Beyond the Crimson (The Crimson Cycle) Read online

  The class mumbled something in agreement. Darn, I missed that.

  “I will see you Thursday for your final,” Dr. Sims said before the class started picking up their notebooks and shutting down their laptops.

  I quickly shoved my books into my bag and bustled out of class, practically running to my car.

  I saw the white mustang—another Stacey hand-me-down that had been sold to me for next to nothing—wedged between two trucks. A light salty breeze blew past me, and it felt like freedom; I was minutes away from seeing him again. I popped open the trunk and threw my book bag in before slamming it shut.

  “Can’t wait for school to be out, huh?” I jumped at the booming voice and spun around, squinting into the sunlight to make out the dark silhouette of a medium-height guy.

  Chris.

  Darn. I didn’t want to stop and chit-chat, but it wasn’t in me to be rude. “Hey Chris,” I said politely. We had the same English and history class, which meant I saw him every school day, and recently that had started to become a bad thing. He was nice and cute but just not my type, and I was starting to get the feeling he didn’t quite agree with me on our “just friends” status.

  “So… what are your plans for summer?” he hedged, uncomfortably, scratching his head carefully as to not mess up his light brown hair that he carefully gelled to, in fact, look messy. I felt like rolling my eyes at the irony of it but faked a smile instead.

  “Just working, hopefully I’ll be able to get more shifts.”

  His lips curled into a small smile that seemed rather dull and unattractive compared to the wide, brilliant, and alluring smile of the dark knight I had discovered. He began mumbling things of no importance. Ugh. Just get on with it, I wanted to scream. I didn’t want to be impolite, but I really needed to go. I glanced down at my watch only to realize I had forgotten it along with my bracelet. I pulled my hair to the side, feeling the hot sun press against my skin as anxiety climbed higher and higher in my stomach.

  “Hey listen, do you think we catch up later?” I interrupted. “I need to run. I have to hurry to Riley’s Museum to get some research in for the history project.”

  He looked a little hurt but nodded his head in understanding, “oh, um, yeah sure.”

  “Is your project coming along okay?” I asked mostly to salvage some of his feelings.

  He laughed and squeezed the back of his neck. “Uhhh, well, it’ll do.”

  I smiled back. “I’m sure it will be fine—”

  “Maybe we could get lunch one day,” he blurted out, dark brown eyes looking slightly terrified.

  My stomach dropped. I didn’t want to get lunch with him. It caused my insides to twist in knots and not in the good butterfly way but in the sick, acidy, bile kind of way. “Sure,” I mumbled, unable to bring myself to hurt his feelings.

  He beamed showing another boring grin. “Great.”

  I smiled weakly, hating what was about to come from this. “I’ll see ya tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Bye, Kate.”

  I clambered into my car and let out a groan. Three more days, I reminded myself. It would be easy to avoid him after that. I checked my mirror and pulled out of the parking spot. I would deal with this later because for now I had work to do and a knight to see.

  *****

  I quickly parallel parked on the side of the curb across the street from the museum, thankful it was only a short drive from school. I rolled up the window and grabbed my camera from the center console so excited my hands were shaking.

  I threw open my door and stepped out of the car without even looking, as a bright red sports car whizzed by so close I could feel the power of its speed push roughly against me. My heart beat frantically as my brain came to terms with my near road-kill experience. I scolded myself for letting this odd obsession hinder my awareness; it was getting out of hand. I sighed, slowly calming down and carefully looked both ways this time before I jogged across the street and up the large concrete steps that led to the large glass door entrance.

  I approached the counter where a bleach blonde-haired girl with an orange-like tan sat behind the lobby desk, snapping her bubble gum.

  “Hey…Melissa,” I said as I read her name tag. “I’m here to see Mr. Riley.”

  “One moment,” she said dully. She picked up the phone and dialed a number using her long bright pink acrylic nails.

  “Someone is here for you.” She tilted her head to me with a bored expression. “Katarina Cole?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Yes,” she said flatly into the phone before dropping it into its cradle. “He said he’ll meet you in the storage room.”

  I scurried across the shiny gray linoleum floor and opened the heavy backdoor to an already lit up unit.

  “Mr. Riley?” I called out.

  “Over here, Katarina!”

  I followed his voice to the familiar aisle that held the ancient medieval artifacts. He was leafing through the old book again. Now might be a good time to ask him about Brendelon.

  I shifted my weight. “So … what was that story you were going to tell me about Brendelon the knight?”

  He closed the book, looking over his spectacles at me with one eyebrow raised. “What do you know about Brendelon?”

  What do I know? He was the expert not me.

  “Only that he was a knight.”

  He laughed. “Yes, of course. It’s just interesting because your grandfather knew quite a bit on Brendelon. I wasn’t sure if he told you anything.”

  I stared at him stunned, so Grandpa had been holding out on me, too.

  Mr. Riley laughed at my expression, his rosy cheeks becoming redder. “Well, to answer your question, Brendelon was a cousin of King Arthur.” My heart fell slightly that he really was only a fictional character. I couldn’t hide the letdown, but Mr. Riley’s focus was somewhere else. “He fought alongside Arthur’s famous knights. He was swifter than Sir Lancelot, more loyal than Sir Kay, and braver than Sir Gawain,” he explained admirably before pausing to finally look at me. “He could have very likely been one of Arthur’s greatest knights when it came to skills in battle, but he isn’t talked about in the mythological legends that people write now-a-days.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of his gray trousers.

  “How come?” I asked, still ridiculously intrigued despite the disappointment.

  “Well, he disappeared. He vanished before Camelot was the romanticized version that you read of today. In fact, it use to be named Caerleon; it was before Arthur married or even met Guinevere, before the Round Table was established, and even before Arthur was made High King.”

  I shook my head, scrunching my eyebrows together. “You mean before be pulled the sword?’

  He shook his head, looking at me with a playful smile on his lips and eyes twinkling. “What many people don’t know is that even though Arthur pulled the sword from the stone, he wasn’t made High King right away. The other kings would not hear of a boy in his adolescence becoming king of them all. To appease the small kings, Merlin agreed to make Arthur the Battle Duke of Britain. Younger knights and friends from his childhood, like Brendelon, Gawain, Lancelot, Kay, Bedivere, Bors the younger, and so on all agreed to follow him. The young knights fought with such valor and soon they were winning victory after victory, making peace in the land. The kings could not turn a blind eye from the success of this young Battle Duke, who made peace with Saxons of all people.” He smiled as he crossed his arms over his red knitted vest, remembering the stories. “Brendelon helped him fight in these early battles and would have gone on to the very end, except…” He paused looking at me as though unsure if he should reveal any more information.

  “Except what?” I pressed; he couldn’t leave me hanging like this.

  He looked back at the book, tracing the old cover, “Well, see, Morgaina, Arthur’s half-sister, hated Arthur and all that his knights stood for so she vanquished him…”

  “Why?” I cut in, clutching my camera a bit too
tightly, fighting against the desperate feeling to check on the painting again to make sure it was still intact.

  “She was a very wicked person, a sorceress to be specific. The most powerful one Britain had seen since Alaricus during the Roman rule. She was jealous and angry, scornful that her mother had married Uther—who not only fathered Arthur, but also was the man who killed her own father. She carried a grudge till the end of her days. She hated Arthur and his knights with such vigor that she did everything she could to destroy them.”

  It was frustrating to hear of that witch destroying such a gorgeous creature. “If Brendelon and Arthur were cousins, wouldn’t that make Brendelon and Morgaina cousins as well?”

  “No, Brendelon is the son of Uther’s younger sister, Ravenna. Morgaina’s father was Gorlois, Lord of Tintigal.”

  For a moment, I forgot myself. I was so entwined in the story that I found myself actually believing it. Arthur was a legend and so were all of his knights for that matter. Brendelon was not real, and the conclusion wound my heart into a tight ball.

  “Isn’t it all just myth and legend?” I asked.

  “Depends on what you believe.” He smiled slyly at me and his eyes twinkled with secrets. “There definitely was a time where black magic, sorceresses, and mystical creatures existed. The realm was very different—from the people and creatures that roamed to even the layout of the lands. As Arthur and his knights crusaded to put an end to these evil doings, the supernatural sphere became smaller and smaller until it almost completely perished along with all that was in it, paving the way for the Britain that you now read of in history books.”

  “Why don’t people believe Arthur was real then?”

  “When he was killed by Mordred, his body was sent to Avalon—the last place to remain in the mystical realm—and all that is left are his stories. The world changed, and the land he lived in has become unfathomable, becoming nothing more than a myth as you would say.”

  I wished I could believe him; I felt like a child with a heart that still wanted to believe in Santa Claus but whose brain argued the facts that could not support such silly fantasies.

  Mr. Riley’s phone rang. He put up one finger, motioning for me to give him a quick minute. “Hello,” he answered. He listened for a brief moment. “Sure, sure,” he mumbled before ending the call. “Sorry Katarina, I have to help Melissa with something in the front. You’re more than welcome to look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Sure, no problem.” I smiled because I knew exactly where I’d be looking. I pretended to look through some of the artifacts as he walked away, quickly glancing to my side to make sure he was gone before I headed down to the familiar hallway, so excited I could hardly contain myself.

  I stared at the tattered curtain that hid the secret prince, and it felt like I was about to open a present. I slowly pulled it back to expose that glorious face. And there he was, same as before: dark eyes glooming with that contradicting grin that held secrets I couldn’t even fathom. It still mystified me, and unbelievably his face was more beautiful than I had remembered. I imagined him fighting with grace and ease in some heroic battle like I had heard in stories, distracting his enemies with his looks and charm, and somehow I felt comforted at the thoughts of him being lively, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it.

  “So you found him.”

  I spun around coming face-to-face with Mr. Riley. My face burned bright red; I hadn’t expected him to meet up so soon or perhaps I had been lost in that daydream longer than I had known. He gave me a gentle smile, as he put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels still staring at the portrait. For a moment, he looked like he was a younger man, but I supposed it was due to him moving with such ease, or perhaps it was the boy-like smile on his face.

  “I actually saw him the other day,” I confessed, shoving my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, looking at him sheepishly.

  He smiled. “So your grandfather never told you anything about Brendelon,” he looked at the picture almost as captivated as I had felt, “and yet here you are,” he added quietly, glancing down at me with the smile tugging on his lips again. “The first time he visited my museum he was drawn to this portrait too…” He nodded his head, keeping his eyes on the portrait.

  “Really?” I asked, scrunching my eyebrows, intrigued.

  “Yes, that was how we met actually. He had come to see the medieval exhibit, as he was very interested in the time period as well. He saw the picture and demanded to see me.” He chuckled at the memory. “Sure, we had a few heated debates on our different views, but we became friends ever since.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe that was only a decade ago.”

  I smiled. “He never told me that story.” It made me miss him, so I decided to change the subject. “Why is the portrait over here instead of with the other artifacts?”

  He tilted his head, scrunching his eyebrows together. “Well, about seven years back I was going to sell it to a buyer in Colorado, but the deal fell through last minute; the whole thing was rather bizarre. I guess I never moved it back to its proper place.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It seems safer away from the other relics,” he added strangely.

  He was hiding something, and I was itching to reveal it. “So you never said how he died…” I started.

  His eyes twinkled, and he pulled his hand out of his pocket to point at me. “I never said he died.”

  “You mean Morgaina didn’t kill him?”

  “No, she didn’t kill him, although she might as well have.”

  “Well, surely he died at some point. Where did he go? What happened to him?” I pulled down on my black tank top. I was getting frustrated with Mr. Riley’s enigmas.

  He didn’t answer and instead continued to stare at the portrait, looking almost as swept away by the fantasy as I was, intrigued by the beauty of this man. I looked up at it too. “I can’t believe the quality of this painting,” I said, trying for a different approach, “especially coming from the medieval era.” In all truth it was breathtaking; I had never seen a painting look so lifelike.

  Finally, he glanced down at me; he cocked his head to the side, and his light blue eyes lit up with secrets again. “Perhaps that’s because it’s not a painting…”

  “Not a painting?” I didn’t understand. It did look too good to be a painting; it was bright, vibrant, and full of life. So detailed that it looked more like a picture than a painting, but obviously they didn’t have cameras back then.

  “It was believed that Morgaina used black magic to trap Brendelon into an endless moment,” he finally continued, “but black magic only works on what is already dark; it cannot penetrate the good. The power of the Lord will always prevail over the dark demons, for those who choose to accept it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Brendelon was arrogant, prideful, selfish, and even cruel in some stories...” He pointed to the inscription of the frame, “but had a face so beautiful it belonged in a painting…”

  Oh my. It hit me. Those eyes: terrifying and unforgiving, and that prideful arrogant smile…

  “He’s in the picture,” I choked out.

  Mr. Riley smiled. “Clever girl.”

  My eyes widened in shock, and my mouth hung open. Mr. Riley chuckled again.

  “Do you really believe that the story is true?” I asked incredulously. It was too much to take in; could the knight really be right here in front of me? And though I knew it was ridiculous, I felt myself to be in his very presence.

  Mr. Riley smiled. “With all my heart,” he said barely above a whisper as he looked back up to the painting of the stunning knight. “Your grandfather believed it too,” he glanced down at me knowingly, “and it terrified him. He argued with me for years about it. He wanted me to destroy it—”

  “Destroy it!” I cried out appalled, feeling the over protectiveness take me once again. How could anyone destroy such a beautiful face?

  “I felt as repulsed by the idea as you ar
e,” he said chuckling, “but your grandfather insisted that it was cursed and nothing good can come from curses.”

  I turned to face the painting. I was shaken to the core. Could this story really be true? Not dead but stuck in an ageless moment? And while my brain shouted no! My heart kept whispering yes. And if the story was true, destroying it would be like murder.

  “Many of the knights vowed to keep him safe until the curse was broken. They took care watching him day and night, only much to their own avail, as they never learned what it was that would break the curse, or at least if they did, none of them revealed it.” He crossed him arms, pushing the glasses up again on his short round nose.

  “You think they would leave him trapped for eternity?” It made me feel ill thinking of the hundreds and hundreds of years he had been there, especially if he could have been freed.

  “So you believe, do you?” He chuckled again, crossing his arms.

  My cheeks flushed. I shook my head, of course I didn’t believe it, but the story was still horrifying.

  “I am certain at first they would have freed him, but after so much time had passed releasing him might have been dangerous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, nobody can know for certain what will happen. Perhaps he would have aged instantly and perished, or been living in a time period he knows nothing about without any friends or family to guide him, or worse, what if it took him back in time? Things with Arthur worked out well for all of Britain. If Brendelon were sent back all of that might have changed. Changing the past will always change the future. Your grandfather was worried about this too.”

  I understood what he was saying, but it seemed malicious, selfish even to leave him locked in a painting just because they feared change. The sacrifice of one for many, I supposed. I stared back up to the face and for a moment the dark eyes looked sad. I blinked, and they were back to callous. Maybe I imagined that. After all, I was on my way to the mental institute.