SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter Twenty-Six: Found
Just north of the gate, a trio of peasants waited beneath the blossoming canopy of oaks. Droplets rained down off the umbrella-sized leaves, periodically striking the waiting travelers. The chatter of teeth echoed out of the darkness; the dampness of the spring evening left it feeling more like the depths of winter instead of the season of rebirth. But at least the stars showed through the dispersing clouds. The heavy onslaught had ceased, and by morning, the sun would warm the earth again.
Such knowledge held little joy for those dreading the morn and what awaited innocent lives. Jacqueline's nails scratched into the bark of the tree. Why did those in power think they could treat people in such a despicable fashion? Why did they believe they could destroy lives and still meet for tea in the afternoon without a second thought on their morning's endeavors? Such tyranny was why Jacqueline joined the musketeers under the guise of Jacques Leponte. She wanted vengeance for her father, yet her faith had stayed her hand against further acts of blind justice. Instead, she protected the crown by working within the bounds of the law against men like Cardinal Mazarin and Maurice Vesey.
Her eyes shifted to the two figures huddled together; one supported the other. Brother and sister, so close to each other. Their murmured voices were inaudible as they conversed. She envied them for these quiet moments; the very moments she missed with her own brother, Gerard. She could imagine what they endured together and apart, because she understood the pain of separation, the heartache of loss. It made it all the more important for her to see them freed, safe, happy, together. Tonight, their future rested in the hands of friends. She didn't know for certain, but Jacqueline had a feeling that d'Artagnan and Ramon had succeeded.
"Jacqueline, perhaps we should find shelter and then try to find the others," Sancia's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"I'm Jacques, Sancia," the musketeer corrected. Her green eyes scanned the dark expanse of forest and then shifted to the northern road. "Calling me Jacqueline while dressed like this will get me killed."
"I'm sorry." The apology was sincere. "It's just getting colder and Sirocco is shivering horribly. We need to get him warm."
"I understand that," she returned in a gentle tone. Jacqueline pulled her weight away from the tree, and turned her attention to her companions. In no way was the woman heartless. In fact, she had been accused of having a bleeding heart for those in need. Time pressed upon them, with each passing moment. The sooner they rendezvoused, the sooner they could secure the answers, the proof they needed to assure Siroc and Sancia's freedom. Waiting patiently was no longer an option. Siroc was still wounded, it was cold and they needed to find shelter again. "We'll need to sneak back into the city."
"We cannot go through the gate," Siroc spoke up. His voice sounded weak again. It worried his friend.
"I know a way," Jacqueline stated. She hadn't exactly walked through the city gates after killing the captain of the Cardinal's guard. She had found alternative means to access the capital. The smell wasn't pleasant, but at least it would take them beyond the walls without dealing with any guards.
"Through the wall grate closest to the river?" Siroc asked.
Jacqueline's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you …"
The inventor smiled. "I like to know my options." He chuckled softly. The laughter was quickly echoed by his sister's gentle tones.
Not a day went by that Siroc didn't find a way to surprise Jacqueline. There were so many secrets, so many angles and many mysteries locked away behind the eyes of her quiet friend. She hoped she had a lifetime to puzzle them out. "We'll head for the garrison once through the wall. I think at this point, it'll be the safest place."
"Are you sure about that?" Sancia piped up quickly. The safety of her brother was her top concern.
"It'll be the last place anyone would look for us," the female musketeer pointed out.
"You shouldn't underestimate Captain Duval, Jacques. He didn't make captain because he was a slouch," Siroc defended. "Besides, he always seems to figure when we're up to something."
Jacqueline sighed. "I have faith in the captain, Siroc, which is also why I think the garrison is the safest place." She drew her cloak closer around her shoulders, fighting off the chill from a gust of wind. "He knew your father. I am absolutely certain of it, and if you had seen his reaction when I said the name Marcellus … even if Duval does find us there, I think he would conceal our presence until he couldn't any longer."
"I don't doubt that, Jacques," Siroc said a bit heatedly. There was much his friends didn't know about his relationship with the captain. Siroc was beyond grateful to the man for everything he had done for him. Duval had saved a tired, broken boy, and gave him a home when others had spit on him. The aged soldier had seen potential in the half-starved scarecrow who did odd jobs around the garrison. His loyalty to the captain rivaled his loyalty to his friends. "But to return to the garrison would also endanger the corps if we were caught; we cannot give Mazarin any more reasons to sway his majesty against us."
"Then we won't get caught," Sancia interjected. "Sirocco, how many times did we sneak out when Vesey had locked us in the storehouse only to be back again before he'd send Sinjon to let us out?"
Siroc shrugged with his good shoulder; the case had been made. "The loft above my laboratory. No one ever goes up there," he relented to their logic.
"Siroc," Jacqueline said. "When we leave to find d'Artagnan and Ramon, I really think you should stay at the garrison. You — you don't look well." His golden eyes lifted to look upon her. She couldn't read his face, but his hallow features were unnerving. She braced for an argument that never came.
"I won't argue with it," he said after a few moments of silence.
The blond musketeer was stubborn and focused at times, to the point of self-deprecation. Countless hours he spent in the laboratory, dreaming up the impossible. Often he would forget to sleep and often he would keep going out of duty, and sheer stubbornness. He had strength of will, which was good. He would need it before the break of dawn.
———
In under half an hour, Siroc, Sancia and Jacqueline managed to sneak through the city walls and make it to the musketeer garrison. Soldiers patrolled the streets in pairs; both regiments were on alert after recent events. It made cutting a clear path to the garrison a little difficult. Still, it had only taken a short while. For that, they were all grateful.
Only minutes after they had returned to the garrison, d'Artagnan and Ramon came trudging into the laboratory, drenched and muddy. The Gascon nearly jumped out of his skin when he walked into Siroc's domain to see Jacques Leponte standing at the base of the ladder to the loft.
"Shh," the woman shushed him crossly after he had made an ungodly sound, only to follow the 'shush' with a squawk when d'Artagnan crossed the room and hugged her, putting mud all over her clean white shirt. "What — What are you doing?" She swatted at his back until he dropped her on her feet. The glare she gave her rival was frightening. She huffed in indignation.
"Sorry." He grinned like a deranged man, positively giddy to see her again. The Frenchman had fought worry, doubt and fear all day, especially when the trouble at the Bastille had more than tripled patrols by both corps. "I thought you were going to meet us outside the north gate at sundown."
"Plan changed," Jacqueline countered. She jerked her head up to the loft. Sancia was already descending the ladder. "Siroc's really banged up."
"He'll be fine." Sancia hopped down the last two rungs and landed as gracefully as a cat. "I looked at his shoulder again, where you sealed it, and it doesn't look infected. He needs rest." She sighed. "We all do."
D'Artagnan inhaled deeply. "Well that will have to wait, at least for us." Their mission wasn't yet complete, and the last task undertaken under the veil of night would make or break the young slaves.
"You found them?" Jacqueline asked quickly. She grabbed d'Artagnan by the shoulders, eagerly awaiting his response as if it was an answer to a life-long prayer.
The Frenchman nodded his head in affirmation. It was his turn to squawk in surprise when Jacqueline pulled him fully into a hug. She was practically jumping up and down with joy.
"You really found them?" Sancia asked quickly, equally exuberant as the trouser-clad female accosting d'Artagnan.
"Si, Senorita Marcellus," Ramon piped up. His tall form still hung behind his friends. "Like ghosts in the night we snuck up on those blood-red fiends and observed their activities without being seen. Vesey —" he started to laugh. "It seems your master has angered the Cardinal. Bernard was roughing up the blackguard."
"He was?" she asked in disbelief. Vesey, as her master, always held power. He had been an imposing figure and force upon her life since her parents' deaths. It was hard to picture him under another's boot; although, she had wished to see him in such a position for as long as she could recall. Her master had a way of chaffing others. "Hmph, I don't know why that surprises me. That snake has a way of slithering under everyone's skin and poisoning even the truest of hearts." The blonde woman's tone was dark, cold and filled with hatred.
"We need to hurry if we're going to free them," d'Artagnan added, once freed from Jacqueline's embrace. "They plan on moving them at dawn."
"How far?" Jacqueline asked in a hurried tone. Her body was now rigid and her expression was all business.
"Just north of the city, the old monastery." D'Artagnan frowned, when he thought of the logistics of it. "We'll be outnumbered with just the three of us."
"Four," Sancia corrected. She crossed the room to retrieve her brother's baldric off the table and slung the leather over her shoulder.
Before the others could object, Ramon took a step toward the lady. "Senorita, I do not believe that is the wisest of decisions. You should stay here with Siroc."
The petite woman crossed her arms. Her chin dropped, deepening the glare. "I've already argued this point with Jacques. Siroc is staying; I am going." Her left hand then fell to the hilt. Jacqueline and d'Artagnan immediately stepped between them, preparing for another outlandish display. "And I suggest you not argue," she added for good measure.
Ramon threw up his hands, waving them in a calming gesture. The mark on his abdomen from her last outburst with a rapier was still fresh. "Easy, Senorita. I only think of your safety."
"I can protect myself," she cut coldly. "Can I not, Sirocco?" Her voice softened as she addressed her brother high above.
His equally gentle cadence floated down. "She's better with a sword than I am, Ramon."
Ramon sighed; he had no choice but to give in. "I'll take your word for it, mi amigo."
Not more than ten minutes later, Ramon and d'Artagnan were dressed in dry attire and the foursome headed out the back entrance of the garrison. It felt strange to count four, when an important piece of their quartet lay resting inside. Sancia, although a lot like her brother, was no Siroc. His presence was missed.
———
If the walls of Siroc' laboratory could speak, they would tell stories that no one would believe. The inventions he created; the plots and schemes he conjured up with his friends; and all the sleepless nights he sat by the fire, staring at his father's sketches. This one room knew the story of the musketeer Siroc, but what of the boy Sirocco?
He never wanted to be Sirocco Marcellus again. It was the name of a weak child, who had been tortured since his parents' death. In his new home, the musketeer Siroc was revered for his mind, challenged mentally as well as physically, and lived as a citizen of France. He had power, strength, love and camaraderie. What did Sirocco have? For five years, Sirocco had no one. But Siroc had everything he'd wished for. He had to find some way to reconcile his past in order to live for the future. He was no longer that scared child, but he was no longer the garrison scientist shrouded in mystery. He wondered what his father would say.
Siroc opened his father's journal and gazed at the sketch of his mother, Raissa Ariane Marcellus. He missed her laugh, the way she'd smile, the very sound of her voice as she would sing. Sancia reminded him of her, but she was not Raissa. His sister had always been an individual, free-thinking, bold and unafraid. He knew those traits would carry her through the night while she was out with his friends. The inventor wanted to go with his comrades, to secure his future by his hand, but he was physically and mentally exhausted. Still, he could not sleep for thought of his parents.
He turned the pages of the tattered volume, rereading his father's poetry, looking at invention ideas and notes and skimming paragraphs of his father's thoughts. Siroc's calloused fingertips caressed the rough pages as if by doing so he could touch his father's mind to find the answers to the many questions in his own mind.
Siroc pondered things Sancia had told him she learned from Vesey — links to their life, Mazarin and Vesey. He remembered his father's planned journey to Paris before his death — to meet with an old friend. He remembered seeing fear in his father's green eyes. The boy never understood why until he had matured. Then there were the clues about Duval's connection to Donatien Marcellus. Had his father served his majesty, Louis XIII? They were all pieces of the puzzle his life amounted to.
The inventor growled in frustration. With only a few moments of thought, he could unravel any other puzzle, but not this one. Staring at the pieces was like staring at a cipher without the code word. The bits of history and memories he had were not enough to understand why he and his sister had been forced to endure so much in their young lives, or why his father had placed so much importance on one book.
Siroc lifted his arm to throw his father's book, but he couldn't muster the nerve to toss the frustrating item. Instead, he sighed and set it back down in front of him. His fingers turned page after page, seeking the answers as he had a thousand times. When he came to the end of the book, he flipped it back to the front in frustration. He had meant to immediately turn to the first page, but he lost his grip on the parchment. Instead, he faced the inside cover. He had read the words upon the page as many times as he had read the book, to the point that he never bothered any more. Something compelled him to read them again today.
I give the gift of words to you;
A path to knowledge, understanding and truth.
A way to conquer, to tame the world;
And change destiny by opening a door.
The musketeer had no idea what his father meant by it. His twin was much better with turns of phrase then he was. He reread them and this time, as he read the last line, he noticed something that had escaped his astute mind. The elder Marcellus had embedded them within a sketch of a door.
'Strange' Siroc thought. Why would his father draw a door on the inside cover of his notebook? He tilted his head to the side while pondering the matter, and then it struck him — what if? No, it was too easy.
Siroc grabbed the cover and began to press his fingers against it, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Upon first pass, his efforts bore no fruit, but just to be certain, he shook the volume up and down, and then tried it again. Starting at the top of the cover, he worked his way down. That's when he felt it — the slight variance of depth. His heart began to race.
Quickly, he dragged his weary body upright and descended the ladder into the laboratory proper. He raced to the smaller worktable and dug through the drawers. Most of his tools had been damaged, but what had been salvaged were there. He found a letter knife and ripped at the tattered binding of the book, pulling the leather cover clean off. As he did it, he felt a moment of regret. This journal, workbook, sketchbook belonged to his father. It represented Siroc's last remaining connection to a man who had meant everything to him. Donatien had been his hero and mentor, like any father to a son. Ripping apart this book felt like he had ripped his father apart. But, the genius had to know the secrets kept from him for years. The inventor vowed to repair the binding later, when the storm raging around his life had settled.
He shook the leather, but nothing came out. He shook it again. A piece of parchment smacked the floor. Siroc stared at the sealed, yellow-tinged paper as if it were a foreigner in a strange land. When the shock of seeing it finally settled, he picked up the square piece and flipped it over. The seal of the Marcellus family closed the fold. Below it a familiar name was written in Donatien's hand: Lt. Martin Duval, Musketeer Garrison, Paris.
The inventor's usually steady hands shook uncontrollably. The lub-dub of his racing heart marked the passage of time, counting off each measure with a pulse in his ears. He was torn between going straight to the captain and reading it first. What harm could it do? Twelve years had passed since his father sealed and penned the name etched on the front. Yet, Donatien had meant it for the officer, not his only son. The realization stung only long enough for the thought to leave his mind.
Donatien Marcellus had trusted Lt. Martin Duval, the same man Siroc claimed as his commander, the same man who saved his life when he had nothing, gave him this workshop, fought for him when he landed in trouble. He loved Duval in the same fashion as he loved his flesh-and-blood father. For those reasons, he wanted to do right by both men and honor the name beneath the seal.
But all of his answers were locked away behind the crest, the final pieces to a mystery Siroc had tried to understand since that fateful night twelve years prior. His parents' lives had been stolen; he and his sister had been subjugated; his potential had been stifled under the same authoritative boot that kicked him around. No more would he wander in darkness, blind to other's ambitions that casually snuffed out life. Siroc had to know; he had to know why his world had been destroyed.
Without any more hesitation, he popped the seal. What he found was the light at the end of the darkness, and that light was overwhelming. He dropped to his knees, fighting the urge to be sick.