And I was drawn to the computers in the common room. When I first transferred to the facility, I avoided them, afraid to reengage with the game. My reality was weird enough without role-playing in a fantasy world. But now I realized I could use the computers for a new and more worthwhile quest-searching for Richie.
I sat in front of the screen and began to explore. It was a new feeling for me, having a goal. I'd become so attuned to expect the worst that I hardly dared to hope. But what if for once I was wrong?
Becky got me access to a slew of websites-local and state governments, hospitals, churches, and other charitable institutions. I spent all my free time browsing, as addicted as I used to be to the game. Hours passed like seconds as I searched databases throughout New England and beyond. But this wasn't World of Warcraft.
In the game, I'd encounter a non-player character with a message sending me off on a quest. The bubble over his head would say, "Kill the dwarf who hides in the first tower in the field of strife and you'll be rewarded with . . ." I'd research the venue, assess the enemy's strength, and then organize my guild for a raid. If I failed the first time, I'd learn from defeat and try again. When I was finally successful, I'd be rewarded with experience points and gold, sometimes even a new weapon or spell. My level would grow.
But this was no fantasy game.
I pored through every document I could find, records of homelessness, drugs, and crime, the great underbelly of society. Most were dead ends, but one in ten yielded an intriguing link. I'd get drawn down a rat hole, fascinated by one person's story. I'd get to know them so well I'd grieve for their tragedies and exult in their triumphs, as if they were members of my own family. Yet in no obituary, hospital or morgue, homeless shelter or halfway house did I find a mention of Richie Williams.
When I searched for him, the response was always "no matches found."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Trials Unsolved
I sat in my bedchamber and caressed the globe, watching the angels beam at each other as the glitter rained down upon them. Could this be the magic to vanquish the third trial? And why was I so hesitant to find out?
I staggered to the mirror, an oval of polished bronze that embellished the far wall, searching for an answer in my reflection. I was surprised by what I saw. How pale my skin, how hollowed my eyes, as if intent on mimicking the sockets of the assassin. This was not the face of a soon-to-be-king, but of a man at the edge of a precipice leaning into the teeth of a great wind. And the hollowness ran deeper to where my heart should be-an absence of hope. That was why I hesitated.
On the morning of the twenty-sixth day, after another futile session in the watchtower, I decided I could no longer wait. I gathered up my sword and dagger, the staff and globe and all the other enchantments I'd collected, and headed back to the crypt.
I paused before the archway and filled my lungs with the last of the fresh air, then raised my good leg and stepped over the threshold. By the tombs of my parents, I bowed my head and prayed for the Goddess to ease their journey into the next world. At the plate in the shape of a hawk, I inserted the roots of the World Tree and snapped open the lock. In the Hall of Heroes, I paid homage to each by name.
And once again, I confronted the stone wall. As before, the surface rippled and the blue soldier appeared. I gaped at his image, gripping the staff more tightly and tapping its tip on the floor.
How I longed to brace for battle, to fight the assassin and defeat him in a contest of skill and strength. Or failing that to flee and fight another day. But the way forward wasn't like the dark portal in the blasted lands. No flaming swords blocked the entrance, no hoofed beasts barred my way. Only a stone wall that would yield to the touch of my eagle's beak.
I blew out three quick breaths, raised the staff high, and stepped though.
The wave of cold stuck me at once, but I trudged on until I stood once more at the head of the casket. I looked in. The boy's face remained clouded by fog. As before, the apparition of the blue soldier removed the shroud but to no avail.
I held up the globe and peered through it. Time for the key of remembrance. I tipped the globe upside down and twisted the key until it became hard to turn. Then I placed the tip of my finger on the lever, but hesitated, remembering how painful remembrance could be.
I pressed the lever.
Music began to play, a haunting melody from another world. The angels spun and danced to the tune. I watched the glitter fall all around them and listened. The key of remembrance was magic indeed.
A vision came into my mind, the face of a young boy with an innocent smile. My eyes began to fill with the tears I was unable to shed at the tomb of the heroes.
I turned to the soldier in blue and spoke with more passion this time. "May I see his face?"
He waved his hand, and this time the scrim disappeared. I stood bewildered. Before me, the face of a stranger.
The music grew louder, a force of nature that echoed off the vaulted arches. The fog cleared as if a gust of wind had blown through the crypt, and beyond where I stood, the final trial came into view. One lone casket, empty this time. But when I tried to step closer, I was unable to pass. Some invisible force barred my way.
I reached into my tunic for all my enchantments: the crocus that never faded, the drawing of the rose, the archangel's medallion. I thrust the eagle forward and poked at the portal with my sword. None would allow me to pass. In frustration, I withdrew Kingsbane and hurled it at the barrier.
The dagger of sorrow was flung back and fell on the ground at my feet.
Tomorrow would be the twenty-seventh day. With the third trial still a mystery and the fourth beyond my reach, I shuddered for the future. My hope, like the days, was slipping away.
***
I slumped in a chair across the table from the advisor. I'd come to question him, to seek all the help I could find. I remembered my father only as king, but Sir Gilly had known him as dauphin. What wisdom had he gained from watching my father struggle through the trials?
"Three days," I said, "and we're undone. I'm at a loss and fear that I'll fail. And yet I've come so far. Pray tell me, Advisor, what did you observe from my father that might ease my way?"
Sir Gilly leaned upon his elbows, chin in his hands so that his jowls spread through his fingers like dough. "Nothing comes easily during the days of anointment. Our salvation must be earned."
"But you must have learned something."
He regarded me as if the answer were imprinted on my forehead. After a moment, he stood and shuffled to the bookcases that lined the back wall of his office. From a topmost shelf, he pulled down a sturdy volume whose leather cover bore the seal of the lord chamberlain. He dropped it on the tabletop with a thump, blew away the dust, and flipped through the pages. I gripped the arms of my chair and waited.
"There was one time," he said at last, "when the despair weighed most heavily upon him, and he bore a look as haggard as yours. Like you, he came to me troubled, stumped by the final trial. He'd found no spell to overcome it. No spirit or elf had appeared. And his unworthy advisor was at a loss for advice."
"Yet he must have found a way through, for here we are. The Alliance prevailed."
"Aye. The Alliance prevailed in the end. But on that day, when he sat in that very chair, he believed he would fail."
Sir Gilly licked his thumb and turned a page. And then another. At last, he brightened.
"Ah, here it is."
"What is it?" I said. "Some bequest from my father? A spell handed down from the king?"
He shook his head and released a breath like a sigh rising up from the bottom of a well.
"No, Frederick. You put too much faith in magic. I have nothing but a record of his words as spoken to me days later, after he'd been anointed and the celebrations had ended. When I asked him what he'd learned."
I slid forward to the edge of my chair.
"What did he say?"
"His words struck me then and so I wrote them
down, though I never understood what they meant."
"Tell me," I said. Too loud, too impatient. All vestige of courtesy gone.
His finger ran down the page and lingered over a single phrase. His lips moved soundlessly, like a sorcerer reciting an incantation. Finally, he lifted his chin and became every bit the advisor.
"These are the words of your father as spoken to me after he was crowned king of Stormwind, and Azeroth had been saved." He paused to take in a deep breath, making certain he had enough to spare. Then he continued.
"'In the end,' he said, 'there was only me.'"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Treadmills
My leg was getting better, and so was my outlook. When dawn flickered around the edges of the window shade, I no longer imagined a 155 mm white-phosphorus round incoming. No longer did I spend half the morning in the borderland between waking and sleep, dwelling on the past. Instead, I focused on the future. I had a year of first lieutenant's salary coming plus imminent-danger pay, all with no income taxes-thanks to being earned in a combat zone. That combined with the G.I. Bill and a little left over from the sale of the gingerbread house should be enough to pay for school. Enough to get certified as an architect and design fantasy worlds of my own.
But something was missing.
The next day, I arrived at PT a few minutes ahead of schedule and stood quietly in the doorway. Becky hadn't noticed me and kept going about her chores, bustling from her ointments to her weights and machines, cleaning up after her prior patient. I watched as she mumbled under her breath, running through her checklist.
"Weights put away. Check. Wipe down the treadmill. Check. Reset the flowers. Check." She stopped her bustling long enough to glance in the mirror. "Be sure I'm not a mess. Check."
After a while, afraid I'd embarrass her, I rapped on the door jam with the eagle head. She stopped what she was doing and turned.
"Freddie, you're early. Come in. I was just cleaning up."
She stole one last look in the mirror, then wiped her hands and came toward me. As she got closer, she caught sight of the medallion I was wearing.
"That's new," she said. "I don't remember it in the box. Someone give it to you?"
"Maria Sanchez." When she gave me an odd look, I added, "The archangel's wife. It was his. I decided it was time to wear it, to be proud of it and remember him. Better than wearing medals I don't deserve."
"You can be so gloomy. But I'm glad you're early. I have a big workout planned. Today, we get you on the treadmill."
She'd threatened as much before, but I insisted I wasn't ready. My leg was strong enough, but my balance was suspect. A list to starboard wasn't conducive to staying upright on a moving belt. But I had something else on my mind. She saw it at once.
"Something wrong, Freddie? You look like you're afraid to cross the threshold."
"I have a question before we start."
"What's that?"
"I want you to go out with me."
"You mean like to the Cape?"
"No. Like on a date."
She became uncharacteristically flustered. "Oh, Freddie. That's sweet. But you know I'm not allowed to-"
I felt my face grow warm and tightened my grip on the eagle head.
"A little joke," I said. "If you're still intent on the treadmill, let's get on with it."
First we did the stretching exercise, which involved much less screaming than it once did, then she measured the knee. More than a hundred degrees. After that, she put hot packs on both legs. Once my muscles were warmed up, it was time for the treadmill. I walked with my cane to the machine and stepped up, a small step, less than half the height of a riser on the therapy room practice stairs. But it seemed huge.
"You won't be needing this," she said, and took away my cane. "Just hold on to the side rails. We'll go slowly at first, the pace of a snail."
I gave her a skeptical look that turned to panic when she pressed the start button. The belt began to turn under my feet, and I clung to the side rails.
She placed one hand on the small of my back and the other on my sternum.
"I've got you," she said. "I won't let you fall. Now stand up tall, look straight ahead and don't forget to breathe."
As she ratcheted up the speed to one mile per hour, I dwelled on how I used to run home after basketball practice. I could jog the 2.2 miles in under fifteen minutes, even after a long scrimmage. Now it would take over two hours, if I could make it at all. I began to sweat.
Then she let go.
"You said you wouldn't let go."
"I lied. Physical therapist trick to give you confidence. You're doing fine on your own. You don't need me."
And suddenly, I knew what I was missing. The thought drove me on, wanting to please her. By the time we were done, I'd walked half a mile. Near the end, I even let go of the handrails.
Afterwards, she rewarded me with a towel and a cup of cold water. I'd done more in that session than I ever imagined being able to do again. Time to raise my sights, to aim for the future.
I took a deep swallow to moisten my throat, then reached out and grasped her hand.
"I lied too," I said. "It wasn't a joke."
She blinked, a momentary lapse in professional composure. "What wasn't a joke?"
"What I said about a date."
She came closer, but wavered, her usual self-assurance gone.
"Oh, Freddie, I can't."
An awkwardness settled over the physical therapy room. But now that I'd mastered the treadmill, I had no intention of slowing down.
"You can't turn me down if we're going to search for Richie."
She nodded, her eyes round and wide.
"How about this Saturday?" I said.
"What?"
"I need to check out the cemetery. It's not far from here. My family plot. To pay my respects and see if a second brother's buried there." I tapped my head. "No telling what's hiding up here. And after that, I'll need lunch and some comfort from my therapist."
"I guess," she said, "that might fit my job description."
When we were finished and I was ready to make the trek back to the advanced rehabilitation facility, she accompanied me out of the therapy room and down the green-tile corridor to the outside door. My knee still throbbed from the workout. She rested a hand on my cheek and waited for my grimace to subside.
"I won't always be your therapist," she said.
I smiled back and answered. "I know."
Chapter Thirty
The Nature of Flowers
The evening of the twenty-eighth day. After finishing my session with the spinning wheel, I hobbled down the stairs, clutching the eagle staff with one hand and clinging to the wall with the other. My descent was so slow I feared the stairway had trapped me again. I began counting steps and scanning the stone for the owl-shaped mark. But no magic was at work this day, only my labored pace.
At the bottom, I leaned out over the rim of the parapet to survey the twilight scene. No signs of progress. Thunderheads darkened the mountains above, heat blighted the land below. And as I looked south across the Barrens toward the lands of the Horde, a bitter wind blew in my face. When it gusted, I could hear the ringing of hammer on anvil-the sound of steel being forged.
I retreated to a corner and slumped against a wall. But I was startled to attention by stirrings from the shadows behind me.
Angry at being caught unawares, I struggled to my feet and drew my sword, bracing for an attack from a demon. As I stepped into the murky recesses by the entrance to the watchtower, I poked half-heartedly into the gloom.
A voice that was anything but demonic cried out. "Oh no, Milord. It's me."
"Rebecca?"
My arm lost its strength, ashamed of what it had nearly done. The sword slipped from my grasp and fell to the ground. I staggered and would have fallen, if not for the gardener's firm grip. She grabbed my arm and led me back to the base of the watchtower, where I collapsed on a bench, hiding my face in my
hands.
I listened to the sweep of her footsteps as she retrieved my sword. When I refused to take it, she leaned it by my side and reached out to brush my cheek with the back of her hand.
"What's that for?" I said.
"To see if you're real."
I looked up. Her eyes were laughing.
"Why have you come here?" I asked.
"Because the flowers in my garden were calling your name, but you were nowhere to be found. Then I remembered your appointment with the watchtower, and knew where you'd be in the twilight hour." She waited for me to respond, but when I remained downcast, she exclaimed. "Oh, Milord, why are you here so alone? Look how the color has gone from your cheeks and the light has fled from your eyes? And what offense have I given that you've forsaken our meetings in the garden?"
I sheathed my sword for fear of alarming her further.
"Come, Rebecca, and sit by me."
"I can't, Milord. It's not my place."
I breathed a sigh. "You think I'm more worthy than you? How far would I have come without you?"
"Do you make light of me?"
"You have more power than you know."
Her face darkened with something-a terror with no name.
"And yet I'm as frightened as anyone. What wickedness comes this way from the south? The heat's so strong and unnatural. By this late in the season, I should be swaddling the bushes in burlap for the winter, but the weather's so hot, they'd wilt and die before noon."
I bid her again to sit and when she did, I reached out and guided her head to my chest, to a place where she could feel safe. It was a lie. None of us were safe anymore. How much better to stay ignorant, to have never seen what I'd seen from the watchtower?
As we sat there, her head rose and fell with each breath I took, as if I were breathing for her. After a few moments, I buried my face in her hair and inhaled its scent. It was then that I noticed a change. As I immersed myself in her perfume, the pain in my leg seemed to ease, as if healed by a magical spell.
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