by Davyne DeSye
By the following evening, the pain in her face had dulled, her resolve to escape had redoubled, and she had entered the tunnels after her lights were turned down. She no longer feared discovery so much as the return of the Sultana and her sharp little dagger.
That night, Christine took her lantern and one of her three remaining matchsticks into the tunnels. She traveled the tunnel in the blackness until she reached a peephole that looked into a room that had always been darkened, had never revealed the low lamp light she had seen in other rooms. She reasoned that the rooms that remained lit – even with low light – were rooms in use, and she dared not enter those.
Her heart pounded in her ears as she felt her way to the near trapdoor. She tripped the catch and held her breath as the door slid aside. Its mechanism was as noiseless as she could have hoped, and she again blessed Erik’s genius. She slipped into the dark room, and stood, straining to hear any small sound, perhaps the sound of a sleeper who preferred darkness to the low lamp light. She heard nothing. She reentered the tunnel, and closing her eyes to preserve her night vision, she struck a matchstick and lit the lantern, turning the flame to low. With the lantern held before her, she again ducked through the open doorway and surveyed the room.
It was another bedchamber, similar in its appointments to her own. No figure lay across the bed. With the skin-prickling feeling that someone stood at her back ready to touch her or speak to her, she swung the lantern about, searching for the room’s occupant. In the low lamplight, too many shadows remained. She turned up the flame, and again turned about.
Nothing. No one.
She tried to calm her breathing, tried to assure herself that the doors would not open, that she was as safe from being discovered as she would be in her own room. She went to each of the two doors and pressing her ear to each, tried to hear anything from beyond. She heard nothing. Heart still pounding as if she had been running, she searched the room – cupboards, armoire, shelves – hoping to find something she could use to facilitate her escape. Perhaps a weapon, or matchsticks, or… or… She was unsure of what she hoped, but she searched nonetheless. She found nothing of use. The room was as bare of such useful items as her own room.
Cursing with the frustration of having risked so much for no gain, she hurried back to the trapdoor and the tunnel. She closed the trapdoor and stood, panting, but filled with relief at having again reached the safety of the tunnel. She again imagined the interior of the room she had just left, confirming in her mind before she moved on that she had searched all she could. She wanted any second thoughts to occur to her now, when she could reenter without much risk, rather than later, as she lay in her bed. She could think of nothing.
That had been all she had dared that first night.
Beginning at breakfast the following morning, she started putting aside bits of flat bread from each meal. When she could, she stuffed the bread with rice. She did not bother with trying to put aside meat or vegetables, both because the meals were so fragrant with spices that she thought their scent would lead to their discovery, but also because she thought they might spoil faster than the bread or rice. At first, she kept the flatbread under her mattress, but the regular changing of her linens made her fear its discovery. Thereafter, she tucked the bread into the dirt at the back of the potted plants in her room. What would she care of a small bit of dirt, if she managed to escape and needed food?
As the days passed, she also began using the voice control tricks Erik had taught her to practice mimicking the voices of those around her – that of one of the youngest of the guards whose voice was still high-pitched, those of the two servant girls who most often attended her, and, with an inward shudder at each attempt, that of the Sultana. The guard and the girls gave her ample opportunity to listen to inflection and habits of speech. She did not wish the same opportunity of the Sultana – in fact, she hoped never to be in the presence of the Sultana again, as unrealistic as that hope might be.
If only I could observe the Sultana without being in her presence. With a flash of sudden insight, Perhaps I can!
That night, Christine made her way through darkness to the large mirror that looked into the Sultana’s bedchamber. She waited as several servant girls tidied and readied the room, working without the chatter Christine might have expected. As she waited, Christine’s eyes kept returning to the oversized portrait of the Sultana, vision drawn there against her will. No matter how many times she pulled her eyes away from the towering vision, they always seemed to return.
She was looking at the portrait again, at the amber eyes so faithfully preserved even to the glint of haughty superiority, when she heard the voice of the Sultana. Christine gasped and released her hold on the drape, returning her to a world of near blackness. Her face flushed, heating her cheeks, and she placed her cool hands upon the now unbandaged flesh, feeling the line of the healing scar tissue under her fingers.
I don’t need to look at her. I only need to listen.
The Sultana spoke as peremptorily to the girls as she spoke to the guards, and the girls answered in quiet and respectful tones, saying as little as necessary. Despite Christine’s fear, she was drawn to watch the Sultana as she spoke, not through any voyeuristic desire, but through the desire to observe her movements and mannerisms. Ducking her head, Christine raised a corner of the drape. She almost dropped the drape again, but fear made her freeze. The Sultana stood before the mirror, turning, and plucking at her clothing as if to watch the fabric rise and fall against her skin. Christine only began to breathe again as she realized that the Sultana was not looking down in her direction, but was examining her own reflection.
Christine relaxed as the Sultana moved about the room. She studied the Sultana’s walk, listened to her tones and words, noted the small flick of her shoulder that preceded an order to one of the girls. She watched her hands, which seemed restless and ever moving, even when one of the girls assisted in removing her rings. Christine watched as various jewels were removed from the woman’s hands, arms, neck, hair and feet, and thought that with only a part of that wealth, she might be able to bribe a guard or a girl to help her. But perhaps not. What was wealth compared to a life – a life that would be forfeit – to assist a woman they did not know, or like, or trust? Besides, the jewels might be missed.
Christine’s attention became focused as the Sultana removed first one dagger and then another from her clothing – one from her waist at the small of her back and one from the area of her thigh. Christine could not see how the daggers were secured or hidden, but she noticed that they were placed in a case containing several such daggers. Would the Sultana miss one of those?
What am I thinking? I cannot and will not enter this room of all rooms!
Christine lowered the drape when the Sultana moved to her own washroom. She had observed enough for one night.
She returned down the tunnel to her own room, but thrilled with excitement and too wakeful to sleep. She practiced walking and talking as she had watched the Sultana do, careful to keep her voice quiet, but determined to improve her imitation. After only a few minutes of this, her bristling, fear-tipped energy drove her to the tunnel again. She would enter and search another darkened room.
Thus did Christine’s days and nights proceed. She spent her nights watching the Sultana, and twice more entered and searched darkened rooms. This latter she gave up after discovering that the darkened rooms were rooms like her own, empty and without any useful items. Her days she spent stealing and storing food. And always with a mounting fear that this day would bring the Sultana back to her room with her small, sharp, jeweled dagger and the crazed bloodlust shining from her wicked eyes.
She now had a plan. She needed one small bit of information to put that plan to action – and, of course, no way to extract it. She could only listen to the servants and guards, and wait, and pray through the unbearable tension of her days that she would not die before her chance came.
Then, quite suddenly, her prayers wer
e answered.
Christine sat at the low table, eating the luncheon that had just been delivered. She watched as the servant girls changed her bed linens, waiting for the moment when she might hide her bread. The girls chattered in low voices as they always did. Christine listened without watching them, afraid of alerting them to the fact that she understood them. The guards stood at the door, the eyes of one on the nearer servant girl, the other bowing his head and picking at a back tooth, as though he had just eaten and was attempting to dislodge some tenacious particle of food.
“I don’t understand why you see him. He is boorish in his manners,” the shorter, slimmer girl said.
“He may seem boorish to you, but I appreciate his directness,” the rounder girl answered. “And his hands.” She giggled as she pulled and straightened the bottom linen.
“Ugh,” answered the other. “You only ever think of the one thing.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” the round girl answered. She wriggled her bottom, and even without looking directly at the guards, Christine could see that the one appreciated the movement. “I am seeing him again tonight,” she continued.
“What? With the Sultana gone for the entire evening, we girls were planning a small party – relaxation, food…”
“You relax in your way, and I’ll relax in mine,” came the response, with a wink and another wriggle of her bottom. Christine hardly heard the words, but saw the wink and the wriggle because her eyes had snapped up to look at the girls.
With the Sultana gone for the entire evening.
Christine’s eyes lowered again to focus on her stew, although the bit in her mouth now seemed too large to swallow. She forced it down as she might a stone, feeling the pain of its progress down the passages of her throat and neck.
Tonight. Tonight. Will I be ready?
Christine inhaled through her nose, and then exhaled through pursed lips, trying to relax the tension that had leapt into her shoulders. She sat with her eyes closed, running over the plan again in her mind.
I am ready.
For the first time, her mind tried to move beyond the walls of the palace, to think through what she would do if she did manage to escape the palace grounds. For all that they were hopeful thoughts, she could not bring herself to focus on them, realizing that she could not plan so far ahead, could not know what she might do once quit of her prison, could not know what opportunities or obstacles would present themselves.
Erik…
Without even having escaped, without even knowing that she would be successful, she felt closer to him.
She finished her meal with some speed, feeling somehow that the hours and minutes before she could act were speeding as well.
Once alone again, she stood and began walking the room. She swayed her hips as she walked in the Sultana’s exaggerated manner, and flicked her fingers up to look at her imaginary rings. She placed a hand on her opposite shoulder and pulled it toward her breast. She flicked her shoulder and whispered an order – “Turn down the bed.” Using the voice of the lascivious girl who had just left the room, she answered herself: “Yes, Sultana.”
Over and over, refusing to allow herself to fall out of the character of the Sultana, Christine walked, spoke, wiggled, touched various items around the room. She flashed her eyes at an imagined affront, some failure of comportment on the part of one of the servants.
“I shall not accept such behavior. Either you will do as I have instructed, or I…”
Christine broke off as she heard the lock turning in her door. She clapped her hands to her mouth, realizing – too late, too late! – that she had been speaking at a normal speaking volume.
The door burst open and a guard rushed into the room. His eyes swept the room, not even pausing over the figure of Christine standing near the foot of the bed. Christine lowered her hands from her mouth to stand with fists clenched at her sides. A second guard entered the room behind the other, although without the same hurried manner. He too looked about the room, then raised an amused eyebrow and cocked his head unseen at the back of the guard that stood several paces into the room. The first guard turned to the guard behind him.
“I thought…” He paused and glancing around the room a last time, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I really thought I heard her.”
“Perhaps you should smoke a little less hashish at lunch,” the second guard answered, with a small laugh.
Together, and without another glance at Christine, they turned away.
“Foolish, foolish woman!” Christine whispered as the lock turned once more. She smiled as she realized that her impersonation must have been convincing – at least through a closed door. Excitement rising – tonight! – she walked around the bed, body undulating, arms swinging, fingers twiddling in the Sultana’s affected fashion. With a small laugh, she threw herself onto the bed. Her stomach fluttered in denial of her forced confidence, and she thought she would be ill.
No! She pushed her unease away. Tonight I escape. I will not entertain fear!
CHAPTER 26
ERIK ENTERS THE PALACE
“But Father, it makes no sense!” Petter slapped a hand on the table, and turned away from Erik. Before Erik could respond, his son spun back and said, “You are injured – and don’t think I haven’t seen you favoring your leg and ribs. You asked me to assist in rescuing Mother, and after all this travel and preparation, now you say I will not enter the palace with you!”
Erik wanted to explain his true reasons for the current plan, wanted to say that he could not bear the possibility of losing both his wife and his son on this night. But Petter would not accept this – would not consider his own mortality for many reasons, his youthful inability to believe in his mortality not being the least of them.
He also could not explain the new plan he had developed since meeting with Naheed three days ago – the plan outside of rescuing Christine – for then both Petter and the Persian would think him mad and either forbid him to go at all, or insist on coming into the palace with him. However, mad or not, he intended with this new plan to secure his future safety, and that of his wife and son, once and for always. He intended to insure the Sultana could never endanger his family again.
“Petter, son, I have explained this to you,” Erik answered.
“You have told me you need an ‘outside man.’ I understand that, but Faraz can be that man, can he not? Why the both of us?”
Erik sighed, bent over the table, and pulled the rough palace plans toward him. He gritted his teeth in the effort to hide how his ribs pained him with the motion. “There are two possible ways for me to get your mother out of the palace. If she is in the dungeons…”
“I have told you she is not,” Faraz interrupted with no special vehemence.
“I know what you have told me, but I must plan for all eventualities, must I not? What if your source was incorrect? What if Naheed moves her there? What if the other passages have been blocked or changed?”
“Go on,” said Petter, somewhat subdued from his earlier heated manner.
“I need one of you here,” he pointed, indicating the spot. “However, if Christine is in Naheed’s wing – where she traditionally kept her ‘special guests’ – then this passage would be the best, and I need someone here.” Again he pointed. He raised his eyes first to Petter, who was examining the plans, and then to Faraz. The Persian returned his look with an analytical tilt of his head – clearly suspecting that Erik was not divulging everything – but uncertain enough to hold his peace. Erik looked away.
“Why not one set of horses – perhaps here,” Petter pointed to a spot between the two Erik had indicated, “so that regardless of the exit you use…”
“No,” Erik interrupted. Petter was too intelligent to accept Erik’s simplistic explanation, and was nettling at the ruse Erik had adopted to keep Petter from going into the palace.
“I am not a child, Father. Explain it to me.”
Again, Erik sighed. He would need to tell p
art of the truth. “I will explain my reasoning, but it will not make you happy.” He straightened his back and turned to his son, placing his hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “I know you are not a child, my son, so you must listen to what I tell you, and you must accept it as a man. I will have no further argument as to the plans after my explanation.”
Petter, with a stubborn set of his chin which reminded Erik of Christine, said, “If your reasoning is sound, I will argue no more.”
“You know I love your mother more than life itself. You know I love you as much,” Erik said. He blinked as his eyes clouded with unwanted moisture.
“Of course,” Petter answered.
“I do not intend to leave the palace without your mother. I will… die before I will leave the palace without your mother.” Erik paused to let the words sink in. “I will give your mother directions for how to find her way to you, and I will protect her exit with my life, if need be.” Petter’s lips twitched in protest. Erik continued, “I have no intention of sacrificing my life unnecessarily, but you must understand that your mother may be the only one of us to return to you. And if she is injured, if she is ill, if I cannot…” He stopped, words failing him. “I want you here,” he stabbed the two points he had indicated earlier, “to help her.”
Petter said nothing for a long moment. In a low voice, he said, “Father, I understand all you have said. Will you listen to what I have to say?” When Erik could not bring himself to answer past the lump that had risen to his throat, Petter said, “Father?”
Erik swallowed and said, “I will listen.”