For the first time since his death, she smiled.
***
I was sitting in the wheelchair staring at a magazine without comprehending a word, when I heard a tap on my door. I looked up to see Jimmie.
Jimmie had taken to visiting me once or twice a day. I didn't mind his visits, even looked forward to them. Like me, he no longer resided entirely in this world. He was harmless and occasionally would speak words of wisdom, whether he realized it or not. But today, his grin was gone.
"Got a minute, Freddie?"
"Uh-huh." I put the magazine down. I had all the time in the world.
"I had a visitor this morning. A girl."
"That's nice."
"Not so nice. They told me before she came that we'd been engaged to be married. But when she walked in, I had no memory of her at all. I said, 'Do I know you?' and she began to cry."
He waited for me to respond, but I was at a loss for words. I had a tough time coping with my own brand of tragedy, and could find nothing to add that would make his better. He just stared, and it felt like he was looking right through me.
"You couldn't remember at all?" I finally said.
He shook his head.
"But you remember me, my name, my face, my room number, even how to find me."
"I can remember faces I've seen since the boom." His fingers exploded around his head as they did whenever he referred to the attack. "It's the faces before I can't remember, all except one. I think sometimes that face is blocking the others. But when I try to make it go away, I get headaches."
"What face is that?" I said, afraid to hear the answer.
"A face lying on the ground."
"But whose face?" Getting information from Jimmie was a struggle, maybe because it was a struggle for him.
"I don't know."
"You forgot?"
"No, I never knew. It was a face by itself, blown away from the rest of the body. I remember some arms and legs too, but I don't know if they went with the face. When the headaches come, I close my eyes, but the face won't go away. It keeps me from sleeping until I take the pills Dr. B. gives me."
I released the brake from my wheelchair, rolled over to him, and squeezed his arm.
He perked up. "I have a medal, Freddie. Want to see?"
I nodded.
He dug into his pocket, pulled out a felt case, and offered it to me.
"A congressman came all the way from my home state to give it to me. I hoped it would be magic and make the face disappear."
I opened the case. Inside was a five-pointed, gold star with a laurel wreath and a smaller star superimposed in its center. Jimmy was a Silver Star recipient, hoping for magic.
"It didn't work," he said. "Maybe when they close up my skull and I get rid of this helmet," he tapped the plastic with his knuckles, "it'll be better. But I don't think so."
I handed him back the medal. "Is there anything I can do to help?" I said, knowing I couldn't even help myself.
His blue eyes began to fill, battle-weary eyes that must once have been bright and full of hope.
"Only if you know the secret."
"The secret?" I thought of satellites flashing across the sky at my command. But what he wanted was beyond my power.
"How do I make the face go away?" he said. "And how do I stop her from crying?"
Chapter Fifteen
The Crypt
The fourteenth day. After a restless night trying to will the trials away, I rose for my appointment with the spinning wheel. As I staggered across the ramparts, the world below seemed swaddled in gray. The voices of servants stirring for pre-dawn chores sounded muffled and hollow. Smoke from their newly lit cooking fires formed macabre shapes that danced in the light leaking through arrow loops in the battlement. By the time I reached the watchtower, the smoke had thinned into wisps that whirled about like a legion of ghosts.
I took my seat and the wheel began to spin. When it was finished, I awoke from the dream and staggered down the hundred and one stairs, feeling like a knight on the morning after battle. At the bottom, I hugged the parapet wall, whispering SMOG and searching for signs of hope. But the dark clouds continued to gather and the sun shone dimly. Shadows deepened across the land.
Each day the temperature had increased, despite the absence of sun, sucking the moisture from the earth. The willows that lined the approach to the castle had turned yellow and the grass grew brown over the plains. The heat waves were so intense they were blue in color and their wriggling made the hills writhe and shudder as if in pain.
A fearsome wind now blew at all times, stirring up whirlwinds that skittered along the road. Riders fleeing to the castle for protection raised dust that swirled about the hooves of their steeds. When the wind gusted, the riders would lean forward in their saddle and spur the horses onward until they broke into a gallop.
My gloom was interrupted by a voice from behind.
"What are you looking at?"
I turned to find a young man sitting on the bench behind me. He was simply dressed in a rumpled cloak but wore the strangest helmet I'd ever seen. It clung closely to his head and was made not of steel but of a white, glassy substance that looked like it would shatter from a single blow. Colorful inscriptions marked its surface, and no curls escaped its edges, as if he had no hair at all. His head was cocked to one side, and he seemed to be staring at a leather bag clutched between his knees.
"The storm brewing over Golgoreth," I said.
"There's a storm?"
"You haven't seen it?"
"I never look over the wall. I have no reason to go there, so why bother."
Wary of demons during the time of the trials, I approached cautiously.
"Do I know you?"
"No."
"I haven't seen you around the castle before."
I waited. No response.
"Did you hear what I said?" My voice sounded too loud, as if trying to outdo the wind.
"Yes."
"And?"
No response.
Not demon, but simpleton. I began to walk away.
He called after me. "Why do you need to save the kingdom?"
I turned. Not simpleton. Perhaps something more.
"Because it's the right thing to do."
"Ah, yes. The right thing. I don't remember much, but I remember that. The right thing is a terrible thing to have to do."
I reached for Kingsbane, then withdrew my hand. I'd learned the futility of weapons.
"Are you spirit or demon?" I demanded.
He finally looked up. His watery blue eyes met mine.
"Spirit or demon. What does it matter? We all have secrets."
"What's your secret?"
"I don't remember. Do you remember yours?"
"I have no time for prattle. Do you have something to offer me or not?"
He fidgeted in his seat, his eyes shifting from left to right as if searching for an answer. Then he squared his shoulders toward me and flashed an unsettling grin.
"I remember now. I have something I'm supposed to give you."
He reached into the leather bag and pulled out a scroll. Its edges were charred like something salvaged from a fire, and it was bound by a soiled string. He offered it to me.
"What's on it?" I said.
"Writing, I imagine."
I curbed my irritation and accepted the scroll. But when I tried to loosen the knot, I found it too brittle to untie. I pulled out Kingsbane and sliced the string free.
My hands trembled as I unfurled the scroll. Could this be the clue I'd been waiting for? But what I saw disappointed me-a map of Stormwind, drawn by the hand of a child.
I studied the map, running my finger along each passageway to see if anything had changed. All was as I remembered. But when I touched the antechamber to the crypt where the kings of Stormwind were buried, the parchment became hot. Smoke rose from the spot and a new symbol appeared. A doorway to a place I'd never been.
I wanted to query t
he simpleton further, but when I looked up, he was gone.
I'd intended to meet the gardener after breakfast, but this new clue drove me on. Whether the path to salvation or the second trial, I needed to know. I dashed down the staircase from the parapet and across the courtyard to the entrance of the crypt. But when I arrived, I was reluctant to go in. Before me gaped a doorless archway overgrown with mossy vines, a forbidding portal waiting to swallow me up. I stuck my head inside, but kept my feet planted firmly on the threshold.
The crypt had always been dank, but now a wave of heat struck me, a swelter so strong it made the passageway thick with moisture. I grabbed a candle from a wall sconce, breathed in the last of the fresh air, and went inside.
Immediately, time seemed to slow. Memorials great and small surrounded me, my ancestors, my kin. Those who had lived large and died heroes and those who had passed leaving hardly a trace. But all had overcome the spinning wheels. I could almost hear them laughing.
Behind the vault of King Menethil II, who led the Alliance against the Horde in the Second War, I found a doorway exactly where it had appeared on the map. Menacing wrought iron framed the stonework that bordered its frame. The stone itself bore complex carvings. I raised the candle for a closer look. Serpents perhaps. Or the writhing of souls in Hades. I gave a shudder and entered.
Beyond the doorway was a tunnel, barely high enough to pass through without hunching over. Its walls looked newly hewn, rough-grooved with loose chips in the crevices, and the ground beneath was soft and fresh. At its end was a smaller crypt with two caskets set on pedestals. Unlike the rest, these were made of polished wood, freshly lacquered and free of dust. Both were uncovered.
On the right, my father, the king, as he'd lain in his death chamber. But no fragments of clay covered his eyes, and his cheeks were flush with blood. He lay there as if sleeping, appearing as he did in life.
And on the left, my mother, the queen. Nearly eighteen years had passed since I'd seen her last, and I'd almost forgotten how she looked. What remained in my mind was but the fantasy of a seven-year-old. Yet here she rested, looking so alive. A lovely young woman with the face of a child, gone before her time. I knelt over her, bending low, almost expecting to feel the warmth of her breath.
But my cheek felt no breath, and her glassy-eyed gaze passed through me.
What mischief was this? I'd mourned for my mother as a child. And though my farewell to my father was but a fortnight ago, he'd been ill for almost a year. Hadn't I overcome that trial? What did the demons strive for that I should be shown my parents so alive?
I raised the candle high and cast its light about the room, searching for something more, and was rewarded with a reflection from the wall behind the caskets. I came closer and saw the reason. A burnished brass plate decorated the center of a thick oak door. It was cut in the image of a hawk with its wings spread, and an odd-shaped keyhole gaped where the beak should be.
I bent my shoulder into the oak, but the door was locked. I pounded on its surface with the hilt of my sword to no avail. I wedged my dagger into the keyhole and twisted. But the hole was a peculiar shape, with slots radiating out in all directions like the roots of a tree. I'd gain no entry without a special key.
With no way through and nothing left to explore, I sat down on King Menethil's tomb, closed my eyes, and prayed to the Holy Light for inspiration.
I listened for an answer. Nothing but my breathing and the beating of my heart. I sniffed the air. Nothing but the smell of a place abandoned too long. And so, when I heard the rumbling voice, it nearly lifted me off my seat. I turned to see the great elf filling the entrance of the crypt.
This time, Malfurion Stormrage was dressed in a lavender robe and held in his right hand a staff. Its top was adorned with a green gem dappled with flecks of red-a bloodstone, bringer of knowledge and healing. The arm holding the staff extended toward me and his index finger uncurled, pointing toward the locked door.
"The second trial," he intoned. "The Hall of Heroes."
"But the door is locked."
"Try harder."
"I prayed to the Holy Light."
"The Holy Light will not unlock that door for you. Neither will magic help. It's faith in yourself that will show you the way."
"But how can I find that faith?"
"The question you ask has an answer you already know."
I could feel my face grow warm. "Enough of riddles. What torment have I seen through the spinning wheel that vexes me so? Why can't I remember? And how will I know when I've found the secret to defeat the Horde?"
A look of sadness overcame him and to my chagrin, he bowed before me.
"You will know when you've embraced the shadows."
Frustrated, I rose from King Menethil's tomb and rushed toward the great elf. But before I could reach him, the tip of his staff began to glow. The red gem burst into flames, though I could feel no heat. I raised my forearm to protect my eyes. When the radiance had settled to an afterglow, I looked up and he was gone.
For the rest of that day, I fumbled about the chamber, trying to find a way to unlock the door. I groped at gravestones, hoping to find a crack where a key might be hidden. I looked in the nooks of statues. I even forced myself to probe in and around the bodies of my parents. I searched overhead around the base of the arches. All I found was a black spider hanging from a web, its compound eyes taking in the scene of my madness below.
I ignored all meals and forsook my meeting with the gardener. If my fate was to embrace the shadows, I'd search them all. I only stopped when the orange light filtering through the archway called me once more to the watchtower.
***
The fourteenth day had ended. The kaleidoscope of gems circled one last time and slowed to a stop. Through the gold disk, I watched the last rays of the sun set behind the mountains of Golgoreth.
Too tired to move, I stayed in the chamber and stared through the oculus as the darkness spread across the plains. I saw an owl making great circles in the air, but never stopping to land, for in these days, few creatures were left to hunt. I heard the pounding of hooves on the road to Stormwind and leaned out to look.
A late-arriving horseman approached the castle, towing the corpse of his comrade draped over a second mount. Scouts sent by Sir Gilly to no avail. The dead knight's helmet had been shattered by a mace, and two arrows pierced his back. The exhausted rider pulled up and glanced at the watchtower, searching. When his eye caught mine, he looked away.
In the darkened west, an aurora flickered over the mountains from a cold, stony moon. The mountaintops were edged with phosphorous and a pale light shone through the land, giving the night a force of memory. Visions flowed. My mother saying farewell to her only child. My father on his deathbed giving me his blessing. And a parade of unknown shadows crying to be embraced. The voice of each floated on the night air-riddles unsolved.
Speak the pain that can't be spoken. Seek the white rose. Your castle, Milord, your pipe. Embrace the shadows.
And then a roar came riding on the wind, a sharp, steady wind that dragged the refuse of dead trees along the ground and pressed in on me from all sides. And with it, a new and final voice:
You will fail, and despair shall carry the day.
I looked back to the horseman. He spurred his horse onward until it lowered its head and clattered across the drawbridge before it was raised for the night. The roar came closer now, reaching the pine grove. I could hear the tossing of branches, the moan of limbs rubbing together.
And all at once, the wind stung my cheeks and brought tears.
Chapter Sixteen
Darker Corners
As my leg grew stronger, the dreams became more muddled. In the light of day, I could pretend my brain had healed, that I'd recalled the worst of my life. The nights, however, held a deeper dread. Despite Dr. B.'s pills, I forced myself to stay awake past midnight, afraid to let my mind wander where it will. I recounting memories I was sure were real-the roster of my h
igh school basketball team or the members of my World of Warcraft guild. But eventually, I'd drift off, and the dreams of the fantasy world would resume.
Each morning, when the pills had worn off and the light of dawn poured through the window, I'd bury my face in the pillow, hoping to shun the day. Instead, I ended up straddling the boundary between wakefulness and sleep. I roamed in a world of familiar things, some real, some not. Some came from my past, some from the here and now. Others crossed over from the portals of hell.
I sniffed. Was that the scent of royal gardens or the daisies Becky brought to decorate my room? My fingernails scratched at the bed. A hospital sheet or a prince's silk bedding?
I slowed my breathing and relaxed my limbs, one at a time, until images began to flow.
Nightfall.
I stared out from the castle tower. A brown haze had settled over the mountains, but I could almost make out a new moon floating over them, a wishing moon, a light of hope, a wink. But then a dark cloud in the shape of a dragon sped across and swallowed it whole. I looked up to the sky for a sign. As if in response, a shooting star flared into the air and burned up.
What will I do now?
Twilight.
Styrofoam packing peanuts skittered across the pavement like snow. I watched my breath glow in a beam cast by a floodlight and gave up. Richie was gone.
A radio crackled.
"Red platoon, second squadron, third armored cav. Humvee three. Where are you?"
My eyes popped open. Who was I? A boy who'd lost his family? A point guard who'd never play basketball again? A leader who'd failed his men?
Being a prince made more sense.
***
They paraded into my room, one at a time. Dinah after breakfast, Dr. B. at the end of his morning rounds. Both with the same question.
"What's wrong, Freddie?"
The day before, after wheeling me into PT, Ralph had stayed to help in my therapy. Becky thought having the huge health aide by my side would make me more comfortable climbing her fake stairway.
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