“I am not going to be watched like I am some errant child,” he seethed.
“You are acting just like an errant child,” Arthur breathed, angry now.
Brendelon stood straight, crossing his arms. It was a perfect time for Gawain to tease him but he didn’t because at this moment even he seemed like he did not want Brendelon’s wrath upon him.
“What do you know?” Bedivere finally asked, looking at him closely.
Brendelon looked down at him wide-eyed. “Nothing,” he mumbled looking away but I didn’t believe him either; he did know something. It was the same secret he knew in the painting.
Merlin walked to Arthur’s side and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Bran is right, Arthur. You cannot keep him here and if he goes to William’s castle it might help his memory. He is the only one who will be able to understand the curse besides Morgaina herself. We need him to remember. I fear there is something quite big at hand here.” Arthur gave him a doubtful look. “I will go with him; we will be safe,” Merlin promised. “Being here will not stop her black magic from finding him, if that is what she wants.”
Arthur finally sighed, clearly not liking the decision. He dropped his head down, hands still resting on the table. He finally stood straight and pushed his blonde hair to the side. “Fine, but keep a good watch on him,” he said almost as if Brendelon was not even there.
Brendelon rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He started shifting his weight anxiously and chewing on his thumbnail then he dropped his hand, grasped his curl then dropped his hand again, looking upwards to the ceiling and back to the floor, clearly perplexed and apprehensive, and looking as uncomfortable as I felt. I wondered if anyone else was noticing these fidgets or perhaps they were just used to it.
“It is the first step in finding the opening to the portal. We will leave in the morn,” Merlin stated, clasping his hands behind his back. Brendelon nodded his head quickly and without another word he bolted out of the room.
Arthur shook his head, clearly irritated. He sat down, where Merlin had been sitting and placed his head in his hands.
“You know he is going to run,” Kay stated, as he stood, stretching out.
Arthur sighed and looked up. His face was drawn, looking very defeated. “Aye, I know.” He looked towards the door. “He is probably already gone.” He glanced at me curiously. “Although, I have a feeling he will return much sooner this time.”
Gawain let out a short laugh, standing as well and straightened out his gray tunic. “Come on you all, he is no baby. It is about time you stop treating him so.”
Merlin nodded. “He is right. All of you,” he looked at Arthur, Kay, and Bedivere, “treat him like the seven year old you first met.”
“In many ways he still is that seven year old we first met,” Bedivere muttered under his breath, picking hay off the sleeve of his black shirt.
Kay snickered, but Merlin and Arthur weren’t amused.
“That may be so, but you only have yourselves to blame when all of you are quick to clean up after him instead of letting him learn the hard way.” Merlin looked particularly at Arthur but he didn’t seem to notice as he still had his head in his hands.
Arthur sighed. “The circumstance is different, Merlin,” he muttered.
I was curious what exactly they were referring to, but I already felt like I shouldn’t have been in the room during any of this conversation. So I stayed quiet, running my fingers through my hair that rested over my shoulder, and observed as if I was merely a fly on the wall.
“Aye, and it is important to treat it as a learning opportunity and not a crutch.”
Arthur shook his head, not agreeing with Merlin, but looking a bit too defeated to argue. “I will get to the heart of this Merlin. I think I should accompany you to Williams Cole’s estate,” he said, and Merlin nodded in agreement. They mumbled a few things to each other as the other knights shuffled out of the room. I was about to follow, but Merlin took a hold of my arm.
“Katarina, I would like to speak to you for a moment,” he said.
“Sure,” I replied, slightly nervous as I took a seat back in the chair waiting for the room to clear out.
“Did your grandfather reveal anything else about the stone?” he finally asked, folding his arms as he harbored himself on top the table, anchoring one foot to the floor.
“No, just that it was from the well.”
He cupped his chin. “And how did you come by the portrait?”
“I saw it at an old museum…” I blinked rapidly as the oddity of it flashed across my mind. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I tried to make sense of it. “How did the portrait and the bracelet end up in the same city?” I asked more to myself than to him then I looked up to his surprisingly calm face. “Merlin, I came from a country that has not even been discovered yet, how could both pieces cross the Atlantic Ocean and end up in the same small city in California?”
He stood and took a step towards me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “All magic is bound by nature and nature demands balance. The two pieces were meant to find each other, which is exactly why the second curse was instilled.” I stood and turned from him trying to collect my thoughts, as shock slightly took over me. It all made sense; my grandfather had met Mr. Riley ten years ago, the same time he had sent me the bracelet, and Mr. Riley said he was suppose to sell the portrait to a buyer in Colorado but it fell through seven years ago, the same time I came back to California. That was why my grandfather demanded I keep it hidden and safe. He had meant to keep it away from the portrait but I brought it back… I ruined it.
“My grandfather wanted to destroy the portrait.” I looked up at Merlin. “He knew the stone was what would release Brendelon. He must have known all about the curse.”
“It must have been carried on from your ancestors,” Merlin said quietly, sitting in the chair beside me. “The real concern is why they feared releasing him.”
I felt the familiar surge of protectiveness rise but this time it was for my family. “Mr. Riley said that Arthur was successful at bringing light to Britain,” I sat back down, “and my grandfather thought if Brendelon was released it might change things…” I rested my arms on the table squeezing my hands together.
Merlin scratched his head. “Aye…” he said slowly but it was to himself not to me, “but it was done before anyone knew of what Arthur would become…” he continued. He cupped the side of his head as he tilted it to the left. “Why is the stone the key, and why did Morgaina do it…” he mumbled. “Most importantly, why did she want him to return?” He lifted his head, wrinkling his eyebrows together and tapped his fingers on his chin as he stared out the small window. “And the second curse is a whole other mystery.”
“Well, maybe my ancestor will know…”
He sighed and stood. “I fear that as these events have not yet occurred, he will not have the answers we seek.” He shook his head. “We will solely be relying on Brendelon’s memory,” he added with a derisive edge to his words.
“Wait! The journal!” I exclaimed, remembering my backpack. “I have their journal; my grandfather gave it to me with the bracelet!”
Merlin’s blue eyes lit up. “Would I be able to see it, Katarina?” he asked politely.
“Of course, but it is in Latin.”
He smiled, blue eyes dancing. “That will not be a problem,” he assured me teasingly.
I blushed, of course he knew Latin. “You don’t think Brendelon will hurt him, do you?” I asked, slightly fearful for my ancestor, after all he had been the one to keep him in the curse.
Merlin smiled. “He is quite unpredictable, but I will not let any harm come to your William,” he promised as he rolled up a map into a tight cylinder.
“Does he always act this way?”
Merlin glanced at me. “Aye, but he is a lot more complex than most can understand.” He tucked the map under his arm as he moved towards the door.
“Yeah, I’ve been trying to figure it ou
t,” I mumbled. Merlin slowly turned around to face me with a sudden interest in his blue eyes as he placed the map back down.
“And do you mind me asking what you have come up with thus far?” he asked slyly, seeming intrigued as he took a seat in the chair again, resting his ankle on the opposite knee.
I plopped down in an adjacent chair staring straight forward. “Multiple personality disorder?” I said meekly as I peeked sideways at him.
He chuckled under his breath and tapped his finger to his lips. “Is it not true though that our personalities can have many different inherited conducts and learned behaviors to it, thus being a part of our own individuality?”
“Yes,” I said petulantly, pouting my lips slightly, “but one moment he is friendly and happy and within seconds is angry and mean like a completely different person, and for the life of me I can’t figure out why he does it.”
His boney fingers skied down the snowy mountain beard as he looked very intently into my eyes as though searching my soul. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, I looked away. “And this bothers you greatly, aye?” he asked quietly.
I blinked rapidly as my face flushed; I had always been too easy to read. I knew it was ridiculous that I had fallen so quickly for someone like him, but it was beyond mortifying that Merlin seemed to have figured it out.
I shrugged my shoulders trying to seem as nonchalant as possible. “No, I was just curious.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, but he smiled again, seeing right through me.
He leaned forward onto his knees. “Do not let it trouble you dear. I believe it to only be a defense mechanism.”
“Defense from what?”
“From vulnerability,” he said bluntly.
I knit my eyebrows together and shook my head. “I don’t understand…”
He chuckled. “Do you know why Arthur will be the light that guides this dark time?” I figured he was trying to change the subject, the same way everyone seemed to once the conversation delved into something deeper.
“Because he is steadfast and reliable,” I said dully, mentally thanking Bedivere for the answer.
Merlin raised an eyebrow as his lips curled in amusement. “Aye and he keeps his senses about him—using his mind not just his strength and power—but most importantly Arthur understands the power of God’s love; a love that is given not earned, a love that is selfless and unwavering.” He paused again, running his fingers down the corners of his mouth. “Following the Lord is an act of obedience, a submission of selfish desires; it is not an easy task. Due to certain situations in his past that I shall not discuss, Bran feels security in control; it gives him a sense of power. To him, submission represents weakness. He sees love as nothing more than vulnerability, and he will have none of it.”
The waves in my head calmed as I understood what he was saying. “So to him, if love is weakness then hate must be strength…”
“It is much more difficult to be hurt with a calloused heart,” he said carefully, “but hate is a never ending hole. It becomes a master that adds shackle upon shackle. There is freedom in love, a divine power in forgiveness and repentance, but only he can decide when he wants to open himself to that path.”
I tried to put the jagged pieces into place but my mind felt flooded, and there wasn’t enough oxygen left to breathe.
“It is just how he learned to survive, try not to let it upset you so.” He stood and extended a hand to me. “Let us go retrieve the journal.” I nodded and took his hand, trying to seem unfazed but inside I was suffocating.
Chapter Twelve: Heartless
“You disobedient fiend!” the short stocky monk roared. His heart lurched. He gave the horse a hard kick ready to make his escape, but the chubby hands were already clasped tightly onto his shirt, and as the horse reared up, the monk viciously thrust his grip downward, sending him crashing to the hard ground. In the same instant, the monk snatched the horsewhip from the saddle, brown eyes engrossed in absolute fury.
“Sinful swine! You think you can skip lessons whenever pleases you?” he shouted as he flicked his wrist, sending the whip flying forward. The boy curled sideways as the tip licked the side of his pants. His heart pounded at how close it had come, and he scrambled backwards, bumping into the hard wooden wall. He had nowhere to run, and he felt a sudden pain tremor through his head. It had been a long while since he had felt the whip, but the scorching sting was something he would not forget.
“I—I was going to come,” his voice cracked.
“Lying demon-spawn! You need the devil beaten right out of you!” The monk pulled back his arm, and the boy covered his face with his hands, peeking through his fingers as the monk smiled cruelly and moved to flick the whip forward again, but suddenly a hand grasped his arm from behind. The monk snarled and whirled around coming face-to-face with Arthur, who at twelve summers was already taller than him.
“Wait!” Arthur shouted still holding the monk’s arm, giving the boy just enough time to squirm to his feet.
The monk snarled, yanking away from his grip. “I am a monk! How dare you place your hands upon me!”
“Merlin demanded that you not hit him…” he began. The boy looked around frantically, not wasting a moment to try figure out his escape. His eyes traveled up the wooden walls of the stable; it was too high, but then he saw the large trough. It could boost him high enough to get a firm hold. He could climb it, and he would. He placed his foot upon it, turning his head just long enough to see how much time he had, but at that same moment the monk grabbed the Arthur roughly and pushed him backwards.
“He never said anything about not whipping you!” he roared pulling his hand back, the long tail of the whip curling behind him. The boy’s eyes flashed the pitchfork resting against the trough and back to his friend’s terrified blue eyes behind the balding head.
CRACK!
The monk slumped to the ground, and all he saw were the wide blue eyes, this time in shock, not fear. He looked at the pitchfork in his hand, not even remembering grabbing it and dropped it suddenly as his two other friends came running to the scene, both out of breath and staring at the amorphous figure lying on the dirt.
“What have you done?” Bedivere demanded, bending down to check for life.
He blinked rapidly, as his breathing increased into heaving. “H—he was going to whip him,” he panicked, feeling the familiar acid in his stomach rise. He had not thought it through. In fact, he had not thought at all, and now he was sure to get it. He clutched his stomach nervously.
“You should run,” Kay whispered fearfully. “He is going to send you to your grave once he wakes.”
He nodded, trying to swallow but his mouth was too dry. He had never laid a finger on his father, and his father had whipped him to one breath short of death. He stomach turned violently. Kay was right; the monk would send him to his grave for this. He took a timid step back. He would run and hide and never return. Then he would be safe. He jolted to run, but Arthur stopped him. “No, we will go to Merlin; he will know what to do.”
“No,” his voice wobbled, shaking his head frantically. Merlin would not understand. Grown-ups never understood. He knew what to expect. He shook his arm free, but his friend grabbed him again.
“We stand together. I will not let anything happen to you,” he said, blue eyes pleading. “Trust me.”
And he did not know why, but for some reason, he did.
Merlin followed me to my room to take the journal, promising to return it in the morning. I believed him but felt reluctant handing it over, almost as if I was a traitor. After all, what did my ancestors know that compelled them to keep him in the curse? I sighed, feeling overwhelmed as I sat down next to the little dog. He whimpered as the bed shifted his weight, and I carefully scooped him in my lap, nestling my nose into his mangy fur, thinking on Merlin’s words, feeling guilty because I had probably hit too close to the truth accusing Brendelon of putting on an act. The relationship with both of his parents was bad, that was obvious, but I wond
ered to what extent; how awful was his childhood that Merlin would not even tell the story?
Everything had missing pieces, from his past to the spell to even his personality. It was mind-boggling, and I felt as though I would explode with questions. I flopped backwards staring at the ceiling. Chance whimpered again as he lay on his good side, and I turned to look at him. He wanted to run and play; it wasn’t fair he couldn’t move around, and then I had an idea. I grabbed my notebook and a pen from my backpack and quickly sketched out a skateboard like contraption, one that he could rest his right side on and still move around with his left front and back leg. It would be perfect; all I would need was the board, wheels, and some way to secure his body to it. I erased and redrew it, realizing how terrible of an artist I really was, but the idea was still there. Brendelon would probably understand the concept, and if anything at least I knew he would sympathize with being confined. I looked at it once more; it was as good as it was going to get, but now my distraction was gone, and I was left once again with my thoughts. I plopped back down on the feather bed, not knowing what to do with myself and still feeling uneasy. I curled into a ball, letting my mind wander. Just being around Brendelon for that small amount of time had brought a significant amount of comfort, but now he was gone, and I couldn’t help but feel all alone. I closed my eyes and tried to think of home but all I saw was him…
I woke up suddenly to a rumbling stomach and glanced outside the small window, the sun was already low in the sky, sending out a masquerade of orange and pink paintbrush swirls against the dark hills. My heart beat with excitement; enough time had passed, maybe Brendelon was back. Quickly, I stood and straightened myself out, then I grabbed the drawing and Chance; he was probably starving too.
I practically skipped down the long corridor, feeling the cool air seeping through the walls as I made my way down the stairs that led to the kitchen area. I could hardly wait to speak to him, but I needed to eat first. As I hustled towards the kitchen, I passed a large wooden door that was barely cracked open, clearly meant to be shut.
Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) Page 17