Skeletons in the Closet (Phantom Rising Book 2)

by Davyne DeSye

  “If I entered the palace with you…” Erik raised his hand and shook his head in negation, but Petter said, “You said you would listen!”

  With a sigh, Erik nodded.

  “If I entered the palace with you, we could both help Mother if she needs help. We could also protect each other, giving us a greater chance of escape.”

  Erik nodded again, and hesitated as though he were considering his son’s words. “And a greater chance that tonight will see the end of us all. I have not lied to you. I have not told you that this rescue would be without risk and danger. I do not wish to die. I do not wish your mother to die, although we may both perish without achieving her freedom. If this is the case, I would not have you dead as well.” He squeezed Petter’s shoulders and said, “Your mother would agree.”

  “But why did I come if not to help?” Petter’s frustration brought the words out with a squeak.

  “I was injured. I am better now. And you shall help. You will get your mother safely away and out of Mazenderan if I do not return. I am counting on you.”

  “You talk as if you know you will meet your death,” Petter said. His eyes were questioning pools of sadness and anguish.

  “I intend to escape death or injury. But I want the assurance that if I do not, you will be there for your mother.”

  Petter closed his eyes and tucked his chin to his chest. He raised his head and without opening his eyes nodded.

  Erik exhaled a long slow breath. He had accomplished what he had set out to do. Petter would not enter the palace. The new plan was far too dangerous to allow Petter to accompany him.

  He stepped away and began wrapping a length of rope about his waist for possible use as a lasso. He tucked a small knife into his boot. Into a pocket he placed two small candles and a box of matchsticks. When he felt that neither man was watching he tucked several small vials into his sleeve. “I will leave now,” he said. “You will go to get the horses and proceed to the rendezvous points. If all goes well, tomorrow we shall leave Mazenderan forever.” He smiled in an attempt to show lighthearted confidence.

  “I will wait at my assigned post until you emerge,” Petter said.

  “Until your mother emerges. I intend to be with her, but you must not wait beyond that.” Erik waited until Petter nodded. He stepped forward and embraced the boy – the man.

  Turning to the silent Persian, Erik said, “Thank you, Faraz, my honorable friend.” He was thanking the man for his silence, for his lack of addition to Petter’s arguments. Then, “Take care of my son.” He had already given the man instructions.

  Faraz nodded and walked with him toward the door. Speaking quietly in a clear attempt to keep Petter from hearing, Faraz said, “You have not told all, friend.” He reached for Erik’s sleeve, and clutched through the cloth at the vials hidden there.

  “You are a good man, Faraz,” Erik said. “I will see you again, if Allah wills it.”

  “If Allah wills it,” responded the tall man. He stepped back with resignation, understanding that Erik would not explain further. “May Allah go with you and watch over you.”

  ***

  Erik’s entry into the palace was not without its difficulties. He did not see or alert any guards, knowing entries that were still secret and therefore unguarded, but he did injure himself twice – once flipping over a low wall and further bruising his injured ribs as he slid over, and once stumbling over a raised flagstone and bumping his leg in his effort to keep from falling. For the hundredth time since leaving Sweden he damned old age and injuries. Maybe Petter was right. Maybe without Petter’s strong arm he would fail in his mission.

  Christine’s face floated in his mind’s eye.

  No. I will not fail.

  Despite the Persian’s information that Christine was not in the dungeons, Erik determined to make certain. He had not lied when he explained that he thought it possible the Sultana had moved Christine there in the hopes of securing her while Erik committed the hoped-for murders. Once in the tunnel warren and with the assistance of a small candle, Erik found a barrel holding several dry torches, and near that, a smaller bucket of oil which still contained a small amount of the combustible substance with which he could revive the torches. Thus equipped, he moved through the tunnels toward the dungeons. Twice he made wrong turnings and had to backtrack. Again he damned the vagaries of age, although not with as much vehemence – after all, he had been many years away from the palace of Mazenderan and had made no effort until now to recall the many convolutions of the place.

  For what seemed an endless time, Erik traveled the dark tunnels. His thoughts of Christine hastened his footsteps, and increased his limp. The bobbing of the torchlight on the walls of the dusty tunnels gave the impression that the tunnels themselves were rocking and pitching, as if he were aboard a ship destined for hell.

  When Erik reached the dungeons, he stomped out his torch, and moving from peephole to peephole, looked into each cell. There were few prisoners. Erik scrutinized each one in the low light, each of dark skin, each of dark hair… and none with the golden hair of his Christine – of that he was certain.

  Now he must proceed to Naheed’s wing – if he could remember the path through the twisting maze. His passage to the dungeons had wounded his confidence in his memory, but he determined – even if he must walk these tunnels for days – he would make his way. With a new torch lit and a spare tucked into his belt, he moved out of the area of the dungeon. As he walked, he noticed that several parts of the passages were regularly traversed – by the Shah, he presumed. This came to him not in evidence of footprints or similar signs, but in the lessening of the sandy dust beneath his feet and the utter lack of spider webbing. He moved through these areas with as much speed as possible, not wanting to meet the Shah.

  He came finally to what he recalled to be Naheed’s wing. He had not walked far when he noticed, for the first time, distinct footprints in the otherwise heavy dust. Small footprints, a woman’s footprints.

  Naheed!

  When Erik had built the palace, the Shah had forbidden Erik to tell a soul of the tunnels and passages and trapdoors, and Erik had sworn never to do so – an oath he had kept. The Shah’s young daughter had not been aware of the tunnels when Erik had escaped Mazenderan. Clearly, the Shah had had a change of heart and informed Naheed, or the devious woman had discovered the tunnels on her own. The small footprints were evidence of as much.

  Erik’s heart skipped and sped as he realized he must be close to his goal. Moving forward, he followed the path of the footprints as they stretched before him. Several times they moved some small distance down a side tunnel, but the bulk of the prints concentrated in the main passage. After determining this, he stopped straying from that corridor. He approached a trapdoor that showed evidence of numerous entrances and exits. Naheed’s bedchamber? He thought not. The prints looked recent, and Naheed had no need to use the tunnels to enter or leave her bedchamber.

  Christine! This must be Christine’s room! Naheed has come upon her in secret!

  Throwing the torch some distance down the tunnel, Erik peered into the room. It was a dim bedchamber, small and simply furnished. Not Naheed’s room – even as a child of ten she had occupied far more lavish quarters. After watching for some minutes and seeing no movement, Erik triggered the mechanism that would open the trapdoor. He stepped into the room. It was unoccupied. He strode toward the unmade bed. As he bent to look beneath it (at no small cost to both leg and ribs), he noticed a small cloth enfolding molded bread and grains of strewn rice – the whole crawling with insects.

  No one has been in this room for quite some time.

  He moved to the armoire. He expected to find the armoire stocked with clothing, but instead it was empty. He stopped in the act of closing the doors again when something at the bottom of the armoire caught his attention. Shoes. A pair of shoes. Christine’s shoes.

  Erik bent and gathered the shoes to his chest. He threw his head back unsure whether to laugh or
howl her name. He did neither, but instead, turned and looked about the room again.

  Where is she?

  He replaced the shoes and closed the armoire. He went to the near door and tried the handle. Unlocked. He opened the door. A washroom. Also empty. He moved to the far door, and again tried the handle. This door was locked.

  “Naheed!” he whispered through gritted teeth. “What have you done with her?”

  Frustration welled in Erik like a balloon of acid rising in his throat. To have come so far, to have found Christine’s room – Christine’s shoes! – and to have failed to find Christine in the flesh.

  In the flesh. The thought, twisted as it was with memories of Naheed and the games she played with human flesh, took on a gruesome meaning. In that instant, like the crashing certainty of his own pulse in his ears, Erik knew. Knew.

  My Christine is dead.

  His rage at the thought blossomed behind his eyes all but blinding him to the room in which he stood. He knew what to do. He would leave this room. He would find Naheed’s chambers. He would lie in wait for her. And he would kill her.

  No calming vision of Petter will save you this time!

  He moved to the open trapdoor and into the tunnel. The thrown torch was still guttering and he used it to light the fresh one he held, and then closed the trapdoor. Examining the patterns in the dust at his feet, he began moving away from the direction in which he had come, moving into an area that had been even more heavily traveled.

  This will lead me to Naheed’s bedchambers.

  He stopped each time the footprints evidenced entry through some trapdoor, and peered through the peephole. In his fury and frenzy, he was careless of the light of the torch, and did not extinguish it. He was peering into the third such room when the shock of near voices caused him again to throw the torch away from himself. He could see no one from his vantage point, but he could hear their words.

  “I wish nothing from you. Be gone!” It was Naheed speaking, he was sure of it! Why had she returned to the palace? Why endanger the careful plans she had arranged to be away from the palace and surrounded with indisputable alibis?

  Well, whatever the reason, Erik thought this development all the better. His face stretched in a feral smile. With a limping run toward the torch, he kicked it farther down the tunnel. He returned and triggered the trapdoor, and stepped into the darkened room. He walked toward the open doorway, listening again for the voice of the woman he sought. Just as Erik brought his head around the edge of the doorway, a young girl moved past the door, then entered the next room. She did not see him. Erik eased his head around and looked in the direction from which the girl had come.

  There! Just turning into another corridor. Naheed.

  He slipped from the darkened room into the wide, bright corridor and followed, heedless of who might try to intercept him. His fingers moved of their own accord upon the rope, twisting it with practice into a lasso.

  CHAPTER 27

  CHRISTINE ESCAPES

  Christine could not eat her dinner when it came. Her giddy confidence of earlier in the day had abandoned her and her stomach had turned molten. It churned and rumbled.

  I cannot be ill. I cannot be so weak!

  She clutched at her stomach as the servant girl approached the low table. Christine’s stomach chose that moment to rumble again, and the girl looked at her with pity as she gathered up the untouched meal. She leaned toward the water pitcher with its upturned glass over the top, and said, “Drink.” She left the pitcher when she took the rest.

  Christine did drink, hoping the water would steady her stomach. She moved to her bed and waited with a shivering impatience for the final visit of the evening, when the lights would be turned down. The girl returned sooner than Christine expected, apparently thinking that with Christine ill, an early night was in order. Or perhaps it was just a desire to be finished with her duties for the evening so that the planned “party” among the servant girls could begin.

  That must mean that the Sultana is gone from the palace by now.

  With the lights all turned down save the one by her bed, the servant left her in near darkness. As the lock turned, Christine leapt from the bed. She stood panting, and tried to assess her illness. Better – the water had helped.

  She ran to the washroom and took a small wash linen from the shelf. Back in her room, she reached behind a large plant to recover her food. She shook each piece of bread as she removed it and brushed at the dirt before placing it in the center of the cloth. The topmost pieces were hard and crusty, but the more buried pieces felt damp and not at all palatable. She moved back to the lamp near her bed and inspected them, and then dashed the cloth to the floor. The dampness from the servant girls’ watering of the plant had caused the deeper pieces to mold, and small white worms moved over them all.

  Useless!

  She did not pause, but ran to another plant – the one that hid her last remaining matchstick. She triggered the trapdoor, and while she waited for the counterbalances to do their work, she lit her lantern. Traveling the tunnel in darkness would grant her greater safety, but the lantern would allow her greater speed. At this moment, as she prepared to gamble her safety on a mad plan for escape, speed was of greater importance.

  Once in the tunnel, she paused long enough to close the trapdoor behind her before running in the direction of the Sultana’s bedchamber.

  Please! Let no one be there!

  She extinguished the lantern as she approached the massive drape of the Sultana’s mirror. She bent and lifted the drape, and then cursed under her breath. A lone servant girl was tidying the bed linens and arranging the numerous pillows at the head of the bed.

  “Farida, let’s go!” The voice came from the direction of the Sultana’s washroom. A servant girl emerged from the washroom, and approached the girl at the bed. “It is perfect. Now, come!” She tugged at the girl’s clothing. After a final pat to a pillow, the two girls left the room, both giggling and whispering as they went. Christine exhaled and counted seconds until a full minute had passed.

  Now, I must go now. But still she hesitated, fear filling her at the thought of the daring acts she contemplated, causing her to pant several times through pursed lips.

  Now!

  Without allowing herself further thought, she moved to the trapdoor that opened into the back of the wardrobe. Again, she listened, but hearing nothing, she triggered the door. She reached forward into the dark. Her fingers brushed against fine fabrics, and she ran her hand from side to side across the width of the full wardrobe. She bent to feel whether there were any objects on the floor of the wardrobe. There were not – she would not trip as she stepped in. She pushed the clothing aside and stepped into the wardrobe, wishing that she could chance dressing before emerging, but without light, she did not believe she could accomplish the task. Again she stopped and listened for voices. Silence. She pushed the wardrobe door open and stepped into the lighted room.

  Her first sight was that of the oversized portrait, the eyes glaring into Christine’s own, shining with victory. Christine had to force herself not to reenter the wardrobe to escape their evil gaze. She looked into the wardrobe, and with a final resolute puff of breath and a nod, she reached for the various articles in which she would drape herself – the ballooning pants, the small top which would not fit her as well as it fit the more voluptuous Sultana, and the various veils and wraps. She knew what to choose and how to dress from her nights watching the Sultana and did so, hands shaking. Then the jewelry. Then the daggers. She could not determine how the Sultana carried the daggers and just slipped the blades into the waistband at her back and adjusted the shoulder veil to be certain it covered the weapons. She hoped she would not need them.

  Adjacent to the washroom, Christine seated herself at a large vanity table and painted her eyes in the manner of the Sultana. Her hands were shaking and the effect was not as precise as she wanted, but she hoped no one would look closely enough to notice – and if th
ey thought her the Sultana, no one would be bold enough to comment on her eye paint.

  She pulled a veil over her hair and pinned one side over her face, leaving only her eyes visible – the red scars on her cheeks would destroy the disguise in an instant. She had not seen the Sultana veiled, but she assumed that the woman must sometimes dress so. She topped the ensemble with a jeweled chain that fitted well enough to center the jewel on her forehead. She turned to the enormous mirror and stood motionless looking over the details of her costume, pulling at this, adjusting that. Her darkened hair still held her natural curls – unlike the Sultana’s straight hair – but the veil covered enough to keep the difference from being noticeable… she hoped. Whatever the Sultana’s motive in coloring her hair to the same brown-black, the decision served Christine’s current needs. Christine flipped the loose strands of hair over her shoulder and with a slow sinuous stride, moved toward her image.

  “Why Sultana, you look mystifyingly beautiful,” she purred. And then again. She had never heard the Sultana say those words, but she mimicked tone and sultry insinuation.

  “Yesss…” She drew the word out. She flashed her eyes at her reflection, and she flicked one shoulder as she turned. Without hesitation – after all, she was the Sultana, and the Sultana never hesitated – she moved toward the large double doors from which she had seen the Sultana enter.

  Christine faced a wide corridor that led away from her endlessly. The corridor was lined with doors at well-spaced intervals, some open, some closed. A servant girl was moving away from where she stood, and after a few moments, the girl knocked upon a door and entered it. The girl had not seen her. She lifted her hand preparing to check the security of the veil covering her face, but lowered it without touching the veil. The Sultana would not check the veil.

  I am the Sultana.

  She began walking. Not quickly, despite the fact that she wanted to run, but not too slowly. She was not walking for effect; she was on business and, as the Sultana, did not want to be disturbed.