The Medievals 2 Read online

  “Grab him!” Loxley orders, and they all reach down to grab onto El Cid’s arms.

  Together, they heave El Cid over the side of the ravine, using all of their remaining strength to pull him up.

  Then, as El Cid catches his breath, lying there on the earth, Loxley looks over the edge, where the remainder of the Bridge of Bones crashes against the rocks far below.

  “Well,” Loxley says, “If we do find the Descendant on this island, I guess we’re gonna have to have to find another way off.”

  Richard looks down into the ravine, and he is left wondering just how they will cross back over to the other side.

  But first, he thinks, they will have to survive Waldron.

  {Wendolyn}

  Wendolyn is alive.

  While her body once felt like a cold coffin, it is now a housing for the warm souls of her parents. Bwalen and Danara.

  Through the memories once hidden in the depths of her mind, Wendolyn has now seen her mother. She has learned the cadence of her mother’s speech; and she has felt the softness of her whisper against her ear. She has suckled at her mother’s breast. She has been rocked to sleep in her mother’s arms. She has bathed with her mother in the small eddies at a river’s edge. And she has bounced on her mother’s chest as they have travelled on horseback through a forest.

  Wendolyn once imagined her mother as the distant star that she would never see, nor travel to. But now, Wendolyn has done just that. Through her memories, she has spent hours and hours with her mother, a woman that Wendolyn had been led to believe died bringing her into this world.

  And Wendolyn has seen her true father in these memories, too. She has felt the scruff of his face against her cheek. She has laid with him in stillness, and ridden on his shoulders at sunset. And she has stared into his eyes, the very same shade of violet that Wendolyn’s eyes reflect in the water.

  For all of her life, Wendolyn has felt as if she did not know who she was. But knowing her parents now, that feeling is gone.

  Wendolyn feels as if she is slowly being reborn through the eyes of her mother and father, each new memory giving her a deeper understanding of who she really is.

  She still accepts her fate: that she will live out the remainder of her days , few as they must be, forced to always awaken to the piercing red eye of Waldron until the dissipating crimson glow is the last thing she ever sees. But she will now die with the comfort of her true self finally revealed to her, having spent time in the company of her parents.

  And that is enough.

  “I sense happiness within you, Wendolyn,” Waldron says, entering the Memory Chamber for another session.

  His molten voice stabs at her inflated heart, but it can no longer take the air from it.

  Waldron circles the stone slab, Wendolyn’s eyes following him as he moves.

  “Do not worry. I want happiness for you,” he assures her through the steel of his mask. “It is hard to believe, yes. But I see for us a future. A future in which I help you realize your powers. And once you know what you are capable of, then you will truly be happy.”

  “My parents,” Wendolyn thinks, her mind doing the work her lips can no longer perform because they are still cracked and weakened. “Are they still...alive?”

  She has been afraid to ask Waldron this question, because she is afraid of the answer.

  For her, they are alive in her mind, but she does not know the true fate of her mother and father. Nowhere in her memory has she found clues to what has happened to them. Although she fears the worst.

  “I never found Bwalen and Danara,” Waldron admits, and Wendolyn combs his words for truth. “I searched every summit and valley. Just as you know the safekeeping of the staff, so did Bwalen, as he is also in the line of descendants of the Sorcerer of Light.”

  “I do not know the location of the staff. I promise you,” Wendolyn says with her mind.

  “Before I began searching your memory, you did not know the face of your parents, either,” Waldron reminds her. “Is it not possible, then, that somewhere buried deep within your sleeping mind is the answer to my question?”

  Wendolyn finds this point hard to argue. But still, try as she might to find it, there is no mention of the staff within the conversations of her mind.

  “No matter,” Waldron says. “We shall keep searching.”

  And with that, Waldron touches one finger to the Rune Stone, and the other to Wendolyn’s temple, and a memory appears:

  Sharp sunlight blasts her vision as she rocks in her mother’s lap. Danara reaches down and pulls the thin blanket over Wendolyn’s eyes, shielding her from the sun.

  The air is filled with salt, and Wendolyn can hear waves slapping loudly against wood. She is on a small boat somewhere on an ocean.

  “How much farther?” she hears her mother ask with worry in her words.

  “We will make land by nightfall. Soon, our Wendolyn will be safe,” Bwalen says, his voice struggling to find confidence.

  The blanket moves off of Wendolyn’s eyes, and she can now see her mother, her face coming into focus, a halo from the glowing sun formed behind her head. There is concern in her eyes, and a slight tremble on her lips.

  “You trust this man with our daughter?” Danara asks.

  Bwalen does not hesitate in his response. “He is the most skilled of the Caemons, trained by the Blind Shen. I have no doubt that he will protect Wendolyn to his dying breath.”

  “But what does he know of raising a girl?” Danara asks.

  With this question, Bwalen is not as quick to respond. The boat rocks in the waves as it moves through the water, and Wendolyn can hear the distant squawk of a bird.

  “We will return to her. You must have faith that we will see our Wendolyn again,” Bwalen says. “And in the meantime, the Caemon will teach her what she needs to know.”

  In the Memory Chamber, Waldron slides his finger across her forehead, advancing in the memory. It offers Wendolyn the briefest of moments to catch her breath, and she is reminded of the raging river in the Eternal Forest as she fought to find the surface for air.

  Only now it is the governing currents of her consciousness that pull her lower. And just as quickly as she was pulled up to the surface, she is now sucked back down into the deep waters of her mind:

  Wendolyn is tucked into her mother’s chest, hidden beneath a cloak that Danara wears. Wendolyn’s eyes peek out from the cloak just enough to see that they are no longer on a boat, but instead, moving on foot through the streets of an unfamiliar city, her father leading the way in the fading light of evening.

  Bwalen turns back to Danara, his violet eyes seeming to glow beneath the hood of his cloak.

  “We are close,” he says, reassuring Wendolyn’s mother.

  Then, Bwalen guides Danara down a dark alley, his eyes searching the streets to ensure that no one is following them. Wendolyn notices that her father is carrying a small woolen sack under his arms, holding it closely.

  Further down the alleyway, Bwalen knocks four times on a yellow door, the rhythm to his knocking uneven, before a cloaked figure opens the door, ushering them inside.

  The cloaked figure, his face hidden, moves wordlessly to a rug on the floor of the small, spartan room. He pulls back the rug, revealing a door in the floor.

  Maintaining the silence, the figure opens the door, and waves Bwalen and Danara down. Wendolyn’s parents obey, descending into an even smaller room. When they reach the floor, they stand there in the darkness until a single candle is lit by the cloaked figure, and the man’s face is revealed.

  It is Thorne.

  Lying on the stone slab in the Memory Chamber, Wendolyn’s heart jumps at the sight of Thorne standing there with her parents in her memory.

  She has not thought of Thorne for what seems like weeks as Waldron’s constant searches of her memory have pushed aside more recent images. But there he is, alive, his face younger than it has ever been, his eyes not yet absorbed by the Nameless Fear.

&nbs
p; “It is an honor to be in your presence,” Thorne says in a hushed voice, bowing deferentially to Bwalen and Danara. “I live to serve and protect the legacy of the Sorcerer of Light.”

  Bwalen nods: “We thank you for your sacrifice.”

  Then, Bwalen puts the woolen sack on the table and pulls from it a tiny green plant in a pot.

  “Your finger, please,” Bwalen instructs Thorne.

  Thorne holds a finger out to Bwalen, who slices the the skin with a knife, small beads of blood leaking out.

  Bwalen holds Thorne’s finger over the plant, the blood trickling onto the green leaves and then dropping to the soil.

  Then, Bwalen pricks the tip of Wendolyn’s tiny finger, causing Wendolyn to shriek from the knife puncturing her skin. Through tears, Wendolyn watches as Bwalen squeezes blood from her finger, the crimson liquid dropping onto the plant.

  As Wendolyn’s blood mixes with Thorne’s, the green leaves of the young plant suddenly come alive with an iridescence.

  “This is the Flower of the Descendant. Keep it alive and keep it hidden. It is your lifeline to help should you ever need it. These leaves will ride the wind as far as they must in order to bring you rescue.”

  Thorne nods, taking the plant and tucking it back into the woolen sack.

  Then, Bwalen looks to Danara: “It is time.”

  “I do not want to leave her,” Danara says.

  “We must,” Bwalen insists.

  “No,” Danara says, hugging Wendolyn tighter. “I cannot do it.”

  Bwalen’s face turns even graver than before: “If we are found by those in search of the staff, they will use her to get answers from us. It is too dangerous for us to be with her. You know this to be true.”

  Again, Wendolyn can feel her mother hugging her even closer, not wanting to let her go. And in that moment, Wendolyn shares her mother’s fear: that they will never see each other again. Wendolyn wants to cry out “Do not leave me! Stay!” But she is only a baby, and the words do not find her lips.

  “Danara,” Bwalen encourages his wife gently.

  Reluctantly, and with her heart pounding desperately through her chest, Danara hands Wendolyn to Bwalen, and Wendolyn looks back at her mother, her cheeks wet with tears.

  Bwalen holds Wendolyn up with his strong hands pressing gently against her ribs. He looks deeply into her eyes, speaking to her as if she can understand him.

  “Wendolyn, one day when you are ready, these words will be waiting to be heard by you," he begins. "You are Wendolyn, Descendant of Merlin, and a Keeper of the Staff. You hold within you a great power, and an even greater responsibility. Evil will come for you, but you must always resist it. Always defeat it. And should a moment arrive that your powers must be strengthened to overcome this evil, you will seek succor in the staff.”

  Bwalen reaches his finger out to Wendolyn’s shoulder, moving the blanket aside to expose her shoulder. Her father touches the skin just on the crest of her shoulder, and Wendolyn feels a slight burning sensation where his finger meets her flesh.

  “Follow this mark, for it will tell you where the staff is hidden,” Bwalen says.

  As the words leave his mouth, Wendolyn can see her own reflection in her father’s eyes. And in that reflection, Bwalen pulls his finger away from her skin to reveal a mark that has been magically imprinted on her skin.

  In the Memory Chamber, Wendolyn surfaces from the depths of her mind and gasps for air after being enthralled by the memory for so long.

  Then, she immediately looks to her shoulder, where she sees...

  Her birthmark.

  It is peeking through her torn shirt.

  The beige, shapeless blotch.

  The sandy island in the middle of an ocean of her alabaster skin.

  The blemish she has always tried to avoid looking at when her eyes move in that direction.

  But now it is something different altogether. It signifies the spot where her father touched her the last time he saw her. And it holds an even greater meaning: the location of the staff.

  “Wendolyn, you have a great weight that sits upon your shoulder.”

  Those were Thorne’s parting words that he rushed out in a whisper to Wendolyn just before Waldron trapped them in the trees of the Cumbrian mountains, and before Waldron mortally wounded her Caemon guardian.

  Thorne was telling her where the map to the staff is: upon her shoulder.

  “Well,” Waldron says, his gravelly voice interrupting Wendolyn’s revelation. “It appears you were speaking the truth: you did not know where the staff was hidden. But now you do. And so do I.”

  “No!” Wendolyn thinks, realizing that she has accidentally given Waldron the clue he needs to find the staff for himself.

  But just as Wendolyn’s heart sinks like a stone -- HREE! -- her ears are invaded by the screech of one of the saurians, an alarm echoing through the rocky corridors.

  The saurian’s distant screech sets off the darklings, which squawk and flap wildly within their cages on the wall of the Memory Chamber.

  Waldron’s eyes are drawn to the doorway, which leads out to the dark corridor.

  “Intruders,” he says beneath his steel mask, concern in his voice.

  Then, he rushes from the room, leaving Wendolyn alone but for the noisy birds.

  Wendolyn lies there on the stone slab, her arms and legs bound, her body unable to move. She tries to angle her head toward the entrance of the Memory Chamber, but cannot turn her neck far enough. And so she is left to trust only her ears as shouts and roars echo off the walls.

  “She’s in here!” Wenodlyn hears a disembodied voice call out.

  Who are these intruders? Wendolyn wonders.

  And like an answer, a face appears above her.

  A face that she knows.

  One that has fought to survive within her mind even as Waldron’s searches have stripped her of so many of her other memories.

  It is the blue-eyed boy from the King’s Market.

  Although, he is no longer a boy. Instead, his appearance has been subtly reshaped by age. He has hair on his face, the beginnings of a beard. And his skin is not quite as fair as it once was, now tanned by the sun.

  Wendolyn is in disbelief. She thinks she must be dreaming. Is she regaining her mind or losing it further?

  But the look on his face holds a shock equal to hers.

  “You?” he says, as if he also recognizes her.

  He looks fixedly into her eyes, his mouth holding the first syllable of a larger question. And Wendolyn, who does not look away, shares his question: How is this possible?

  It is just like in her dream: their gaze holding the sense of a lived intimacy. An ancient understanding between them that stretches across time.

  But the spell is broken and the question is interrupted by the crash of rocks out in the corridor, a battle raging beyond the walls of the Memory Chamber.

  “I am Richard,” he says, looking down at her. “I am here to rescue you.”

  Richard. The name finds her chest before hitting her ears.

  And suddenly, escape feels possible once more.

  {Richard}

  The instant Richard’s eyes find her face, he knows it is her.

  Her violet eyes.

  The birthmark on her shoulder.

  “You?” Richard says, the shock of seeing her in the flesh capturing his voice and keeping him from saying more.

  For a long moment, what feels like a lifetime, all sound seems to disappear. He stands there in the impossible silence, looking down at the girl lying on the slab of stone, and Richard is enraptured by her rare beauty, which seems to rush into his blood as she stares back up at him.

  As they hold each other with their eyes, Richard’s mind pieces together the inconceivable meaning of this moment: Wendolyn, the Descendant of Merlin, is the girl he once saw in the King’s Market.

  How is this possible?

  Richard wonders. He has been seeing this girl in the clouds, in the stars, in the h
ouse of his sleep; and now, she is here before him. Fate, in all its humor, has implausibly married Richard’s quest to save the Realm to the very girl that has lived behind his eyelids all this time.

  BOOM!

  Suddenly, sound rushes back into Richard’s ears and his mind is pulled back to the urgency of the moment. Out in the corridor, the walls quake with the raging battle between the saurians and the rest of Richard’s team.

  He looks down at Wendolyn, his voice finding words chosen not by him, but by something awakening deep within him: “I am Richard. I am here to rescue you, Wendolyn.”

  As he looks at her, Richard realizes that her face is gaunt and her body looks starved and frail, the shape of her bones showing slightly through her skin.

  “Can you move?” he asks her.

  Wendolyn tries to speak, but her lips fail her.

  Richard imagines that thirst has stolen her voice. Instead of speaking, Wendolyn shakes her head, then her eyes direct Richard to her sides. There, Richard sees that her arms and legs are restrained by lengths of chain that reach the platform Richard now stands on, a platform that overlooks a drop into unending darkness, cages of clamorous birds lining the walls all the way down.

  Richard pulls at the chains, but they are all locked to the same bolt on the floor.

  With his sword, Richard wails upon the linked metal -- CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! -- sparks flying as he makes contact. As the steel of his sword meets the eye of the bolt over and over again, his hands tremble with the vibrating steel, and those vibrations shoot up his arms.

  Meanwhile, the hundreds of caged darklings on the wall of the cavernous space create a piercing chorus of squawks.

  Suddenly, Loxley bangs into the room, out of breath.

  “Young Blood! What are you waiting for?! Grab the girl!” Loxley shouts over the din of the birds.

  “The Descendant -- she is chained!” Richard explains through gritted teeth as he brings his sword down on the bolt again.

  “Red and the Spaniard won’t be able to hold off those beasts much longer,” Loxley says, keeping one eye on Richard and the other eye on the corridor.