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Finding the key, he slammed it home in the lock. This could have ended very differently for him, and he seemed like a nice fellow. Thankfully, neither of us had to experience whether I’d have gone so far as to take a finger.
Multiple locks clunked and the door swung inwards, revealing a decorative iron spiral staircase. I stepped onto a metal tread and began the tight, corkscrewing descent until reaching the ground floor, swallowed in blackness, with no edges or light source. The darkness pushed in, so large and so heavy I almost tasted it. It was the weight of countless riches, of a million secrets—the Court of Pain’s infamous vaults.
This had to be it, all its riches were about to be revealed.
“O-one moment,” the apprentice stuttered, reaching for a heavy lever protruding from the wall. He clanged the lever down, and one after another, great panels, hung high above us, tilted forward, directing ambient moonlight from vaulted skylights down onto a cathedral of wooden crates.
Row upon row of shelves stacked with paper folders, each one marked with a letter and number. So many, they stretched far into the distance. The apprentice pushed on, and I trailed behind, trying not to react to stacks upon stacks of files. There was gold too, I noticed. In crates, stored three high, each single crate the size of a man. There was enough coin here to finance the penniless Court of Love for years, or buy an army, or do whatever Razak wished.
“I’ll take you to the letters,” the apprentice said. The stacked shelves muffled his voice, made the space intimate, despite its size.
“Letters?”
“No?” he asked, glancing back and slowing. “Oh, it’s just… You always begin there. Should we not—”
Any further mistakes, and he’d suspect something was wrong. “The letters, yes. Lead on.”
He walked a brisk pace, gown swishing about his purple-slippered feet. A name for him would have been useful, but how to ask when I was supposed to already know the man?The apprenticewould have to do.
We passed shelf after shelf of bulging folders. I glimpsed names, dates, numbers. Birth records orallrecords? So many secrets, so much knowledge, so much wealth. The sight, the smell, the sound, it sent a thrill through me. I’d never see its like again. A vault of knowledge. All the answers at my fingertips, if I’d known where to look. But I couldn’t lose sight of why I was here: the crown.
“Here,” the apprentice announced.
He reached a wall of small, locked drawers, took a key from his loop, and opened one drawer, then pulled out the long, metal container from inside and set it down with care on a nearby table.
“I’ll give you your privacy. Please call out, if you require assistance.” He bowed and hurried away.
Privacy, for letters? I dipped my chin, opting to remain silent lest I give my general awe away, and once he was out of sight, I turned to study the lockbox.
Why would Razak visit the vault to read letters, and visit regularly enough for it to be expected by the staff? I flipped the lid and scanned the contents. A lock of black hair, a faded blue flower, likely too fragile to manhandle. And a neat stack of letters, tucked into the far corner. Each was addressed to Razak with an intricateR.
If Razak thought them precious, then they would be. Curiosity almost had me stuffing them down my shirt. But letters, as intriguing as they might be, were not why I was here. Still, a quick look wouldn’t hurt, to keep from alerting the apprentice to any unusual behavior.
The first letter, the one on top of the stack? No. Too obvious. Razak would hide the most important to him at the bottom. I eased the last latter out from beneath its stack. Purple wax stained the paper’s aged ochre hue—the royal seal, long-since disintegrated. These letters were years old.
I carefully unfolded the fragile paper. The signature, with its elaborate swirls, drew my eye first.
Umair.
The King of Pain.
Razak’s father. And mine.
This letter was the closest I’d been to my own father since he’d laid a hand on my shoulder and watched my mother swing from the hanging tree.
I skimmed the swirling penmanship, picking out vital words:Justice, key, balance,regret, andpower.Umair had written to Razak multiple times. I searched for a date, but the edges were so worn and creased, if there had been a date mark, it had long since faded away. These letters might contain secrets we needed. They could prove invaluable. I grabbed a few at random, shoved them into my pocket, then froze.
At the bottom of the box, hidden beneath the letters, lay a sketch of a woman. She sat, straight-backed in a chair too grand to be common, but too plain for a throne. Sweeping eyes seemed kind, and her dark as night hair was styled high. The sketch was drawn with confident strokes. But it was her smile that arrested.
I touched the paper, as though to touch her, then flipped it over.
My belovedUmair had written, the calligraphy the same as the king’s letters.May we meet in the meadows.
“Sire, forgive me—”
I slammed the box closed and slipped the sketch into my pocket, out of sight from the keen-eyed apprentice.
“Your coachman has requested you er—” He swallowed. “—you return to the coach.”
