The Medievals 2 Page 7

  She remembers Waldron’s words when Wendolyn was confronted by one of the banshees: “The banshees are forever looking for a human host to take on their forgotten souls. They enter through the eyes of the humans, inhabiting their bodies and minds.”

  Right now, Richard’s haunting visage appears more ghost than human, as if the forgotten soul that possesses him will soon be all that is left of the Prince that has lived in her dreams for so long.

  Wendolyn clasps Richard’s hand, folding it between her own hands. His palm feels cold against hers.

  “Can you help him?” Wendolyn beseeches the Lady of the Lake.

  “Who is he and why does he suffer so?” she asks.

  Mulan steps forward: “A banshee has taken hold of him. He is the son of King Henry. I have told the Descendant there is nothing to be done.”

  Wendolyn’s heart is stung by Mulan’s ominous words on Richard’s fate.

  But the Lady of the Lake moves to Richard’s side anyway, her watery tether lengthening from the wall, and she leans over him to look deeply into his eyes.

  “He is in there, still,” she judges. “But the banshee has bonded to his insides and it will not be drawn out easily.” Then, she looks to Wendolyn: “Do not let go of his hand. If he can feel you, his soul can remain anchored in his body while I try to wrest the banshee loose.”

  Wendolyn does as she is instructed, squeezing Richard’s hand even more tightly.

  Meanwhile, the Lady of the Lake positions her mouth just over Richard’s mouth, and then their lips seem to be sealed together. Wendolyn cannot help but wonder what Richard’s lips would feel like sealed against hers, and she remembers the dream in her darkened cell in which she awoke just before their lips touched.

  Without warning, the Lady of the Lake inhales deeply, as if her breath is stronger than the most powerful wind. Richard’s body is seized by the sudden inhalation, and his chest arches upward into the air.

  He is convulsing, his arms and legs thrashing about as if he were at the mercy of violent weather within, and his throat holds a muffled cry. Richard’s hand clenches Wendolyn’s in a spasm, and her own fingers feel as though they might break. But she does not let go of his hand.

  The Lady of the Lake continues without pause: one deep, unending inhalation. And Wendolyn fears that Richard will suffocate.

  “He cannot breathe!” Wendolyn cries out, sensing that she is on the verge of tears.

  But the Lady of the Lake does not relent. And a moment later, Wendolyn sees a thin ghostly strand as it is drawn into the mouth of the watery woman. Her limpid body allows Wendolyn to watch as the banshee is slowly and steadily sucked from the mouth of Richard and then enters into the Lady of the Lake.

  “It is working,” Wendolyn says, her desperation transforming into hope.

  “Dios mio,” the giant says under his breath as he stands behind Wendolyn.

  The banshee screams as it fights to remain inside of Richard. But its inhuman shriek proves to be its last gasp as the Lady of the Lake forces the banshee completely from Richard’s body. And with Richard released from the hold of the banshee, the Lady of the Lake gently allows his body to return to the ground.

  Wendolyn marvels at the sight of the forgotten soul now trapped within the clear body of the Lady of the Lake. It floats helplessly within the chest cavity of the watery woman, as if the banshee is being held captive behind the thickest of glass.

  “Holy crow,” Loxley says in reverent awe.

  With a single finger, the Lady of the Lake creates a block of ice from only the air around them. Then, she slowly blows into the ice, her mouth releasing the diaphanous banshee into the clear block, and the ghost is imprisoned in the ice, a look of desperation frozen on its face.

  “Can I keep it?” Loxley asks the watery woman.

  Everyone looks to Loxley, surprised that he would want to keep such a thing.

  “What?” Loxley questions with a shrug. “I could get a good coin for something rare like that in the shadow markets.”

  “You saw what it did to the Prince. It remains here,” Ivanhoe says, denying Loxley his wish.

  Wendolyn turns to Richard, who is still unconscious on the ground. The milky haze is gone from his eyes. But the blue has not returned in full. Where they should be vibrant, they are cold and faded. And even though the banshee has been excised, Richard still appears to be only an echo of himself.

  Wendolyn looks to his chest, but sees no sign that he is breathing.

  “Is he alive?” Wendolyn asks the Lady of the Lake.

  “Time will tell,” she responds. “Although the banshee is no longer within him, his body is still in shock. The battle for his soul still rages, and it is up to him to win that battle now. I have done all that I can.”

  Wendolyn leans in and studies Richard’s eyes, searching for some indication that he is still in there. But everything about him is unmoving, his eyes pinned in place. And, if he is still in there at all, he seems so far away, so deeply far away.

  Just then, a shadow passes over Richard’s face, and in the reflection of his eyes Wendolyn can see something flying high above them. She looks up, and she can see one of the saurians with its wings spread wide, floating over the surface of the water.

  “You sure they can’t see us?” Loxley asks. “That saurian looks like a hawk circling a titmouse.”

  “You must trust me,” the Lady of the Lake says, certain in her words.

  “Yeah, I don’t really trust women,” Loxley says.

  “Or is it that they don’t trust you?” Mulan rejoins.

  “Have I told you about my sister? She’d betray you for half a slice of bread without even a lick of jam on it,” Loxley says.

  “Silence,” the Lady of the Lake says, her eyes focused on the sky.

  Now, the other saurian appears above them, only this one is carrying Waldron on its back.

  Wendolyn’s heart beats faster with the reappearance of Waldron, the intense glow of his red eye somehow penetrating the surface and faintly coloring the water. Even though the Lady of the Lake has assured them that they cannot be seen, Wendolyn still holds her breath, not wanting the slightest sound to give her away.

  Suddenly, the first saurian dives into the water, breaking the surface with its scaly head. The saurian is able to swim fast, its broad wings pressing against the water to take it deeper and deeper. As it swims, the saurian’s citrine eyes search the depths for Wendolyn and the others, rightly convinced that they are somewhere beneath the water.

  As Waldron continues to sit atop the other flying beast, circling menacingly far above, the saurian beneath the water swims ever closer to the walled refuge.

  A moment later, it is nearly upon them, floating in the water just above the invisible ceiling and Wendolyn can see every detail of its face: including the deep red scar that begins at the base of its neck and then marks the side of its jaw.

  The saurian pauses, seeming to look right at Wendolyn for a long moment.

  And then Wendolyn hears a deep guttural sound.

  But it is not from the saurian, as she first believes. Instead, it is Ivanhoe, beginning to snarl as he looks at the saurian. Wendolyn remembers Ivanhoe’s earlier words, his claim that this saurian killed his wife.

  “Set me loose,” Ivanhoe insists with a low growl, a hot anger seeming to take control of him.

  In an instant, Mulan pulls one of her curved swords from her back and touches the sharp point to Ivanhoe’s neck.

  “Such an action would put the Descendant in danger. I cannot allow that,” Mulan explains in a low voice. “Now breathe, calm yourself, and remain silent.”

  Wendolyn watches as Ivanhoe grinds his teeth, forced to simply stare at his hated foe that is within striking distance were it not for the invisible ceiling. His fingers grip his axe tighter and tighter until his knuckles turn white.

  Then, finally, the saurian swims off, flapping its wings, presumably satisfied that Wendolyn and the others are not hiding at the bottom of
the ocean floor. When the saurian reaches the surface of the water, it reports to Waldron, and then the two saurians and Waldron fly off to search elsewhere.

  Wendolyn sighs, releasing a breath she forgot that she had been holding since the reappearance of Waldron.

  “He will not find you now. You are safe,” Mulan assures Wendolyn as she pulls her sword from the neck of Ivanhoe. “And so, then, is your secret.”

  “My secret?” Wendolyn asks.

  “Yes, the location of Merlin’s staff,” Mulan reminds her.

  The staff.

  Wendolyn’s mind flashes to the memory of her father magically etching the mark on her shoulder: “Follow this mark, for it will tell you where the staff is hidden.”

  So much has happened since that moment in the Memory Chamber when Waldron called forth the vision of Bwalen, revealing to Wendolyn the link between her birthmark and the location of the staff.

  But it was not just Wendolyn who saw that memory. Waldron saw it, too.

  Waldron knows.

  “You did not reveal the location to Waldron, did you?” Mulan asks. But after seeing the blood leave Wendolyn’s face, Mulan knows the answer to her question. “Wendolyn, if Waldron possesses the staff, there will be no end to his terror.”

  Wendolyn can feel Waldron’s fearsome words touching her spine: “We can be the Last Fate of the Realm. We will destroy the humans.”

  “I did not-- It was not my fault. He saw inside my mind. There was nothing I could do,” Wendolyn pleads with Mulan.

  “It will be okay,” the Lady of the Lake assures Wendolyn. “We must only find the staff before Waldron to prevent his wrath from reaching the Realm.”

  “Poppycock,” Loxley protests. “Our orders from the King were to find her and bring her back to him. Then we collect our reward. A chest of gold, thank you muchly. Our bargain made no mention of some staff.”

  “Nobody is asking you to join. Each of you is welcome to find your way home from here,” the blindfolded Mulan says, gesturing to Loxley, El Cid and Ivanhoe. “But the Descendant remains in my protection.”

  Ivanhoe is the first to respond, his anger still touching his tongue: “If you cross paths with the Rune again in your search for the staff, the saurian will certainly be with him. The only reward I seek is vengeance.”

  Then, the giant speaks, his chest puffing with pride: “I am Rodrigo Diaz Vivar de la Domingo Diego, although many call me only El Cid.”

  Wendolyn sees Loxley roll his eyes from beneath his hood as El Cid speaks.

  The large man continues: “El Cid is stronger than a thousand men, and he is known by all as a noble warrior. El Cid runs from no man or beast. Not when the heathuks came for him. Nor when the Spanish King’s army charged him. Nor when the evil Don Arturo Gomez raised a sword against him. And so El Cid will aid you in your search for the staff. Viva El Cid!”

  The giant raises his sword in the air to punctuate his long-winded declaration, but the tip of his sword tinks the invisible ceiling before his arm is fully extended.

  “As you wish,” the Lady of the Lake agrees, looking to Ivanhoe and El Cid. “I will not keep willing men from protecting the Realm and the secret of the staff.”

  “Piffle,” Loxley complains, shaking his head. “So, what -- I’m just supposed to trek back through the Beyond all by my lonesome?”

  “Very well,” the Lady of the Lake says. “You may also join.”

  Then, the Lady of the Lake turns to Wendolyn: “Where is the staff hidden?”

  “I do not know,” Wendolyn replies, confusion finding the faces of those around her. “All that I know is that this mark was put here by my father, Bwalen,” she says, pointing to the birthmark on the crest of her shoulder. “And in my memory, he tells me to follow the mark, and it will show me where the staff is hidden.”

  The Lady of the Lake moves closer to Wendolyn, her tentacles trailing. She leans in to study the mark, and Wendolyn can feel a coolness emanating from the watery woman.

  “Merlin,” the Lady of the Lake says, as if speaking directly to the Sorcerer of Light. “Of course you would hide it there.”

  Wendolyn looks to the Lady of the Lake, trying to read her eyes for the answer to everyone’s question: Where is the staff?

  {Richard}

  Richard awakes with a start.

  His head aches, as if spikes have penetrated his mind. And his body is at once fire and ice. His eyes are dry in their sockets, scratching against his eyelids. And his throat feels as if it has been stuffed with thorns.

  He coughs weakly, a burning phlegm rising through his chest.

  Richard painstakingly forces himself to sit up, and he realizes that he is in his own bed, dressed in his bed clothes, the curtains hanging from the canopy above him. The orange glow of a rushlight flickers beneath the door to the hallway. And familiar night music plays outside the windows to his room, a whistling wind breaking against the castle walls.

  Richard is home.

  But how did he get here?

  The last thing Richard remembers is racing through the corridor, pushing against the shadows. Wendolyn was at his side. The Blind Shen was ahead of them, leading the way. Richard could feel his heart pulsing in his palm where he clasped the hand of Wendolyn.

  And then they rounded the corner and there it was: the ghostly blast of white that was gnawing the darkness around it. Then the banshee was upon him, and Richard’s world went black.

  Where is Wendolyn? And Mulan? And Ivanhoe? Loxley and El Cid? Did they survive the Rune and his two obedient saurians?

  And his parents, are they here? Have they forgiven him for absconding into the Beyond without a single word of his intentions?

  So many unanswered questions cause his mind to spin, and Richard is quickly dizzy with not knowing. He puts his hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair, which is wet with a retreating fever.

  Richard reaches over to the table at his bedside and he pulls the hanging cord to the servants bell, hoping to summon the answers he seeks.

  As he waits for the servant to respond, Richard’s eyes find several items left sitting on his windowsill: the stone from Mount Saurian with its emerald glow; the small wooden hilt to his old practice sword; the brittle shell that an insect had left behind long ago.

  Struggling against his weakened muscles and the sharp pain in his head, Richard pushes his body off of the straw mattress, his feet touching the floor. The wood floor against the soles of his feet feels unusually warm, perhaps the fever finding his toes.

  Richard moves to the windowsill, his balance uneasy with each step. As he reaches the window, he clutches the sill, leaning against it to help him stand. Like the floor, the frame of the window is also warm to his touch.

  But while Richard has come to the window to examine the errant keepsakes, his attention is quickly stolen away by the full moon in the night sky…

  Because the moon is blood red.

  A deep, menacing red that pierces the dark firmament and casts a pall of crimson over the distant mountains and valleys of the visible Realm.

  The unnatural sight chills the base of Richard’s spine as it reminds him of his recurring nightmare, the one in which Wendolyn flees through a forest, the world tinged red from the blood moon hanging low in the dark sky.

  Richard’s mind also flashes to the faceless demon that chases Wendolyn in the dream: the dark, shapeless being, like a loosened piece of night with a terrible and violent purpose. And for the first time, Richard realizes that the demon in his nightmare is actually Waldron, his red eye in consonance with the blood moon that glows before Richard now.

  Richard’s insides are rendered slick with dread, this ominous nocturnal tableau convincing him that somewhere Wendolyn is in certain danger.

  But where? Where is Wendolyn?

  Richard needs to find her. He needs to know what has happened to her. And he needs to know how he got here after the banshee overtook him.

  And that is when he realizes that the se
rvant, the one he rang hoping to find answers to these questions, has not yet responded to the bell at his bedside. Customarily, the servants are standing at attention in the doorway within moments. And it is strange that no one has answered his call.

  Something is not right.

  “Guard!” Richard shouts, intending to reach the ears of the night watchman that stands sentinel just outside his door, his effort stinging his thorny throat.

  But again, there is no response.

  Richard wills his body across the room, still searching for a steady footing. He reaches the door, where he grabs hold of the handle.

  “Ahh!” Richard howls in pain, the handle burning the palm of his hand.

  Richard recoils, shocked by the searing metal. He looks to his palm, which immediately blisters.

  He bangs on the door with a fist made from his unburned hand.

  “Is anyone out there!?” Richard yells. “Father? Master Cheng? Anyone?”

  But still, no one answers him.

  Richard kneels down, bending his head to the gap between the door and the wooden floor, searching for the boots of the night watchman. Through the crack, he cannot see the boots of the guard. But he can feel a hot current of air passing from the hall to his room. And he can hear the crackling of burning wood. And he can smell the smoke.

  The castle is burning.

  Richard quickly returns to his feet as he realizes that his shirt and hair are not drenched with sweat because of a fever. The heat is not coming from within his body. The hallway outside his room is seized by flames, and his entire room around him is hot from the fire.

  As Richard wonders how he will escape his room before the fire reaches him, he looks to the window. There, on the sill, he catches sight of the saurian stone. It glows brighter than before, as if it is pulsing from within. And a thin strand of smoke emanates from the stone, the smoke snaking into the air.

  Then, impossibly, the saurian stone spontaneously catches fire, a green flame materializing. The emerald fire spreads swiftly to the window sill, the flames toeing their way to the other keepsakes. First, the hilt of the practice sword. And then, the husk of the insect, which is incinerated all at once.