The Orphan's Secret

by R. J. Francis

  Bitsy looked confused and impressed at the same time. “There’s water in the air?” she asked.

  “Yes! All around us. You normally can’t see it because the drops are too little. But when the drops stick together and get larger, they form clouds.”

  Bitsy was stunned. “Clouds are made out of water?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Nastasha. “And when the water droplets get heavy enough, they come down as rain.”

  Bitsy’s mouth dropped open as if she had just been let in on the meaning of life. It all made sense to her now. Now she knew why it only rained when it was cloudy outside.

  Several minutes went by. Nothing moved in the box. Bitsy sat down. Several more minutes went by. Nastasha stared expectantly at the contraption. Nothing happened. Several more minutes went by. Bitsy got antsy. “How long is it supposed to take?” she asked.

  “Oh, usually not too long. Then again, if there’s a lot of moisture in the air it could take a while,” Nastasha explained. “When I did this in the kitchen it took an hour. All the steaming pots, you know…”

  Bitsy rolled her eyes. Five more uneventful minutes went by. “If you don’t mind, Miss, I’m going to wait for you upstairs. If you’d just let me know when you’re done, I’ll come back and lock up.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind at all. I understand this must be terribly dull for you. As soon as I’m finished I shall let you know.”

  “Thanks for teaching me about clouds,” the woman said sheepishly, and she left.

  Nastasha abandoned the candle and the brass box and tiptoed toward the door, which Bitsy had closed most of the way so the warmer air from the hall wouldn’t threaten the vulnerable stock of wine. She peeked out and saw the last of Bitsy’s shoe as the woman went up the staircase.

  Opening the door a bit wider so she could squeeze out into the hallway, Nastasha surveyed the corridor in the other direction. Near the far end of the hall, on the left hand wall, supported by a spiral-grooved wooden drapery pole, was the gigantic tapestry that concealed the entrance to the Royal Archives.

  She had only been in the archives two times in her life—both when she was much younger. Her father had gone in there to review some chronicles of Arran military history, and she had come along.

  Leaving the wine cellar door open a crack, Nastasha stepped noiselessly down the corridor. As she neared the elaborate artwork, she debated whether to hook it in a rolled-up position while she accessed the door, or just to slip around behind it while she worked the keys. She also noticed—for the first time—that the tapestry’s subject was Arra itself. On the right of the image, the bold cliffs of the geologically young Arran range faced the ocean on the left. In the center were the majestic castle compound and its surrounding city, neither of which had changed in the two hundred years since the work was woven.

  She decided to roll the hanging up, taking a gamble that nobody would come down the stairs while she was fiddling with the lock. She struggled with the dense, dusty cloth, which grew heavier with each upward twist. Her triceps twitched as she pulled a braided golden cord from behind the top fringe with one hand, curled it under the tapestry roll and caught it on the midmost of three brass hooks mounted on the wall above the hanging rod. Although Nastasha was reasonably tall, the hooks were just within her reach, especially since she had to reach over the fat cylinder of cloth. Once she had the roll’s center hooked, the left and right side ties were easier to attach.

  She would only have one shot at unlocking the archives door. Six widely spaced keyholes were set in the wall, feebly disguised by leather flaps painted beige to match the adjacent stone. Three holes made up a top row and three made up a bottom row. Each key, once inserted, could be rotated—and only clockwise—to one of twenty-seven stop positions, and each key had to be on the correct stop to complete the overall combination and open the latch. If the keys weren’t set correctly within thirty seconds, the combination would mechanically reset to a new one based on a complex mathematical formula. Nastasha knew the formula, because her father had blown the combination once, but she didn’t want to cause the combination to change. If it did, the royal guard would certainly investigate.

  She dug through her backpack and withdrew from a wrap of red velvet six steel keys she had taken from her father’s desk, where she’d also found the current combination. She plugged the keys into their keyholes, setting each to the correct number quickly and carefully. Twenty-seven, she whispered to herself. She set the next keys: one, seventeen, then the bottom row, four, seventeen, eighteen! Nothing happened. She went back to double check each key, but there wasn’t much time left. Twenty-seven, one, seventeen… No, the third key was set at sixteen! She turned it one notch and heard a mechanical tapping that increased in volume and tempo, followed by a “click” of metal on metal.

  Had the door unlatched? Or had she goofed and reset the combination? She pushed on the door. It wouldn’t budge. She shoved it harder. “Ah,” she cried, when the stone mass gave a little. But only a little.

  She stood back to assess. Oh, this is superb. I’ve unlocked it, but I’m not strong enough to open it!

  There was no way she’d come this far to see her covert operation fail—or worse, get her in serious trouble and ruin her spotless reputation. She rammed the door with her shoulder. She struck it full force five times, achieving minimal progress each time. Then she kicked it. Something must have unstuck, because the formidable door shuddered on its hinges and swung open slowly, welcoming her into another unlit space.

  After letting the kingdom’s venerable portrait back down to conceal the open portal, she stepped in and met with the scent of decomposing paper. She lit another candle.

  The archives were laid out in stacks, with reading tables here and there. Buckets of desiccant silica gel were hung at the end of each shelf to maintain a stable humidity in the room. The humidity was monitored by a clever device known as a hygrograph: a real hygrometer, which automatically recorded its readings on a chart. Scroll cases were as common as bound books and codices here, even though scroll books hadn’t been in general use for centuries.

  As she scanned the stacks, the titles tempted her: Administration of the Royal Treasury, Equine Pedigrees, The Avalanche of 842, Naval Protocol, Royal Funeral Procedures… Funeral procedures? A funeral was being planned, and if this book were needed, she thought, someone might come down for it—perhaps tonight! She sped up her search.

  Before long, she spotted what she was looking for on the bottom shelf, next to several blue porcelain scroll cases. The distinctive mustard color of the folio’s hardened leather cover had captured her attention when she had been there as a little girl. Its spine read: “Updated Castle Plan, Summer 1007, RAA Elezon.” The most recent castle renovations had been completed right around the time Jaimin was born. Elezon, the project’s architect, had only recently retired.

  She withdrew several sheets of paper from her pack and took notes on the book’s contents. Her phenomenal memory had come through for her again: within the giant leaves of Updated Castle Plan she had found the ideal way for Prince Jaimin to sneak out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jaimin lay on his bed, eyes closed, recovering from his last contact with Nastasha in the library. Was she merely trying to protect him? Or was there more behind the kiss? Things had changed for sure, and he scolded himself for shaking things up. With the kingdom’s security uncertain, he needed her solid companionship and guidance now more than ever.

  True, the farm girl had touched his heart and kindled his desire, but hadn’t Nastasha done the same? Many times, and more often recently. If love was what his soul needed, and what his body yearned for, wouldn’t it make more sense for him to explore its intricacies with the girl who had been by his side since the pre-academy? The girl who so often put his needs above her own? The girl whom he trusted more than his own mother with his most profound secrets? The girl who now stood over him coated with dust and spider’s silk?

  He’d opened his eyes, and th
ere she was. Jaimin was mystified. “It’s great to see you, Nastasha,” he said. “But how did you get into my room?”

  “I figured,” she began, untangling herself from some of the thicker, stickier webs. “I figured,” she repeated—in a softer voice, because under no circumstances did she want to be discovered in his bedroom—“that if you’re going to sneak out of the castle, you’d be better off with some expert help.”

  She scanned the room and admired the various personal treasures Jaimin had on display: the golden trophy from the archery contest in which he had beaten her by a hair, gems they had collected together from the mines and riverbeds, a lustrous conch shell they had found half-buried in the sand, his sword, his favorite crossbow, his four-hundred-year-old crown, and the jeweled calfskin riding gloves she had given him on his seventeenth birthday. She had seen into his room from the hall on occasion, but never had she been able to inspect his showcase from so close.

  She batted some of the dust off her white dress. “Do you mind if I have a look at your bathing room?”

  “Not at all,” said Jaimin. He ran in there first, just to make sure everything was in order. His bathroom was more spacious than hers, although it had the same basic layout. Two marble basins hung on the right-hand wall below gilded oval mirrors. A scallop-shaped tub looked as if it had been scooped out of the floor, and behind it a wide stained-glass window incorporated all seven colors of the rainbow in an abstraction of a grapevine heavy with fruit. All the castle’s tubs and basins had hot and cold water taps and convenient drains, but Jaimin’s fixtures were plated in gold.

  “It’s lovely,” she said. “I don’t have the window or the gold spout in mine.” She ran her fingers along a tower of luxurious ivory towels on a wooden stand. “But I’m not a princess…”

  When she caught her reflection in one of the mirrors, she started swatting at her hair. A plump, fuzzy spider rappelled down her dress and skittered toward Jaimin, who squashed it with a lightning stomp. “I’ve never known you to associate with this type of creature,” he quipped.

  She giggled, but was clearly still uncomfortable. “Are there any more? Please check.”

  Jaimin ran his fingers like a comb through her long hair. He picked out scads of dirty webs so old their architects were probably off in a corner somewhere, crispy and upside-down.

  He continued to stroke her hair even after the last glob of silk had been dislodged, enjoying the rhythm her soft curls made as they floated between his fingers. The jasmine fragrance of her hair rinse was muted by the odor of ancient dirt.

  Nastasha was the first to speak. “If you haven’t noticed already,” she said, shy from their contact and not looking straight at him, “I’ve found a way in and out of your room that doesn’t involve the door.” She took hold of his hand and led him back into the bedroom, to his open closet, where she parted the cloaks and showed him the fusty passageway through which she’d come. Her extinguished candle lay on the closet floor.

  Jaimin stepped inside. He’d hidden in here many times as a boy, and had he known about this convenient exit he certainly would have taken advantage of it. The closet’s rear wall had swung back on five concealed hinges into a void. He grasped its edge and pulled it closed. “Don’t…” Nastasha gasped. Click! It latched.

  “What is it?” Jaimin asked.

  “It’s just that… I don’t know how to open it from this side.”

  Jaimin couldn’t believe he’d been so careless. Nastasha was trapped in his room! The only other ways out were a guarded door and a balcony surveilled by expert archers. “You saw where the latch was. I’m sure we can figure it out,” he said.

  “We’d better.” She groped around on the wall for a keyhole, switch, or peg that might trigger the latch. “If this is anything like the lock on the door to the Royal Archives,” she said, “there’s a complicated mechanism involved.” She soon discovered that three of the wall’s blocks were slightly loose in their mortar. When she applied pressure to all three at the exact same time (for one she had to use her foot), they depressed, releasing the latch. The door swung open once more.

  “I can’t believe you doubted yourself,” he teased. “I never have. Where does it lead?” Jaimin asked.

  “They’re all connected. All the rooms in this part of the castle.” From between her breasts she retrieved a little rolled-up map, and she led him back into the light so they could examine it. “We’re here,” she pointed out. “The space between the walls isn’t wide, but we’ve been in some pretty tight spots in the caves, so you should be used to it. Every so often you’ll come to an opening in the floor where a ladder leads down. Watch for these holes, and don’t fall into them. Here’s the spot where a tunnel leads under the moat and out into the forest.”

  “There’s a second tunnel? I never knew that.” Jaimin took the map, sat on the floor at the foot of his bed with his knees up and looked the document over. “Why are you doing this for me?” he asked.

  She knelt facing him, her chin on his knee. “Because you asked me to.”

  “I thought you were loyal to the king.”

  “But you will be king,” said Nastasha. “Don’t misunderstand me. I still think it’s foolish for you to prowl around out there unguarded, but it’s precisely because it’s such an idiotic idea that nobody would expect you to try it. I think you’ll be fine. I’ve done a number of foolish things this evening myself. So far everything has worked out well.”

  He described to her his planned route to the girl’s house so she could search for him if he didn’t return. “I shall leave, so you can get dressed,” she said.

  “Nastasha, I promised you I wouldn’t go against your wishes.”

  “Go,” she said. “I wish it.” She stood, touching his shoulder for balance. Lighting her candle from one of his room’s lamps, she disappeared into the wall, leaving the sturdy secret door open a crack. As she made her way back down the passage, she cleared as many cobwebs out of Jaimin’s path as she could. And, for the second time that day, she cried.

  After Elaina left, Alessa went upstairs and undressed. She brushed her hair back and fastened it with a simple band. With her hair off her shoulders, she saw in her full-length mirror a person she’d been long ago, in those first challenging years, tortured and troubled, alone. She popped open the false rear panel of her wardrobe and withdrew her crossbow, her quiver, and the various pieces of her black leather armor.

  Her armor was both strength and softness—tough in a comforting sort of way. She buttoned on her fleece-lined leather shirt: a feminine piece ornately patterned in gloss and matte black, which had hundreds of linked plates of steel sewn between its layers. Then she stretched her pants on, smoothing the seasoned skin over her hips, and threaded and tied her belt. Riding boots and gauntlets with calfskin palms went on next. Finally, she covered up with a black satin cloak with an oversized hood, and headed down to the stable.

  With broken moonlight to guide her way, the shadow Alessa and her shadow horse followed the twisting forest paths out to the farmlands, where they passed barns, pastures, cozy homes with hearths ablaze, sheltered stacks of hay and straw, wagons, carts, and slumbering stock. Tyrant kicked up dirt cakes as he galloped past a young man cowering in a doorway—a young man everyone thought was somewhere else. A young man taking a risk.

  The Arran army’s western post stood among the towering, centuries-old trees that shielded the farming zone from the harsh winds of the sea. Before Alessa got within the cast of the sentinels’ longbows, she held her left hand high and displayed a signal. The archers on the roof lowered their weapons. The door guards stood down. She arrived quickly, dismounted, entrusted Tyrant to a soldier, and was ushered inside.

  Upstairs, three officers stood around General Valeriy’s desk, arguing and pointing to various locations on a map scroll. As soon as Valeriy saw Alessa, he gave the order: “Leave us! No interruptions!” The men hastily rolled up the old map and took their dispute elsewhere.

  General Va
leriy was a good looking fellow, muscular, with blond hair, a kempt blond moustache and beard, and fair skin. Embroidered into the sleeves of his black leather armor were his insignia—powerful creatures of fantasy—in the colors of his office: bole and black. The rounded walls of his temporary office were devoid of decoration, but there was a simple beauty in the sandy-hued stone, which had been hewn from one of Arra’s first and finest quarries. Valeriy motioned for Alessa to sit before him in a high-backed wooden chair.

  Alessa sat, flipped back her hood, cocked her head slightly to one side and glared, her eyes locked in a squint—either playful or contemptuous, he couldn’t tell which.

  He spoke: “My dear Alessa, we have much to discuss this evening. Much to discuss.” From his top drawer he withdrew a box of mint-flavored hard candy, and offered her one.

  She shook her head.

  “Some tea perhaps?”

  “I’ll get to the point,” she replied. “There was an attack last night, not far from my house, and I wasn’t briefed in the morning. I wasn’t briefed in the afternoon.” The general’s eyebrows rose. She continued: “I perform an important task out there, and I’m entitled to your protection. I thought I was to be made aware of any threats to me and my charge.”

  “Of course you are,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I ordered a messenger to your home this morning. I shall find out immediately how it was the word didn’t get through. I assure you, you’ve been under close guard since the incident.”

  She knew he was telling the truth, and that the soldier who had dropped the ball was in for it. “So, tell me everything,” she said.

  “Well,” he said, “last evening, at dusk, outsiders attacked the royal hunting party. They shot and killed Victor. The three others: Saunder, Cory, and the prince, were hurt.”

  “How badly?”

  “Cory took some bolts in the abdomen, but he’s recovering nicely. Saunder was shot straight through the leg, and the prince was hit in the foot.”