For the past two days, I'd struggled to discover the key to the second trial. The spirit's message was clear. I had to find the chamber of pipes once more. But though I'd traversed the tunnel to the armory many times, the ramp had not reappeared. No elf had sprung from the wall to help, no butterfly guided my way.
Now as I stood in the midst of the tunnel, squinting foolishly into the candlelight, I pressed my thumbs to my temples and tried to think what to do. What clue had I perchance overlooked? What spirit had I ignored?
On a whim, I took out the simpleton's map from my tunic and brushed its surface with my fingertips, hoping the chamber might appear in a puff of smoke. Nothing. But as I replaced the map in my pocket, I felt something soft-the gift from the gardener. I pulled it out, the rose-that-was-not-a-rose. After two days in the growing heat, it should have wilted. Instead, it appeared as fresh as when she gave it to me. Could she be the spirit I'd ignored? I brought the flower to my nose and sniffed. The perfume was as strong as ever. When I looked up, I was forced to blink twice. Either the perfume had confounded my senses or I'd been finally granted my wish. For now, at last, the tunnel was sloping downward.
I followed as before. All seemed the same but the silence. No tapping of pipes, no singing. No sound but the click of my heels.
At the bottom of the ramp, the chamber was as I recalled. Corroded pipes crisscrossed the ceiling and the new one-the one for heroes-gleamed in the corner. I called out, beseeching the spirit to appear. But he was nowhere to be found.
As I traversed the chamber, inspecting the pipes overhead, I nearly tripped on something hard on the ground. The spirit's wrench. When I knelt to pick it up, I found a gold chain wrapped around it. And at the end of the chain, the medallion of Nordrassil.
I fingered its detail. A beautiful piece. Could this symbol of the Druids possess the magic I sought? And at once I saw it. The roots at the base of the World Tree formed a familiar shape.
I was starting to grasp its meaning when I heard an unwelcome voice.
"That's right," the voice said. "It is what you think it is."
A chill ran through me as if a winter storm had blown in. I looked up to find the assassin I'd met in the watershed. He made his little bow and fixed his hollow sockets on me. This time I met his gaze.
"Why should I believe your words, demon?"
"Because I speak the truth."
"You wish for the destruction of all that's good. Nothing more."
"Ah, yes. I confess. But in this matter, our interests are aligned. Both of us wish you to learn the truth. For no demon can destroy you. You can only be undone by yourself."
I raised the chain so the medallion swung between us and eyed the assassin through it. The clues had finally converged.
"Yes," he said. "The medallion is the key to the second trial. Go now. We shall talk again."
I wavered but only briefly, then hung the medallion around my neck and raced off to the crypt.
***
The crypt was as I'd left it. No new footsteps marked the dust. No soul had passed this way. I strode past the memorial of King Menethil II, and through the archway of writhing souls, pausing only briefly to pay homage to the remains of my parents. Then I came to the door with the brass plate in the shape of a hawk.
I removed the chain from around my neck and studied the roots of the World Tree. The key was complex and would fit in only one way. I fumbled for several seconds before finding the right orientation, but once I found it, the base of the medallion slipped easily into place.
I took a deep breath and turned the key. Nothing. I tried the opposite direction. Still nothing. I gripped the medallion with both hands and twisted harder. No movement. The key was a perfect fit. Could this be another dead end? I recalled the words of the elf: We survive through will alone, through faith in ourselves.
The blood rushed to my face. Spirits and demons be damned. I was tired of mysteries and riddles. The days of anointment were racing by, and soon all that was good would end. Where could I find the faith to overcome the dreadlord and his Horde? My father's blessing? Sir Gilly's training? I thought of my mother resting in the casket behind me, the bloom of youth still gracing her face. I recalled the fragrance of the gardener's flower.
There was a click and the lock released.
I entered the chamber of the second trial. At the front stood a casket, draped with a banner with stripes of red and white and stars on a background of blue. The casket, like those of my parents, was open and in it rested the man who'd recently been singing as he repaired the pipes. I held the candle close and read the inscription on the brass plate attached to the side.
I'd been right. Not demon, but angel. And more. An archangel.
What now? I'd passed through the door as both elf and demon had urged. But could this be the end of the trial?
I glanced past the archangel and saw only darkness. When I tried to raise the candle to shed light across the room, a great weariness weighed down my arm. The strongest desire filled me to go no farther, to flee the crypt. But the elf in the lavender cloak had led me here for a purpose.
I lifted the candle high.
Three paces past the archangel, where the light from my candle dispersed, I saw what appeared to be a gate, guarding what lay beyond. As I drew closer, I realized it was no gate at all, but four spears stuck into the ground. Each had a pair of boots at its base and a helmet resting on top. And hung from the tip, a pair of silver tags.
I slipped through and into the next chamber.
By the far wall, dark mounds. As I inched closer, the mounds became caskets. Four more, lined up in a row, each embellished with the same banner as that of the archangel. And in each casket, a body covered in a shroud. I bent low and swept the candle along the sides. No name plates on these, but instead a mark of honor-a five-pointed silver star.
The new pipe is for heroes.
I reached into the first casket and tried to peel back the shroud, but the darkest of magic was at work. My fingers passed through as if the shroud were made of fog. I could feel the body underneath, but could see nothing of the face. The next two caskets were the same.
And then, I moved on to the last. This time the shroud came away, but I fell back at what I saw. A gaping void where a face should be.
"Do you know who they are?"
The chill filled the room again. I knew at once who had spoken. I turned to confront the assassin.
"They're heroes," I said.
"Heroes, but not strangers. Yet you have no memory of them."
I knew he spoke the truth but pressed my lips together and stayed silent.
"I can show you," he said, "if you but ask."
I looked at the body with no face. I looked at the assassin with no eyes and recalled the great elf's words. Embrace the shadows. I nodded.
The demon waved his withered hand. At once my candle went out and the room became dark, but for no more than an instant. Then the air beside the assassin began to shimmer. A cloud appeared, like a hole in the blackness, and the shape of a hulking creature emerged, all coiled muscle and smoldering flesh, absorbing the darkness around it and producing an indigo light. And from its edges, a crackling sound, so faint, it might have been no more than a tingling on my skin. I shuddered.
Sir Gilly had taught me of such a creature, one I'd prayed to never meet. I tried to remember what I'd learned so many years before. I could hear my mentor's voice.
"A voidwalker, Frederick, a servant of the demons created from the chaos of the Twisting Nether."
I'd asked what weapon they used. I was young and brazen then, ready to take on any fight. But his answer frightened me.
"Its touch is misery," he said, unable to look at me as he spoke. "It brings your most painful memories rushing to the surface, so vividly that you can think of nothing but how to block the source of this anguish."
"Do you want to know?" the assassin said, his cruel mouth grim.
I fell back a step. He signaled for his ser
vant to wait.
"By the rules of the treaty, you must say yes or it may not touch you. If you want to find out who they are, all you need do is agree."
The voidwalker loomed, waiting for its master's command. In the center, where a face should be, two eyes glowed in the darkness like burning coals. The tentacle-like mist that served as its arm stretched out toward me.
I shook my head and screamed, "No!"
The glow that defined the creature began to swirl and spiral outward, filling the room. I backed toward the entrance, unable to look away. And then my leg hit something solid, one of the spears with the helmet upon it. The metal tags rattled angrily as I stumbled to the floor.
On the ceiling above me, the creature's glow threw spidery shadows, making the chamber swim and reel. The polished brown wood of the caskets merged with the red, white, and blue banners and all took on an indigo hue. For an instant, I saw a rose in the middle. But then the edges of its petals exploded in a flash. I closed my eyes to protect them and all faded to a pulsating, velvety black.
When I opened my eyes once more, I was in the watchtower, awakening from the spell cast by the spinning wheel. I watched it make one final turn as the rays of the setting sun vanished. At once, a profound darkness settled over the chamber. I stared out the oculus for a hint of light, but the sky was clouded and starless as if a great bowl had been placed over the land. Earth and sky had converged into a single seamless mass, offering neither light nor insight. If the assassin's servant had revealed the names of the heroes, I had no memory of it. My mind, like the light in the watchtower, had gone dim.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eagles and Stars
My physical therapy sessions now started with a ritual. I'd lie on my stomach on a padded training table while Becky knelt behind me, pressing her shoulder against my ankle to stretch my knee. She'd grunt. I'd scream. Then I'd roll over and watch while she aligned the protractor and measured the bend. On bad days when it showed no change, the corners of her mouth would droop and she'd pat my leg.
"Scar tissue," she'd say. "It's stubborn stuff. We'll keep working at it."
On good days, when I'd improved a degree, she'd fetch a cold drink for the two of us, tap our plastic cups together, and toast to my recovery.
Today was a good day. After my workout, she put an ice pack on my leg and we talked.
"I warned you progress would be slow," she said. "But we're getting there. You may not be able to play point guard again, but I can say with confidence that you'll be able to walk, to lead a normal life."
"I know," I grumbled as I adjusted the ice pack to the point of pain.
"Then why are you still so gloomy?"
She was right. I should be pleased with my progress, painful though it had been. But I had secrets still hidden in my brain and was terrified to find out what they were.
"Talk to me, Freddie," she said. When I clammed up, she brought up an object from the military-issue box. "So what's that story from long ago and far away?"
"I'm supposed to be the one with the head injury. What the hell are you talking about?"
"That bracelet with the date on it, the one you laughed about and almost threw away."
"Oh, that. You sure you want to hear about it? It's just another one of my sad tales."
"I want to know everything about you, Lieutenant Frederick Williams. You know what they say. Once you've broken scar tissue together, there can be no secrets between you."
I had scar tissue all right, and not only in my leg. But this story wasn't so bad. And she cheered me up so much, I couldn't deny her.
"We moved to the Cape when I was ten, a big change from the city. I was an outsider, out of place. The village where we lived had been built in the 1800s as a spiritual retreat, and some of that culture still survived. My dad wasn't religious, but my mom used to drag the three of us to the tabernacle for a rousing service every Sunday. After a while, I noticed all the locals wore these metal bracelets. When I asked my mom what they meant, she said people wore them to commemorate the day they'd been born again. The minister had a machine that would engrave the date on the bracelets.
"Lots of boys in school had them and wore them with pride. But as I got older, I was let in on an inside joke. The guys would buy a bracelet and have the minister stamp the date when they had their first-"
I blushed. She laughed.
"You're not serious."
"It may have been a small town, but the boys still had hormones."
"That's why you kept the bracelet?"
"I wish. The story's not finished. I had a crush on this girl at school. But she lived in one of the big houses on the water, and those folks didn't have time for those of us from the gingerbread houses. I got a bracelet anyway and lied about it to impress the other kids. Word somehow got back to her mother. I was suspended from school for three days."
"That's not a sad story. It's funny."
"Hang on. You haven't heard the rest."
She waited. I could see my joke fade in the reflection of her eyes. I wanted to tell her something happy, but-
"The girl. Her mother was on the school committee. She was the one who got my dad fired."
Becky started to laugh, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand. When she removed it, an uncharacteristic frown had appeared. Tough to stay positive when her young lieutenant was at the center of things gone wrong.
I had an urge to restore her upbeat mood and decided the best way was to deflect attention from myself.
"Your turn," I said. "You never tell me anything about yourself. What was it like for you growing up?"
"Not much to tell. I had a pretty normal childhood."
"And your father and mother?"
"They're fine."
"Then why are you always talking about what your father used to say?"
"You're fishing, Freddie. The sayings I quote from my father are things you say to a little girl, not a grown woman."
It felt like she was holding something back, maybe uncomfortable talking about her great childhood when mine had been so fucked up.
"Any siblings?"
"Siblings?"
"You know, brothers and sisters?"
She said no, but the word was mumbled and died in the air. I'd learned a lot about scar tissue, and her expression showed a scar. But when I asked again, she checked her watch and stood.
"Story time's over. I have things to do."
Then, in a rush to clean up for her next appointment, she wheeled me to the elevator to wait for Ralph. Always so efficient.
Or so I thought. But when I looked up at the clock in the hall, I was surprised to find ten minutes left to our session.
***
Sometime after we'd achieved a bend of fifty degrees, Becky brought me a gift from the Eagle Cane Project, a volunteer group that hand carved canes for veterans. She opened the box and inside was a cane encased in bubble wrap. She pulled the plastic off the top to reveal the impressive head of a bald eagle.
I was skeptical at first, not only because I was unsteady on my feet but also because I didn't want to think of myself as needing handouts from a charity group. But Becky sat me down and read me the card that came with it.
"Apparently, it's a tradition that goes back to the Civil War, a sign of respect and honor for wounded troops."
"What's the bird doing on the handle?" I said, mostly to give her a hard time.
"Stay with me and listen. It says, 'The eagle is symbolic. Native Americans believed that warriors wounded on the battlefield returned as eagles. This cane is not to be seen as a sign of weakness but as thanks for personal sacrifice. It's intended to encourage those undergoing a long and difficult rehabilitation.' That would be you, Freddie."
"Send it back."
"You can be a real pain in the ass," she said, then insisted on reading the rest of the card, whether I was listening or not. "'Life will hold a lot of promise still, and you'll be back on your feet doing great things. The path ahead is goin
g to be good.'"
"Sounds like a fortune cookie."
"It's intended well, Freddie, and you're ready to transition off crutches. If you don't want this cane, I can get you one of those ugly, old-man ones from our stockroom. Or you can keep this beauty."
She unwrapped the rest of the cane. It was a beauty, with hand-carved, polished dark wood. And when I stared into the eagle's eyes, they seemed to be challenging me to get up and walk.
While Becky waited, I nodded weakly -she was having more of that effect on me-and accepted the cane. She told me the group would be glad to add any engraving I wanted as a keepsake, my unit number, medals, or the names of those lost. Great. If only I could remember them.
Not long after that, Becky started coming to my room for lunch each day. It was a New England November, with all the usual cold and drizzle, apparently too unpleasant for the bench in the courtyard. And she'd never liked mingling with others in the crowded cafeteria. On Mondays and Thursdays, she'd bring fresh daisies with her, fill a glass with water from the bathroom sink and place them in it, then set the bouquet on my bedside table.
Late one Wednesday, before she headed home to her parents' for Thanksgiving, she brought a new batch. She was in a rush, hoping to beat traffic, but I grabbed her hand before she could leave.
"Why do you bring me flowers?" I said.
She tilted her head to one side and grinned.
"Because you're so gloomy. I figure you need something to cheer you up."
"Do you do that for all your patients?"
She picked up a daisy and smelled it, then winked at me.
"No, just you." The flower hid her smile.
***
This visit was serious. It had been months since I'd dressed up in anything but a hospital gown or warm-up suit. Today, they had me decked out in dress greens. Some bigwig was coming to give me a Purple Heart. And because I was a local boy, they planned to take pictures as well.
Becky was first to arrive.
"Don't you look handsome," she said.
"Yeah. Hides how fucked up I am."
She inspected the buttons on my jacket and brushed the fabric smooth over my shoulders. "Well, I'm proud of you anyway."
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