Turold felt the lock shift beneath his fingers, the whispered turns and clicks coyly betraying their secrets. He would certainly get it open, though the longer it took, the more likely a servant (and not just a ghost this time) might wander down the stairwell. It didn’t help matters that Giacinta continued chattering away with the ghost, a cryptic exchange that always seemed to be about him (or so he thought).
“Are you close?” she asked him.
“I think so…almost,” he muttered.
“How well do you know this gentleman?” the ghost asked.
“As well as I’ve ever known anyone,” she answered, lowering her voice. “I trust him with my life, and he’s more than proven that trust.”
“Thieves and pickpockets are not to be trusted. They trade their loyalty at the edge of a knife. I would hate to see the young mistress get hurt.”
“You’re mistaken, he’s not…one of those,” she said, flushing. “He was born in the slums, he had no choice. But now he’s an astrologer, the Astrologer Royal, as I already explained. You can’t blame everyone for the circumstances of their birth.”
“I blame no one, young mistress. We none of us can choose where we come into this world, much less how we leave it,” she said, vanishing almost to the tip of her chin. “But that first moment leaves its mark, and like a gentleman’s signet, it doesn’t rub off. Not even in death. Who you are is who you’ll always be. Forever.”
“Ah, I think I have it!” Turold exclaimed, then, with a sigh, “no…not quite.”
Giacinta watched him for a moment, then turned back to the ghost, whose last words seem to hover in the air between them.
“I should hope not,” Giacinta replied.
“It’s true for all of us—even you, signora. No amount of playacting can change it.”
“Who says I’m acting?”
“You can’t lie to the dead,” she responded.
“Anything?” she shouted at Turold.
“I’m trying, I’m trying, nearly there,” he said, almost jumping backwards. “It’s a difficult lock.”
“Hurry,” she said, in a gruff whisper.
“I have to return to my duties, signora,” the ghost said, with a nod of her head. “I do wish you all possible happiness in this life, fleeting as it is. You’re welcome to stay here afterwards, should the need arise. We have a very happy household.”
With that she vanished into the stairwell, leaving only a breath of cold and uncertainty in her wake.
“The ghost, what’s she saying now? She certainly talks a lot,” Turold muttered.
“She’s gone now, she won’t bother us anymore,” she replied, more to herself than Turold.
“Wait a minute…I might have it…one more turn…”
The lock made a screeching, rusty click and snapped open. Sharing a look of astonished glee, they both ran to push it open. It, too, groaned and shrieked as it slid out of the way. She drew him in for a hug and kissed his head, laughing silently. But the laughter cut off when their eyes adjusted to the dark and they saw a few steps ahead.
Another door.
“Gods and devils, you’d think he kept the crown jewels in here!” he shouted, kicking the wall. “Why all the levels of secrecy? I tasted the beer–it’s not that good!”
“I don’t think it’s about the ale at all,” Giacinta said, pointing to the door. “The cellar is just an excuse. Look at these symbols. They’re from the Codex.”
Hidden among the ancient stones of the cellar, and surrounding the door like sentinels, were strange runes and letters that made up the arcane language of the Codex. Some had been rubbed out over time, while others seemed newly engraved, perhaps over the last century. Giacinta tried to piece them together, and with some effort, translated it as,
Winter shall wane
fair weather come again
the sun-warmed summer!
“By the gods–the opening lines of the verse!” Turold exclaimed. “Sir Otrygg knew all along. Did he ever mention this to you?”
“No, never! I never even read these lines until you showed me,” she said, astonished.
Turold approached the second door, ready to crack open another lock, emboldened by his previous success (he still had the gift!). Unfortunately, this door had no lock. The door seemed as old as time itself, literally a part of the rock, without any distinguishing frame or hinges. The only thing that suggested that it opened at all was a small dial just to the right, with a series of Codex symbols. It meant absolutely nothing to him. Giacinta confirmed the difficulty: each one represented a sound or an idea. However, moving the dial from one to another didn’t seem to make any obvious words or phrases she understood. Turold examined the dial, tried to place his ear against the rock as he turned it. Nothing; it was utterly silent.
“I’m clueless. It’s one thing to find a key, but this…who could we even ask? Who would know?”
“Lord Gramsteed or Sonya Vasilyevna,” she said, darkly.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he agreed.
“I wish I could be more helpful, but he never told me anything about this. I knew he was keeping secrets,” she said. “He kept a journal locked away, which he instructed me to burn just before he died. I shouldn’t have listened, I should have kept it. But I was too afraid of what I would find in the journal…about me.”
“Wait, he kept a journal?” Turold exclaimed, digging through his cloak.
“Yes, but it’s gone, I burned it with so many other papers. Foolish.”
“Look, this diary—I had almost forgotten!” he said, removing a small, water-stained book from an inside pocket. “I bought this on the black market under the foolish assumption it might be the Codex. Now who’s the fool?”
She examined the book, puzzled. No, the Codex looked nothing like this, was twice as big, and lacked any stain or blemish. This was garbage at best; at worst it had given them smallpox.
“I don’t understand; why do you have this?”
“I actually meant to throw it away, this is the first time I’ve thought of it since. What is important is who wrote it: some important nobleman who visited the king’s cellars with another lord. He wrote about it in one passage…maybe he says something about the door?”
She flipped through the book, scanning for any mention of “cellars” or “key” or “code.” At length, she found the passage he referred to from Monday, June 5th which read, “Ate a large breakfast. Slept until noon. Then went with Lord Halek to His Majesty’s cellars and drank a copious amount of ale.” Strangely, the entry never explains how they got out…just that he woke up in bed the next morning, and no mention of the cellars again. She flipped backwards and forwards, even reading select passages aloud, but the only time he mentioned “beer” was when he fell asleep drinking in bed (which was often). Granted, there were hundreds of entries and at least six-hundred pages of messy writing, so a closer reading might turn up a hidden passage. But it didn’t seem likely.
“For a minute, I almost thought I had the book for a reason. Like somehow I knew better,” he said, with an exasperated sigh. “Well, no use carrying it any longer. This will be its final resting place, and long may it rot!”
He reached to snatch it out of her hands when she suddenly screamed and pulled it back.
“What? You found the cellars?”
“No—something else. Look!”
He skipped over to her side and she lowered the book so he could read it, too. Codex runes! They were prefaced by a short entry, which read:
March 15th. Found this in Lord Halek’s purse. Looking for the money he owed me. Will keep in case he asks. Then he can pay me for its safe return.” What followed were four symbols, carefully copied from the original.
“You don’t think…?” he asked.
“Quickly, try it,” she gestured, handing him the book.
Turold stepped over holes in the broken floor and approached the dial. Each of the symbols appeared, along with five additional ones, though one was nearly illegible. An arrow stood just apart from the dial, pointing down at it, obviously the ‘home’ position. With a shrug, he swiveled it to the first sign—and waited.
“Did you hear that? I thought I heard something…a creak,” she whispered.
“Maybe. I’ll try the rest.”
He turned to the second position. This time, the creak became a thud, like something large and rusty slipping out of place. Excited, he swung to the third, and without stopping, the fourth. A hiss and groan followed, echoing through a hollowed chamber beyond. Unfortunately, the door didn’t open. They waited for something to happen, but after several minutes in silence, they began to despair.
“So…nothing?” she asked.
“I guess not. But we followed the drawing exactly. Something moved, though maybe it locked even tighter. I don’t know.”
Out of sheer desperation, he pushed at the door; without effort it swung open. Turold half-expected to see another door waiting behind it, but no, only a dark chamber and the smell of ale and stygian cold.
