The Medievals 1, page 19
part #1 of The Medievals Series
And then she sees it. Down a long corridor: a window, with white light blasting through it. A light she has not known since she has been in this prison.
Sunlight.
Wendolyn hastens down the hallway, the floor and walls ahead of her revealed by the light. When she has made it half the length to the window, the scent of salt invades her nose.
And then she hears applause. No, not applause. Waves clapping into one another.
An ocean.
Wendolyn reaches the open window, pressing her hands against the sill to stop her momentum.
At first, the light is so bright that she is forced to shield her eyes. But as she adjusts to the sunlight, the outside reveals itself to her, and she is surprised to see only a dense white fog, shining from the sunlight that filters through it.
She looks up, and there are clouds. She looks down, and there are still clouds.
What is this place?
The light and the smells and the sounds of the outside world all fill her soul, but they also taunt her. She can hear the waves crashing below, but how far below? If she jumps out into this unknown, will she be greeted by ocean water? Or jagged rocks?
For a long moment, she is restrained by indecision. A slow but certain death awaits her if she is caught again by her captors. But there is also a strong chance that a sudden death pines for her at the rocky bottom of a fall.
She imagines jumping, much like she has imagined what it would feel like to leap from the Edge of the World back in the Cumbrian mountains. To line her toes up at the precipice and simply lean out. To feel the sensation of falling through the milky sky. And if there are rocks there to meet her far below, she is prepared for such a fate. The quieting of her unquiet mind. The end of her memories.
Her memories. The face of the boy from the market. It is enough to make Wendolyn reconsider her morbid fascination and redouble her desire to live.
A pinch on her shoulder pulls Wendolyn from her thoughts.
She turns to see the spider, its eyes glowing green. It is as if Hope is hearing Wendolyn’s thoughts, and telling her not to jump.
“You are right, I know,” she assures the spider. “We will find another way.”
Wendolyn turns her back from the window to face the dark corridor that led her here. And she knows she must retrace her path in order to find another door or window.
She moves down the hallway, the light retreating behind her. She reaches the staircase and circles her way down into a growing blackness. The dark is now darker than it was before the light hit her eyes, and she is forced to use her hands to reach out in front of her to avoid hitting the stone walls.
When she reaches the landing, she pauses for a moment, considering which way to go: back beyond her cell in the other direction, or further down the staircase.
She chooses the stairwell. But as she turns to descend the stairs, she sees something move far down the corridor out of the corner of her eye.
It is one of the saurians, barking in his language, likely telling Wendolyn to stop.
No!No!No!No!No!No!No!No!
Wendolyn descends the steps as her heart climbs into her throat. She is moving so fast that she does not have time to plot her steps, and the darkness prevents her from seeing the stairs.
She misses a step, and falls!
Her head hits the stone wall, and then she continues forward and down, her elbow hitting the hard landing, her weakened bones exploding in pain.
“Get up!” A voice barks at her.
It is her own voice, but she did not say it. Or even think the words. It is as if there is someone else inside her mind. A feeling she has had before. Like she is not herself alone.
Wendolyn follows the order, fighting through the unforgiving pain to get back on her feet. Somehow, the spider is still there, clinging to her shirt now. And Wendolyn presses further down this new, unfamiliar corridor.
The ground is uneven, littered with sticks. No, they are bones. Entire skeletons scattered in pieces beneath her feet.
Behind her, Wendolyn can hear the ungainly footfalls of the saurian as it gives chase. She can not make out its words, but the saurian seems to be calling to the other saurian for help. And while she does not know how far behind it is, she refuses to look back to find out.
Then, as she bounces along down the corridor, she finds an opening to another hallway, and she takes it, continuing to move into the unknown, hoping that she will be rewarded with an exit.
But instead…
SKREEEEEEEEEEEE!
The inhuman shriek, now joined by an inhuman form, appears from around another corner ahead. It is a glowing specter, sailing above the ground at her height, no feet hanging from its unearthly body.
Wendolyn stops suddenly, unable to move, fear anchoring her legs. Meanwhile, the specter speeds down the corridor toward her, shrieking the entire distance, Wendolyn’s ears feeling as though they are melting.
The specter stops just in front of Wendolyn, its face -- if one could call it that -- floating before Wendolyn’s eyes. The visage has echoes of something human, but it is as if a human face is being reflected off the surface of water disturbed by a stone. And the expression is one of pain, an eternal agony captured in the specter’s mouth as it shrieks without pause.
The specter stares into Wendolyn’s eyes, and she senses frustration in its face. It wants something, but cannot seem to get it.
Wendolyn slams her eyes closed, hoping that the ghostly thing will vanish. That its shriek will end.
And it does.
The inhuman scream is gone. And as she opens her eyes, the specter has disappeared.
But then she turns her head and she sees him.
Waldron.
His crimson eye glows in the dark. And behind him, the two saurians, standing sentinel, abusing her chance of escape.
“I see you have met one of the banshees,” Waldron says, presumably referring to the specter that is no longer here. “It must have been disappointed by you. 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 their minds. It is the only way they can escape this place. But you, the banshees do not know what to make of you. You look human, it is true. But your otherworldly soul will not surrender to them. Your eyes will not permit their entry.”
Waldron takes a step toward Wendolyn. She wants to cry out, but she lacks the strength to do so. And it would make no difference.
“To where are you planning to escape, Wendolyn?”
His question hangs there, holding the sad truth of Wendolyn’s situation.
“No one is coming to rescue you. And yet, you want to protect the humans by refusing to tell me the location of the staff. Why? They have abandoned you. They care nothing for your fate. You have nowhere to go. No one to run to. Except me. I offered you my friendship. And you betrayed me.”
Waldron is right. She was so consumed by her thoughts of how to escape, she did not think about who she would escape to.
Wendolyn feels a scratching beneath her shirt. It is Hope, somehow still hanging on to her.
But Waldron sees it. He sees the spider move.
“Perhaps you do not need my friendship because you have found another to befriend,” he says, a sinister intent beneath his words.
“No!” Wendolyn shouts.
But Waldron’s hand reaches out into the air between them, and with an unfurling of his fingers, he draws the spider toward him.
Hope is ripped from Wendolyn’s shoulder before she can grab the spider. And there, floating in the middle of the air, the spider lets out a tiny scream as Waldron closes his hand into a fist, somehow causing the air around the spider to crush its body right before Wendolyn’s eyes.
Waldron punctuates the spider’s death with a final squeeze, and then allows the creature to fall from the air.
A tear leaks down Wendolyn’s cheek as she looks at the spider’s carcass on the ground, its eyes no longer glowing.
That was her last friend.
Her last reason for resisting the warm invitation of death.
{Richard}
Richard’s feet are aching. His bones are tired. They have been travelling for days since they left the Truscan village. And, without their horses, the search party has been on foot, moving slowly through the Eternal Forest.
Some days it has been dry with the sun. Other days they have pushed against a hard silvery rain as they journey through the trees. On the days with sun, this forest of great age is airy and open, like a vast room with columns. Richard is reminded of the Throne Room in the castle: the long, leafy vines hanging down from the trees like banners.
As the distance between Richard and the kingdom has grown, he has felt increasingly guilty about how worried his parents must be. He has been gone nearly a fortnight now, and the King and Queen are surely imagining the worst about the fate of their son: Was he kidnapped for ransom? Was he murdered in his sleep and carried off?
Such things did not cross his mind when he hatched this ill-considered plan. But now he realizes it was a mistake to abscond without his parents’ permission, without telling them where he was going.
But he is in too deep now to turn back. And the echoes of King Lemlee’s grave voice and the image of his countenance upon hearing Waldron’s name uttered makes Richard feel that, more than ever, the quest to rescue the Descendant is of the greatest importance.
As for the team, they have settled into a rhythm.
By the time dawn breaks, they are already decamped, their supplies strapped to their backs, El Cid able to carry five times as much as the others.
As daylight shines, they move ahead through the forest, a more relaxed caution than at night, although their eyes are always searching the trees for both predators and prey.
The conversation ebbs and flows as they move through the golden tundra, with large hoverflies humming mindlessly in the air above them. El Cid mostly delights in his own stories, and Loxley whistles his merry tune. Meanwhile, Ivanhoe remains focused only on the path ahead, rarely pulling his nose from the air as he tracks the girl’s scent, the swatch of the Descendant’s clothes serving as his guide.
Then, with night moving in, the team rests, one of them keeping watch as the others sleep, although Loxley is no longer permitted to keep watch for fear he will attempt to desert them again.
Lying there in the night, noises fill the surrounding darkness, playing on Richard’s imagination as he wonders what creatures lurk just beyond the reach of his sight. Some nights, he convinces himself to sleep, and some nights his mind cannot escape itself and he is sleepless. But either way, when morning comes again, he is back on his feet as they continue.
At the moment, Richard is moving in stride with the erstwhile knight, with the thief and the exile trailing behind out of earshot. Half of the day is behind them, and half of it is before them, with baffled sunlight marking the path ahead.
Richard observes Ivanhoe as the tracker flares his nostrils, his nose keeping the scent. His one good eye is pinned to the space ahead of them, his focus complete. His jaw can be seen as it works against his hirsute cheeks, his teeth forever clenching and unclenching. Ivanhoe’s working jaw is the only hint that there are thoughts swirling in the tempest that seems to rage within his mind.
They say Red here lost his wits, and then butchered his own wife.
Loxley’s words echo at the edge of Richard’s ears, the words he spoke the moment just before the Truscans attacked them. It is a haunting claim. One that has not been repeated since rejoining their mission.
Richard studies Ivanhoe’s good eye, searching it for clues of such an unimaginable act. Could this man, a hero of Richard’s youth, actually have murdered his own wife? The wear on the man suggests he might have. Ivanhoe’s eyes once sparkled, and his chainmail shined. But now his eyes hold only a somber brown, and his ragged appearance goes beyond just a faded gravitas. This is a man whose mind is being hunted by his own dark secrets.
On the thought of secrets, Richard’s eyes travel to the small bovid horn around Ivanhoe’s neck. When Richard first encountered Ivanhoe at the rundown cottage in Rodina, he had assumed that the horn held liquor to dull his suffering. But Ivanhoe has not once taken a sip from the horn, which makes Richard think there is something other than spirits in it.
“Out with your question,” Ivanhoe says, his enduring silence broken.
At first, Richard does not realize the command is intended for him, since Ivanhoe’s good eye does not leave the forest ahead.
“What question?” Richard asks, wondering how Ivanhoe knows that his mind has been captive to the mysteries of Ivanhoe.
“How should I know the question on your mind?” Ivanhoe growls. “All I am certain of is your gaze is locked upon me when you should have your eyes trained on the forest ahead.”
Richard wishes to ask Ivanhoe about Rowena; if he did indeed murder his wife. But the glint of Ivanhoe’s axe in Richard’s periphery convinces him otherwise.
“Why did my father discharge you from his Lead Guard?” Richard asks instead, perhaps designing a less conspicuous path to the answer he seeks.
“Desertion,” Ivanhoe says flatly.
Ivanhoe turns to Richard, his eye boring into him. “But that is not what you really want to know, is it?”
There is something in Ivanhoe’s knowing tone that reminds Richard of Master Cheng: a wisdom that comes with experience; a way of understanding others better than even they understand themselves. Although, Ivanhoe’s wisdom is shades darker than that of Richard’s tutor.
After a long hesitation, Richard asks: “Did you do as the thief claims? Did you--?”
But he cannot complete the question.
“I was not capable of protecting my wife and keeping her alive. So, perhaps yes, her blood is on my hands.”
Ivanhoe speaks with resignation in his voice.
“How did it happen?” Richard asks, his curiosity overpowering his good sense.
Ivanhoe’s eyes divert back to the forest ahead as he speaks, although there is a wistfulness in his voice that has not registered before: “I was on leave from a campaign in the south. It was my first day home after not having seen her for months. We laid in bed together long after the sun told us to wake.”
The grizzly man pauses, as if he is trying to hold on to this image of him and his wife.
Then, his voice sobers, the wistfulness replaced by a grim seriousness: “She went outside to the coop to fetch eggs for the morning meal. I heard the chickens first, squawking with alarm. And as I moved to the doorway, Rowena shouted my name. I grabbed my sword and rushed out to the yard, where I saw a beastly man approaching her. His eyes flickered yellow. And then his skin, t cracked. I had never seen a saurian before.”
Richard remembers the performance from his Triumph Day celebration. The way the soldiers transformed into saurians. The way they hungered for blood.
“The saurian reached Rowena before I could. My blade sliced his jaw down to his neck, and the saurian released her. But all that fell into my arms was her lifeless body. Her eyes were like wet stones.”
Richard imagines Ivanhoe holding his dead wife. Bloodied. He cannot conceive of such crushing anguish. And he has no words of comfort for Ivanhoe.
“My sword failed me that day. And so I will not touch another sword unless it is the sword that strikes down the saurian that murdered my wife.”
“The saurians with Waldron, the ones my father spoke of -- you think one of them is the saurian who killed your wife?” Richard asks.
But before Ivanhoe can answer -- fwip! -- an arrow flies past Richard and he can feel its wind against his ear. Ahead of them, a bird falls out of a tree and hits the ground, the arrow angling up out of its side.
Loxley races up ahead to his kill, grabbing the bird by the feet and holding it in the air, giving a whistle. The thief has proven to be a skilled bowman, his aim true with every arrow.
With a taunting grin and a wink, he says, “That brings my count to four birds. Anybody else gonna earn their dinner around here, or are you just gonna yabber on the whole afternoon?”
Richard looks back to Ivanhoe, whose focus has once again turned to the path ahead, their conversation ended.
◆◆◆
The flickering embers burn a deep orange, the bones of the eaten birds crackling in the heat of the dwindling fire. Richard has taken the first watch, and he sits with his back pressed against one of the giant trees, his fellow travelers asleep just outside the low glow of the burning wood.
Night has arrived complete with a scarred moon and stars above him. There is a small break in the canopy that permits Richard a view of the dotted firmament. He stares up at the stars, mesmerized by them.
Master Cheng has taught him the names of the constellations: centaurus; andromeda; orion. In the Lands of the East, the stars are held in sacred esteem, more so than in the Realm. And when Master Cheng speaks of them, there is a reverence in his voice. For Richard’s mentor, it is as if the stars are instructions written across the sky, guiding one on how to live his life.
The way the stars are framed by the canopy tonight, they take a shape that Richard has not seen on his constellation chart. Instead, the stars make the vague form of a face.
A girl’s face.
And like the clouds that Richard saw through the hole of the barrel, he recognizes the girl from the King’s Market in the lines and curves suggested by the pattern of the stars.
Why can he not get the girl with violet eyes out of his head? What is this hold her visage has over Richard? Why does he sense a joint purpose in their fates, like in Master Cheng’s story of the lovers connected by an invisible string?
During the course of the journey through the Eternal Forest, his nightmares of the girl have persisted: her, escaping through the trees, only to be caught by a dark, shapeless demon; and then lying on the cold ground, the meat of her eyes turned white.
