her colleagues conferred again in whispers. Deemer Barogram addressed Salima.

  “Salima Vale, what is your son’s name?”

  Salima replied without taking her eyes off of Raffa.

  Then Regnar tapped the gong again. She waited until the chime had faded away completely.

  “We deem that Mohan Santana and Raffa Santana be held in the Garrison until one week from today, when a hearing will be held to determine their guilt or innocence. We hereby close this session.”

  Raffa saw the anguish on his mother’s face as he was taken away. The guard kept his hand over Raffa’s mouth and marched him from the chamber and out a side door into the lane, where one prison wagon was waiting and a second just arriving.

  He realized at once what this meant: that he and Da would not be put in the same wagon. He would have no chance to speak to either of his parents.

  Not since the discovery of his family’s destroyed cabin had Raffa felt such despair. The guards took away his rucksack and his rope, which made him feel even more powerless. He slumped in a corner of the wagon’s cell, his head buried in his arms, for the entirety of the bumpy ride. He could not even rouse himself when he heard the Garrison gates squeal open.

  The wagon creaked to a stop. A guard opened the door. “On your feet,” he ordered.

  As Raffa stumbled away from the wagon, he glanced around the Garrison’s courtyard. Months earlier, he had been here, in this exact same spot. With Trixin and Kuma’s help, he had managed to flee, slipping away from a handful of guards with the aid of a few botanical concoctions and a timely intervention by Echo.

  This time, there was no one to help.

  Raffa felt himself shrink and shrivel as he was led through a door and down a flight of stone steps. The walls were stone, too, menacing in their thickness and solidity. At the bottom of the steps was an iron barricade; beyond it, a long dark corridor lined with cells.

  He was shoved into one of the cells. The door slammed behind him. He held his breath, listening hard, but he heard no further noise or activity. It seemed that Da was being put into a separate wing: They were making sure to keep father and son well apart.

  The cell was all but dark. A lantern in the corridor shed a wan light that barely reached beyond the barred opening in the cell door. Where the walls met the ceiling, there were some chinks in the stonework, letting in a few forlorn slivers of daylight.

  Raffa saw a pile of dirty straw in one corner, a bucket in another. The damp walls bore a slimy coat of mold. Odd scuttling noises disturbed the dank air. He had heard rumors of the r
ats in the Garrison, some supposedly the size of cats. . . .

  He shivered, missing the familiar warmth of Echo against his chest. What would the bat do when Raffa didn’t return to the storeroom? His eyes are getting blacker. . . . Maybe he’ll leave now and go back to the wild—and I won’t even have a chance to say good-bye.

  He thought his heart would surely break into little pieces if that happened. How much more miserable could things get?

  He was surprised to hear a screech of rusty metal as the barricade to the cells swung open. Raffa spun around and grabbed the bars of the door.

  Let it be Mam, he pleaded with all his might. Please let it be Mam.

  A single set of footfalls, too heavy and ponderous to be his mother’s.

  A figure rounded the corner.

  The light from the lantern fell on the bearded face of Senior Jayney.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  RAFFA’S legs almost gave way beneath him; he clung to the bars to stay upright. He was furious with himself for the fear surging through him and was determined not to let Jayney see it.

  “I know about the attack on the settlement!” Raffa shouted. “Why are you targeting Afters?”

  Jayney was so surprised that he actually stumbled.

  Raffa was exultant: Going on the immediate offensive had worked!

  But the small victory shrank away with Jayney’s first words.

  “Where is the bear?”

  Fear roiled up again in Raffa on hearing that voice—lazy and laconic, but somehow all the more menacing for that.

  Raffa pushed himself away from the bars and went to stand in the corner, with most of his back to Jayney. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall in a posture of defiance.

  “Where is the bear?”

  Silence. Raffa was still shaking; he hoped that Jayney couldn’t see it in the dim light.

  “Tell me where it is, and I will see to it that both you and your father are freed and cleared of all charges. What a fine and dutiful son you would be!”

  Raffa kept his body still, but his mind twitched and trembled. That was what he had wanted—to save his father from a prison sentence.

  Maybe he could lie. He could tell Jayney that Roo was somewhere else, in the Forest of Wonders, or the Suddens.