by Carson Rae
We pretend to browse and sightsee, gradually navigating the maze of docks that twists through the harbor like tree roots. Lucio leads us down an empty jetty that takes us as close to the tower as possible—which is not very close at all. We look up, shading our eyes as the afternoon sun washes the tower in fiery orange, and we finally find what we’re looking for.
No wonder it was impossible to spot from a nearer vantage, for it is small and inset—barely wide enough for an arm to fit through. It lies three-quarters of the way up the tower and faces directly west. It’s just low enough to catch some ocean spray, which makes the wall too slick to climb.
But the window is open.
“Think she’d hear us if we shouted?” Lucio says.
“That high up? With that surf?” The waves pound at the foundation, then retreat to swirl dark and deep. “If we yelled loud enough, it would bring everyone in the fortress down on us.” The wind whips around us, pulling at our hair and clothes.
“Fernando,” I say.
“Yes?” He is looking around for danger, as he has been since I tasked him with watching my back. This jetty seems abandoned; the planking is worn and missing in places, and what’s left is covered in gull droppings. But I’m glad he’s on the alert.
“You won the king’s archery contest,” I remind him.
“True, my lo—” He stops short of calling me “lord.” He’s done that a couple of times now.
I point to the window on the tower. “Anyone can put an arrow through a man at short range. I need you to put an arrow through that window.”
He sizes up the distance, the target, and the wind, and doubt flows across his face. “We’re not on solid ground. And this is a terrible angle. Maybe if I got directly in front of it? But that would mean getting into a boat, which would be even less stable. . . . No, this is an almost impossible shot. Even for the best archer in the kingdom.”
“I’m looking at the best archer in the kingdom,” I say. “And I believe that you can make it.”
“You want to put a note on the shaft and send it through the window,” he says.
“Exactly.” He watches incredulously as I take out my charcoal stick and write in my book: Isadora, if you need aid, give us a sign.—The king’s envoys.
I tear the page out and hand it to Fernando, who folds it around the shaft and ties it with a piece of spare bowstring. “The added weight and drag of the note does make this an impossible shot,” he mutters.
“You can do it,” Lucio says.
Fernando draws, sights, releases. The wind catches it and carries it out to the ocean.
The next one bounces off the stone wall and falls into the swirling waves below.
So it goes, shot after shot. I have just torn another page out of the book when the wind whips it from my hands and carries it into the water. I am ruining my mother’s priceless gift, and possibly for nothing.
“This is my last arrow,” Fernando says.
He waits until he feels a dead spot in the wind. I hold my breath. He lets fly. This time the arrow looks as if it will miss, but it curves toward the narrow slit at the last second, hits the edge, and bounces inside.
We break out into cheering. “I can’t believe you made it,” Lucio says, and his huge grin makes him seem positively friendly and pleasant.
“You said I could!” Fernando replies.
“I was lying to make you feel better.”
Miria is looking back toward the busy docks and the shoreline. “I hope no one heard us,” she says. “Or saw us shooting at the tower.”
I frown. “I think it’s safe to assume that word of our actions will reach Lord Solvaño within the day. As soon as we hear from Isadora, we’ll have to move fast.”
And then we wait, a long time, with no reaction, no response.
The sun grows too hot. Lucio sweats like a beast, which I realize might be more from dumping his wine than the heat. Fernando polishes his bow with a rag, muttering about damage from saltwater spray.
“It was a good plan,” Miria says eventually. “But if she’s hidden somewhere else, if she’s not in that room . . .”
“She has to be there,” Fernando says, with all the fervor of someone who can’t bear to waste a perfect shot.
“Maybe she needs something write with,” Lucio says.
“We’ll wait,” I say.
Suddenly, an arrow flies out the window. The sunlight glints off something bulky as it drops, spinning end over end and hitting the wall twice before taking a final bounce into the sea.
I whip off my shirt and plunge into the cold waves. Fernando yells at my back—something about rocks and surf. I dive into an oncoming wave and come up the other side. Treading water, I try to figure out where the arrow went in and where the waves might have taken it next. My heart sinks as I realize there is only one place to go—the sharp rocks at the base of the tower, where the waves would pound my bones to sand.
Just then something bobs to the surface, mere yards ahead of me. I stroke forward as a wave crashes over my head. I come up, sputtering, but so does the arrow. I grab for it. It’s heavier than I expect, because it’s attached to a waterskin that has been filled with air and stoppered. Smart girl!
I swim back toward the jetty—at a diagonal to keep the waves from pushing me under—all while holding tight to my prize.
“What is it?” Lucio yells. He and Fernando grab my arms and help me roll up onto the wood planking.
I get to my feet and bend over, breathing hard for a moment. Water runs off me as I hold up the arrow and its attached waterskin. Tied to the shaft is a familiar ring, one I have seen many times. It has a ruby as large and red as a cherry, in a setting of tiny pearls.
Lifting my head up toward the window, I say, “Hang on, Isadora. We’re coming.”
12
“WE make our move tonight,” I tell everyone as we head back to the tower. “They’ll have noticed our outing today.”
“Not to mention your obsessive cataloguing of the tower,” Fernando grumbles.
I nod. “We can’t give Lord Solvaño the opportunity to smuggle her away.”
“This might require force,” Lucio says, in his most menacing voice. I’m glad he’s on our side.
“Or bribes,” Miria says. “It’s easier to bribe a fearful servant than a happy one. I think I know where to start.”
“We’ll be ready for both, if needed.”
“Will we just walk out the front door with her?” Fernando asks. “If Solvaño has her locked up, he has a reason. He’ll use his guards to stop us.”
“We’re going to need a lot of bribes,” Lucio says.
“When we get her out of the tower, we’ll sneak her along the ramparts to the wall on the harbor side. That’s only a fifteen-foot drop.”
“You can’t drop her that far!” Miria says.
“We’ll lower her with a rope. We’ll have the horses there, with an extra mount for her, and then we’ll ride out of the city and back to Brisadulce. We’ll be there before Lord Solvaño knows we’re gone.”
Everyone thinks about this for a minute.
“I don’t have any better ideas,” Fernando says.
“It could work,” Lucio says.
“It could work if we had enough money on hand to bribe servants and guards, buy rope and other supplies, and purchase a horse,” Miria says. “That will cost us a small fortune that we don’t have.”
I think of the plaque Aracely gave me, the one that would give me a chance to start over again if I don’t make the Guard.
“I have a small fortune,” I say.
Three sets of eyebrows raise, but no one doubts me.
Buying things with jewels instead of coin is problematic; everyone thinks you’re a criminal, and everyone overcharges. Nevertheless, by sunset we have everything set. Fernando and Lucio wait below the wall with five horses and supplies. I wait in my room, a coiled rope inside my shirt, a loose cloak over my shoulders. I trace the letters of my now-ruined plaqu
e. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.
Miria arrives with a nervous serving girl, the awkward spy who waited on us the first day. We have paid her enough money that she can leave the city and find work elsewhere. Miria has promised her an interview at the royal palace if our plan succeeds.
“Thank you for helping us,” I say.
“She was always nice to me. It’s not right, what he did” is her answer.
“What did he do?” I ask.
“You’ll see soon enough, if you’re successful.” She turns away. “If you’re not, it’s my life if I tell.”
Though I press her, she will not say more.
With the servant girl in the lead, we hurry through the halls and into the tower. Our bribes have made the place eerily silent. There is only the crackling of our torches, the wind whistling against cracked mortar, and the surf pounding relentlessly below. Still, I listen hard for footsteps or the creak of armor. We could not possibly bribe the entire household, and those we did bribe can’t risk being absent from their posts for long.
We wind up the tower stairs and into a storage room. I remember sketching this one. During the day, light filters in as sickly green, for the glass of the window is fogged over with brine and gull droppings.
The servant girl pushes aside an empty crate, revealing a door. No, it’s more like a hatch, which we will have to stoop to pass.
“Wait until I leave before you use it,” she says. “I mean to be far away.”
“Of course,” I say. “And thank you.”
She turns to go, but Miria grabs her arm. “Wait. Who among Solvaño’s staff knows about this place and who is kept here?”
“I don’t know. Not many.” The girl tries to jerk her arm away.
“Give me your best guess,” Miria orders.
“The guard captain, me, the kitchen master. Only those of us who keep watch or prepare and bring food. And none of us are allowed to go inside. My orders were to open the door, slide the food tray inside, and close it right away. Now please let me go.”
“How long until she is missed?” I ask.
“You have until morning.” With that, she wrenches away her arm and slips from the room.
“I hope she makes it to Brisadulce,” Miria says, staring after her.
“I hope we do too.” I lift the bar and swing open the hatch, revealing a dark, damp space. Fetid air washes my face. A rat scurries out of the corner and zips past our feet.
“Isadora?” I whisper.
Chains rattle. “Hector?” comes a weak, muffled reply. “Is that you?”
My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see her for the first time.
“Oh, my dear child,” Miria says, rushing forward.
Isadora is huge with pregnancy. A tattered cloth wraps her face. She sits in a vile-smelling puddle, and she is manacled by the ankles to the wall. Her ankles have swollen around the manacles, like soft dough being squeezed. One bleeds badly. From when she stretched to reach the window, I realize with a sinking heart.
“My God,” I say, striding toward her. The cruelty of it all is too much to think on. I lift the pommel of my dagger above the chain, eager to pound at something.
“The key is over there,” she says, pointing to a ledge beside the door. “He taunts me by leaving it just out of reach.”
I grab it and unlock her manacles. They come away from her ankles with a wet sucking sound, but Isadora does not cry out. Miria helps her to her feet.
“We can’t lower her over the wall,” Miria says.
“I’m strong enough,” I protest. “I can—”
Miria gives me a wilting glare. “It’s not the weight of pregnancy. It’s her health. My lady, can you walk?”
“Show me this wall and I’ll leap, just to be done with it,” Isadora replies acidly.
“Alejandro and Rosaura miss you,” I say, suddenly desperate. It never occurred to me that my mission could be defeated by Isadora herself. “They’ll be happy to welcome your child also.”
Isadora laughs, but it’s not the sweet laugh I remember. It’s cold and sad and more than a little angry. It’s cut off abruptly by a grimace.
“Is the child coming?” Miria asks.
“The contractions are minutes apart now. I managed to keep them from Papá when he visited. I have to get rid of this thing before it falls into the hands of that monster.”
It takes every drop of will to stay focused on my task. “She can’t ride through the night. We need another plan.”
“We need a midwife,” Miria says. “Maybe even a doctor.”
“I’ll lower you over the wall,” I say. “Go with Lucio and Fernando to Brisadulce, tell the king what has happened. Tell him we have proof that Solvaño committed treason by intercepting a royal communication. Alejandro should send the Guard to arrest Solvaño. And Isadora and I might need rescuing if we are caught. It has to be you. You’re the only one he knows and will believe.”
“What will you do?”
I look at Isadora. “We’ll hide in the city, maybe a tavern down by the docks.” I’m making this up as fast as I can. “We’ll stay out of sight until your return.”
“That’s a terrible plan,” Miria says. “Too many things can go wrong.”
“Do you have anything better?”
“No,” she admits. “Here, take my cloak,” she says to the shivering Isadora. “This will attract less attention down on the docks. If we could do something about the smell . . . You’ll have to take everything off and just wear the cloak.”
Isadora hesitates.
“Give us some privacy,” Miria says.
I step out into the storeroom, then peer into the tower well for guards, knowing that each moment we delay increases our risk. But it remains empty for now.
The women emerge from Isadora’s cell. Miria looks both ashen and furious. Isadora has kept her face wrapped—a wise choice, for we don’t want anyone recognizing her.
We leave the storeroom and spiral down the stairs. From the tower, we sneak through the back hall to a door leading to the ramparts. This is the most tenuous part of our journey; if any guards ignored their bribes, they will be patrolling here.
We creep along, hunched over so that our figures are partly obscured by crenellations. I support Isadora as best I can. She stops occasionally, her hand becoming a vise on my arm as a contraction takes her.
At last we reach the southern wall. “Hurry!” Miria whispers.
I pull the rope from beneath my cloak and make two loops—a large one to wrap around my waist and slide the rope through, and a small one for Miria to stand in. Miria slips her foot into the loop, and I brace myself to lower her.
“When the time comes, just let things run their natural course,” Miria tells me. “And be kind. She’s been through a lot.”
“I will treat her as if she is my next queen,” I say.
“Wait!” Isadora says. “I need a weapon.”
Miria takes a dagger from her belt and offers it, handle first. “May God watch over you both,” she says. Isadora grabs the knife, and I let Miria’s rope slide through my fingers.
My shoulders burn with the effort. We’re taking too long. But suddenly the burden eases. Fernando and Lucio have steadied her from below. Then come two quick tugs on the rope—my signal to let go.
I toss the rope over the side of the wall. Hushed voices drift up, and then the sound of hooves, which gradually fade away.
“The only way out is through the front door,” I say. There might be a little time left before the guards resume their patrols, but we’ll have to be fast. “Ready?”
Her fingers close tight about my wrist, and she pants into another contraction. “Just get me out of here,” she says breathlessly.
The bribes work. The way is clear, and we make it into the servants’ wing, down the back stairs, and into the main hall. Our exit looms large when a door slams behind us. I whirl. Lord Solvaño bears down on us.
I throw my cloak around Isadora and pull
her head to my chest. I keep my body angled to block his view. My heart pounds and my palms sweat as I quickly consider my options, which range from knocking him down and running out with Isadora in my arms to simply running. . . .
“I was just coming to find you, Squire Hect— What’s the meaning of this?” he says. “Who do you have there?”
Isadora giggles, a sound that comes across as half mad, and reaches around my side to squeeze my rear.
“You’ve brought a lady of the docks into my home?” he says. Surely, he is not that stupid. Surely, he has heard reports by now of our scouting of the tower. Then I notice that he sways unsteadily, and his eyes shift as if struggling to find focus.
“I assure you no money has been exchanged,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. Isadora has another contraction, and her suggestive hand turns into a hard squeeze that makes my eyes water. I brace us to keep us both from collapsing. She presses her face against my chest and fights for control, but still looses a choked-off grunt that makes my heart ache for her.
Her father’s face turns red. “If you weren’t the king’s envoy, I’d beat you both out into the street this instant.” He gesticulates wildly as he says it, which throws him off balance, and he staggers.
Isadora’s contraction eases, as does her grip. She straightens, looks me in the eye, breathes deep. Though her eyes are rimmed with red and sunken, they are still beautiful. “We were just leaving,” I say gently to her. I back us both away, keeping myself between him and his daughter. Thank God he is drunk.
“You both should be stripped and lashed and . . . God, what is that smell? Even a lady of the docks should have some pride.”
Isadora plants herself, stopping us.
“What are you—?”
She rips away from my grasp. Before I can stop her, before I can even breathe, she whips Miria’s dagger out from beneath her cloak and bears down on her father.
“Isadora!” Solvaño gasps. “You whore. I should have—”