The Orphan's Secret

by R. J. Francis

  Or would she?

  Hang on, now, she told herself. Think!

  Ever since she was small, Elaina had struggled with impulsiveness. Teenage hormones had made matters worse. She’d expected that as her teen years wound down she’d find solid footing, but the opposite was proving true.

  She wasn’t flighty—she was quite responsible and usually meticulous with everyday tasks—but sometimes, without warning, her inhibitions just vanished, with consequences ranging from the providential to the dire. After a recent dire result involving a wagon, a crate of priceless teacups, and a broken wrist, she’d vowed to think first before leaping into the unknown with both feet. Am I really going to risk my life over this boy?

  No, she decided.

  She tried to convince herself she’d done as much as she could. Let him go, Elaina.

  She hadn’t taken two steps homeward when she heard a horse approaching.

  She ran to the bridge and ducked behind its parapet, peeking out just enough to see who was coming.

  It was a soldier! And no ordinary soldier, but an officer from the royal guard—those handsome guys with the dark-lined capes. He maneuvered his mount down the slick slope, stopping just short of the bridge deck and scanning the far bank where Elaina lurked. He sees me!

  She didn’t want to have to explain why she was crouched behind a blood-splotched bridge in such miserable weather, just steps away from a sign that clearly and officially said “STAY OUT.”

  The guard just frowned, turned his mount around, and slogged back up the way he’d come. She rose, telling herself to relax.

  Just then, a hand grabbed her shoulder from behind.

  And its grip burned like ice.

  Elaina’s chest went heavy. Her legs began to tremble. All the sounds of the night grew maddeningly loud: the rain, the wind, the river, her breathing, and even the beating of her heart… Time was gracious enough to slow so she could decide whether to turn and see who had seized her, or to run. Her instinct told her not to turn around.

  The person gripping her spoke. “Whom do we have here?” The voice was an old man’s: unhurried, sickly… His words seemed too clear—as if they hadn’t passed through the night air at all. “A mystery girl? I love mysteries. Let me see you, young one.”

  Another officer? No, this wasn’t a lawman’s grip. Her spirit sensed evil—as if that were possible. And it was an evil she needed to get away from.

  She could still see the royal guard making his way up the hill. Should she call out for help? I’ll just make a run for it—across the bridge, and catch up to the guard, she thought. Once he sees what’s happening he’ll help. He has to.

  As she tried to bolt from the man’s grip, urgh! a gritty ball of pain leeched on to her cervical spine, quashing the motor signal from her brain. She tried moving her arms: no luck. Her hips were stuck. She couldn’t get anything below her neck to move, and the more she struggled, the sharper her neck pain grew. She felt and heard her spine grinding, as if it were turning to gravel. By some cruel trick, this man was immobilizing her. She squeezed her eyes closed to think.

  That’s when she realized she didn’t feel afraid in the least—rather, she was furious. How dare he hold me! “Let… me… go,” she tried to say, but her lips wouldn’t part.

  “Not until we’ve spoken face to face…” She felt her feet turn toward him in short, sharp movements, as if someone were yanking on her pant legs. Her knees and hips followed, then her torso. She resisted the about-face with her neck muscles as long as she could. Finally, her muscles gave in. Her head turned, and her eyelids sprang open.

  The man she was forced to see had two faces. One was that of a middle-aged fellow, and the other, floating before the first like a transparent red mask, was that of an old man, shriveled and angry. The younger man’s face remained still as death; it was the mask that seemed alive—glowing red, flaring its nostrils, sneering, and somehow peering straight into her soul. She couldn’t look away, and she couldn’t close her eyes, even to blink.

  Now that she could see the fiend, she grew even more angry. She felt loathing like she’d never experienced: a fiery hate, an urge to destroy this man. And she would have done it. She would have torn him to pieces with her bare fingers if he weren’t holding her. Now she felt fear—not of him, but of the rage he’d awakened within her.

  “Searching for someone?” the red face asked, its hot breath reeking of metal. “Someone in need of attention, perhaps? Medical attention?” A shudder shot from the locus of pain in Elaina’s neck all the way down to her feet, and back up. Her hand opened against her will, and her satchel tumbled from her grasp. Six dressings, three bandages, one roll of tape, four tubes, ten vials, and a multifunction pocket knife flopped out onto the muddy grass.

  “You’re a strange little lady,” her attacker said. “Who are you? Let me hear your tale.” Elaina’s lungs squeezed involuntarily, then relaxed, then squeezed again, and she uttered a tiny squeak. Hostile forces originating from the brute’s unblinking eyes coursed through her body, trying to extrude a story—a story she had no idea how to tell.

  Her eyes had dried out now and were starting to burn. Although tears oozed out, her lids couldn’t close to distribute the precious lubricant. “Oh, am I hurting you?” he asked, mockingly.

  “Y…yes,” she managed to say. Rain ran down her cheeks and chin.

  “Stop fighting me, then,” he snarled.

  I won’t! she thought.

  Now she felt him rummaging around deep inside her head, exposing intimate thoughts and flipping through her memories as if they were cards in a file. She prayed for it to end.

  As he wormed through her private mental spaces, she sensed he was becoming frustrated. Then, for a fleeting moment, it seemed he was afraid… of her. The pain eased up just a touch.

  “You slippery creature,” he sneered. “I see who you are. Don’t you think of making trouble for me. Go home and sleep, and forget everything you’ve seen.”

  A powerful wave of confusion swept through her mind.

  When it passed, she realized the man had released his hold at last. She closed her eyes, and the pain quickly subsided. Trembling, she kept her eyes shut, turned, felt for the bridge’s railing, and pulled herself hand-over-hand back toward home.

  When she reached the city end of the bridge, she chanced a glance back. The man was stooping to gather up the contents of her satchel. He looked perfectly normal now; his red mask was gone. Though she still felt like throttling the guy, her rage had eased. The battle’s over, she told herself. Just head home.

  She ran the rest of the way home.

  Lairen was in the kitchen, but she couldn’t begin to explain what had just happened to her. She blew past him and shut herself in her room.

  She peeled off her wet clothes into the hamper, dried off, and changed into her nightclothes. Shaking and sobbing, she scribbled everything down in her diary, promising herself, and her mysterious attacker, that she would never forget what he’d done.

  By the time Lairen came in to check on her, Elaina was fast asleep atop her covers.

  CHAPTER THREE

  When Prince Jaimin of Arra awoke, Nastasha was at his bedside.

  Nastasha, the daughter of the king’s general, was Jaimin’s best friend. She was an attractive, elegant young lady, with the longest hair of anyone in the court: a river of light blond curls that ended just behind her knees. To rein in her cascading tresses, she wore a narrow ivory headband, and had her attendants fashion an intricate net braid that swept backward and converged into a single thick braid, which they interwove with white satin ribbon and gold floss. Today she had on a layered dress of silver, white, and cream, accented with lace and ruffles. Her pale neck was adorned with a delicate white gold choker necklace. This was what she wore to school; her formal attire was far more extravagant.

  She was well known not only for her exceptional hair, but for her unusually dark brown eyes, and for her sweet smile, which she only let slacken whe
n she was deeply distressed. That morning, she was deeply distressed. She kissed Jaimin on both cheeks. “There you are,” she said, stroking his temples. “Welcome back.”

  It took the prince a minute to remember that he was in the infirmary, and why he was there.

  “It’s me. Remember me?” Nastasha asked.

  “Of course.”

  “That’s a relief. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m not sure. My foot feels better. It was in pretty bad shape…”

  “That’s what I heard. They had to help you mend it.”

  “It’s morning?”

  “It is.”

  “How are the others?” asked Jaimin.

  She leaned in close and spoke softly. “It’s awful,” she said. “Victor didn’t make it.” She paused so he could absorb the news, but Jaimin nodded like he knew, so she continued: “And Cory and Saunder were badly hurt, but they’ll recover.” Jaimin glanced over to where Cory slept under the vigil of his mother and sister.

  “Is he conscious?”

  “He’s been awake on and off, going on and on about how he drew you into an ambush. It’s silliness, I’ve told him. He was just calling for help. And Saunder is refusing to see a mender until he does all he can to guarantee your safety.”

  “How many did we capture?”

  “Not one. They all escaped across the southern border.”

  “Radovan?”

  “I’d wager. You know he’s been eager to get back at your father ever since Celmarea.”

  Jaimin sighed at the mention of the place. Celmarea. Although Arrans had never seen war on their own soil, their defeat on the island of Celmarea was legendary, and it still impacted daily life. The war had devastated so many of Arra’s families. The year before Jaimin was born, Radovan, the ruthless prince of Arra’s southern neighbor Destauria, had come against Celmarea, a peaceful island nation west of Arra. Julian, Jaimin’s father, had sent his best troops and his entire navy to defend the island, but the allies were crushed by Radovan’s superior forces, and Julian was lucky to escape with his own life, three ships, a few hundred men, and a small number of Celmarean refugees. On his return to the mainland, Julian rallied the remnants of his military and braced for Radovan’s attack on Arra itself, but the attack never came. Eighteen years had gone by since then.

  “And now we just welcome the enemy in and see them out when their business is finished!” Jaimin said. “I’ll speak with my father again. This time he’ll have to listen.”

  “I fear even this tragedy won’t spur the king to do what’s needed.”

  “Then we’ll have to act—ourselves.”

  “What are you suggesting?” she asked.

  “That a thousand years of progress could be lost in a day as a result of one man’s stubbornness, and that you, and I, and my mother, and your father are in a position to prevent this,” he said.

  “Be careful what you say,” she whispered.

  “You know I’m right,” he said.

  “Of course your right.”

  “Let’s just resolve to think through this and not blindly accept the current state of things,” he said.

  “You… be… careful.”

  “If Radovan finally thinks it’s time to take us on, why did he send a few fighters to attack my hunting party?”

  “I don’t know,” said Nastasha. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “The two who shot at me were girls. No older than we are.”

  “Girls?”

  “And they looked alike.”

  “Like twins?”

  “Maybe. Or sisters?” he said.

  “Odd. What else did you notice about them?”

  Jaimin revisited the memory, and the haunting stare of the girl who had tried to climb up his leg. “One of them said something to me: ‘Halp.’”

  “She asked you for help?”

  “No, it was definitely ‘halp’.”

  “Jaimin, be serious. This could be an important clue.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well, that could easily be ‘help’ in a Destaurian accent. Why was she asking for your help?”

  “You’re asking me? Maybe she just wanted me to quit choking her.”

  “It still seems an odd thing to say…” Nastasha said.

  “And the other girl, I shot her squarely in the neck. I’d be surprised if she survived that. The others must have carried her body out of the kingdom.”

  “You actually killed someone?”

  “Maybe.”

  They heard the toll of a bell far off in the courtyard. “Oh, for… already? I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to get going.”

  “My father didn’t cancel classes?”

  “No.” She poured him a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table. He drank, flushing a pasty taste from his mouth. “His Majesty hasn’t made a public announcement. He wants to keep this quiet to prevent panic.”

  “The whole court will know by noon.”

  “Or sooner,” she said, “and the whole kingdom by nightfall. Perhaps if one of you had been hit, they could pass it off as a hunting accident. But all four of you…”

  He handed his cup to Nastasha. “You’d better go. We can talk again this afternoon.”

  “Until we do,” she said, “you mustn’t take any chances. Your father’s going to keep you squirreled away where you’re safe. Do as they tell you for now.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “Please, Jaimin.”

  He sighed deeply and nodded.

  “You have my support,” she said, “but we mustn’t be rash.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  She kissed him on both cheeks again, taking her time. Then she backed away and turned to leave. On her way out, she held the door for Nurse Isabel, standing aside to let the old woman enter.

  Isabel managed the infirmary and looked after the royal family’s health. A short, skinny, white haired woman well past sixty, she was an expert in concocting and administering all sorts of remedies. In an elaborate laboratory in the basement, she prepared salves, tonics, elixirs, creams, poultices, and a host of other useful mixtures. On Fifth-days, she taught her craft to students in the Royal Academy. Because Nastasha also had a keen interest and aptitude in potion-making, Jaimin had encouraged her to solicit Isabel as a mentor, but Nastasha had always been cold to the idea.

  Isabel hurried over to adjust a machine she had Cory hooked up to. Through the six-meter-tall windows beyond Cory’s bed, Jaimin saw Arra’s cliffs warming up in the purple light of morning.

  Arra was a tiny nation, comprising seven peaks of a cordillera, and the slopes down either side. To the west, from the base of the sheer cliffs, an expansive forest descended gradually to the ocean. East of the mountains, the high prairie rolled down to the Eastern Wilds, a no-man’s-land which took weeks to cross.

  Most Arrans lived in the west, where on a flat plateau the forest had been cleared to allow for the sprawl of the capital city. There was only one other population center, a busy seaport on the southwest coast. To Arra’s north were the amicable kingdoms of Audicia and Skarjia. To the south was Destauria, where Radovan was king.

  Although the range was volcanically active, it was kind to the inhabitants of its western slopes. It was in the east that its true temperament was manifest. There, upwelling lava, rockslides, steam bursts, and even random explosions made human settlement a challenge. Despite the risk, a few hundred Arrans had settled on the prairie, because not only was the soil there excellent for farming, it was abundant in diamonds.

  Storms blew in from the sea throughout the year, replenishing Arra’s springs and rivers. Muddy hot springs were common on both sides of the range.

  Aside from diamonds, Arrans were blessed with many other resources the world treasured. The rivers and gravel beds abounded in rubies and sapphires. High quality granite and basalt were quarried north
east of the city, and gold and mineral ores lay beneath the northern forest. Mindful of the scars greed might leave on a landscape, Arrans harvested only a tiny fraction of the riches the land possessed.

  On the north end of the city stood the moat-ringed “castle.” This fortified complex of interconnected buildings, constructed of sturdy local granite, housed the king and his court, cultural institutions, the Royal Academy, and Arra’s ministries.

  Outside the castle, to the east, lived lower-ranking officials and wealthier subjects. Although many of those fortunate enough to call this upscale area home enjoyed a spectacular view of the distant ocean, on occasion they had to contend with rockslides. Just south of the castle’s drawbridge was a lively shopping district, where merchants, miners, artists, and military families resided in quarters above the many shops. West of the castle, a park with fountains, statues, ponds, and themed flower beds offered visitors a pleasant a view of the sea on a clear day. A wide farming belt circumscribed the city from the southeast foothills to the area northwest of the castle.

  Nearly a quarter of Arra’s males were in the military. Generous incentives had helped replenish the ranks after the Celmarean War. The war had completely wiped out the navy, but its fleet and ranks had been rebuilt.

  In Arra’s region of the world, for reasons that eluded the sharpest scientists, most women became infertile after having two children. As their birth rate was only slightly higher than their death rate, the region’s residents knew they could be decimated by any large scale epidemic, war, or natural disaster. To help mitigate the risk of population decline, rulers and ministers promoted the advancement of mathematics, engineering, and the sciences, and made sure this knowledge was applied to enhance their nations’ safety. None of the nations had used technology to try to increase women’s fertility, though. Tinkering with such a fundamental natural process was seen as unethical.

  Another peculiarity of the region was that some of its residents, including some with royal blood, had inherited abilities wherein by force of their mental will alone they could influence thought or matter. These unnatural abilities were generally respected as “gifts” of the divine spirit.