THE KING’S WHISPER
Book Two of the Vanguards of Viridor
A Novel
T.S. Cleveland
Copyright © 2018 Victoria Skye Cleveland
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the materials or artwork herein is prohibited. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is available in print at many online retailers.
The King’s Whisper is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
OTHER BOOKS BY T.S. CLEVELAND
The Sun Guardian Book One of the Vanguards of Viridor
The King’s Whisper Book two of the Vanguards of Viridor
For Bernie, because Effie would be lost without her.
And the reader of this story would be, too.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part One: The Flute
1 - Pleasantly Stirred
2 - Wolf Run
3 - The Generosity of a King
4 - The Unusual Habits of Fruit Bandits
5 - Shallow Wounds
6 - Twisted
7 - The Disagreeable Flautist
8 - Hard and Unmistakable
9 - A Simple Trade
10 - Peculiar Aches
11 - Captain Ellison Quinn
12 - Thawing
13 - Crescendo
Part Two: The Whisper
14 - The Most Dangerous Thing in the Woods
15 - Very Bad Bandits
16 - A Good Plan
17 - The Eye Never Lies
18 - Exponential Gumption
19 - Honey Trap
20 - Gut Feeling
21 - Erne Bluehawke’s Illumination
22 - Fated
23 - The Bandit King
About the Author
Part One: The Flute
1 - Pleasantly Stirred
Felix was worried. He was trying to act as if he wasn’t, but it was a difficult task when the subject of his worry was hobbling about the room like nothing was amiss. He flexed his fingers anxiously as he watched Merric pace unevenly across the floor in an equally worried frenzy. But while Felix was worried for Merric’s health, Merric was worried over the whereabouts of their companions, the companions who should have been in the neighboring room, but were, for the time being, leaving the knocks on their door unanswered.
“If he’s left—” Merric fretted, grimacing as he turned on his bad leg. He’d left his newly acquired cane leaning against the bed, and Felix’s eyes darted to it. He wondered if it was his place to suggest Merric make use of it. If he planned on burning a path in the rug from the friction of his frantic feet, he could at least use the cane and avoid putting more stress on his injury.
“All we know is that they aren’t in their room,” Felix said, in what he considered to be his most calming tone. He had several tones for fulfilling several purposes, a habit picked up from a life of dealing with drunken tavern patrons. “They could be taking a walk together. Or perhaps they are in their room and are otherwise occupied.” He smiled at the thought. Vivid and Scorch had been dancing around one another the entire time he had been traveling with them, and he wasn’t surprised when they’d finally appeared to have consummated their feelings earlier that morning. Merric had been happy to leave them alone, when their faces were flushed and their laces were messily tied, but now the hour was late, Vivid and Scorch had missed lunch and dinner, and the guardian apprentice limping around the room was thin on patience and well wishes.
“Scorch has to return with us tomorrow,” Merric carried on, wincing past the obvious pain it caused him to move around so heatedly. “He can’t just disappear into the night.” He turned on his heel and his face paled to a sickly white.
Felix leapt from his huddle on the bed and was at his side in seconds, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Will you sit down? You can agonize just as well while you’re sitting.”
“I’m fine,” Merric grumbled, but he let Felix lead him to the bed anyway. He even let Felix prop his leg up onto the mattress and push him back into the pillows. Nestled and finally off his feet, he sighed. “He should come back to the guild with me.” His voice was softer now that he wasn’t walking, but the aggravated edge to it remained. “He saved the queen’s life, and he should be there to be honored for it. It’s where he belongs. It’s his home.”
Felix positioned himself beside Merric, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, an auburn rogue that had escaped the pushed back styling of its brethren. “Scorch didn’t save the queen by himself,” he reminded him gently. “I seem to remember another guardian in that courtyard, fighting in the rain, looking as fierce as any elemental I’ve ever met.”
Merric frowned at him. “Guardian apprentice,” he corrected, running a thumb carefully over Felix’s cheek and resting it on the bruise beneath his eye. “And I remember a flautist throwing himself into trouble when he should have been safely at home, out of harm’s way.”
“It’s only a black eye,” Felix said, holding onto Merric’s wrist and pulling his hand forward to kiss. “I should have died yesterday and all I have is a black eye. Tell me, do I look dangerous, like a well-worn adventurer?” He put on his best scowl, but he knew it was no good—he had practiced it in the looking glass earlier, to no avail. No matter how much he scrunched up his eyebrows, his soft curls and slender frame kept him looking decidedly nonthreatening and far more innocent than he felt.
“You are a fearsome adventurer,” Merric claimed, scooting closer on the bed. “But I’m never letting you get hurt again.”
Felix leaned into his touch and closed his eyes. He was a flautist. He knew how to entertain a tavern, not wield a sword. There was no elemental power coursing through his veins. There was nothing miraculous about him at all, no reason why he should have survived the battle in the courtyard, when he’d been surrounded by flying rocks and torrential winds and spinning assassin blades. The fact that he had survived, with little more than some swelling around his eye, was a fact he was still trying to process, especially when the man beside him, a guild-trained fighter, had suffered a far worse injury.
When he opened his eyes, Merric was watching him with parted lips, his breath fanning warm and rapid against Felix’s cheek. If they’d not been sharing sleeping space for the past week, exchanging kisses and embraces, he might have mistaken the expression as a prelude to passion. But as it was, Felix knew there was another reason behind Merric’s suddenly ruddy complexion and labored breathing.
“You’ve been up too much on your leg, I think,” he assessed, running his fingers down Merric’s chest. They were clothed lightly, the both of them, in long sleep shirts provided by Queen Bellamy, and the rich fabric was soft beneath his touch. He let his hand trace down the crook of Merric’s hip, dipping into the crease of his bothered leg, then skirting it along his bare thigh. “How badly does it hurt?”
“Only a little,” Merric lied.
Felix hadn’t seen it happen, but the tale had been regaled to him the night before, when the physician had come to tend their injuries. In the midst of the battle with Axum and his league of elemental assassins, an Air had
caught Merric up in a gale of wind and smashed him into a tree, his leg taking the brunt of the damage. Upon examination, the physician told him his ailment would likely sort itself out in time, but that he might require the use of a cane until it no longer hurt him to walk. He was young and strong and sure to recover shortly—so the woman had said—but Felix wasn’t quite as convinced, and he could tell Merric wasn’t either.
“Where is the salve?” he asked, soothing the embarrassment of his question by following it with a kiss.
Merric relaxed marginally against the press of Felix’s lips, but he still gritted his teeth when he answered, “By the bath.”
Felix kissed him again before rising from the bed and pattering toward the adjacent room. He found the jar of numbing salve on the floor beside the large copper tub. When he re-entered the bedchamber, Merric had graduated to lying flat on his back, his hands resting on his chest. His bright green eyes tracked Felix’s approach.
“Would you like to do it or shall I?” Felix asked, lowering himself onto the mattress and presenting the jar shyly. For a moment, he thought Merric would refuse the gesture altogether. When Merric smiled—a small, pained expression—it was a relief to his heart. All Felix truly wanted was to help.
“Will you do it?” Merric asked, and Felix knew it took a lot out of him. To need someone else, to let someone see him in pain, it wasn’t a side of Merric many had been privy to. A Guardian of the Guild was tough, too skilled to be hurt and too proud to admit weakness. But Felix had never thought of Merric as weak, not since the first moment they’d met. Merric had been standing tall beside the Guild River, offering Scorch his comfort and camaraderie, and as soon as their eyes had met, Felix knew that the guildmaster’s son was no typical guardian. Like Scorch, he was different. Felix had scarcely left his side since that moment, and was still trying desperately to figure out what it was that made him stand apart.
“Of course,” Felix answered, already twisting open the jar. His knowledge of medicinals wasn’t extensive, but the queen’s physician had explained the given salve would help alleviate Merric’s pain, and that’s all he needed to know. Since seeing Merric limping toward him in the courtyard, soaking wet and splattered with blood, he had been trying to erase the pain written on his handsome features. If rubbing his bare, muscular legs would help lessen any of his discomfort, Felix was only too eager to assist.
Merric inhaled roughly at the first dollop of cool salve on his skin. “It’s cold,” he complained, squirming beneath Felix’s hands.
“Give it a moment.” He began working his fingers gently down Merric’s thigh and around to his hip, where the worst of the pain seemed to radiate. “You shouldn’t neglect your cane,” he hushed as he rubbed deep, methodical circles into the meat of Merric’s thigh. Whether it was his place or not, he had to say it. “Your leg might get worse if you don’t use it.”
“I don’t need it,” Merric replied, as predicted. “I’m not a cripple.”
Felix massaged the salve further down his thigh, until Merric seized up beneath him, a cry of pain making Felix unhand him at once, startled. “I’m sorry!” he gasped.
Merric’s breaths were ragged, but he forced a smile onto his face. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”
Felix shook his head, tried to push the salve into Merric’s hand. “Maybe you should do it instead. I’m no good at this. I’m hurting you.”
“No, really. I want you to do it,” Merric insisted, his eyes seeking Felix’s. “I like the way you touch me.”
As he was apt to do, Felix blushed, but when Merric pulled him down, he didn’t resist. Merric kissed him, a firm and assuring brush of lips that had Felix willing to try again. He sat up and dug more salve from the jar, trying not to smile too hard. When he put his hands back on Merric’s leg, it was with nervous tenderness, but there were no more shouts of pain from the man beneath him. Whether he was holding it in or the salve was finally beginning to work, Felix couldn’t tell.
“He should really come back to the guild with me,” Merric began again after a minute of silence.
Felix looked up from his handful of leg with an amused snort. “Don’t worry so much about Scorch. He has to follow his own path.”
“He’s not following a path, he’s following an assassin. A short assassin with a bad attitude, no less.”
“He’s following his heart,” Felix said. He ran his fingertips from the top of Merric’s thigh to his knee, eliciting a shiver. “We should all be so bold.”
Merric pushed himself up from the pillows and took the jar from Felix’s hand, setting it aside. “You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
It was strange. Felix had only known Merric for a short time, but they already clung together, knowing it would hurt to separate. He wondered, studying the earnest curve of Merric’s mouth and the faintly upturned slope of his nose, if the sensation knocking around his stomach might be love. In the stories he sang, in the melodies he played, love was always a colossal, impossible to ignore feeling that beat insanity into its victims’ heads and poured purpose into their every action. It was the catalyst for all his favorite tales, and it was always identifiable and obvious to the heroes and heroines. But stories, Felix well knew, were exaggerations. People didn’t want to hear about everyday truths, they wanted to escape into lives better than their own. So didn’t it make sense for love to be the same? Looking at Merric, being near him, it made him feel warm, but he was never impassioned by it. Merric made him happy, but never deliriously so. His kisses stirred him pleasantly, but they didn’t make him wild with need. Maybe the simple truth was that people didn’t ever feel wildly for one another. Maybe they only felt pleasantly stirred and that was all. Maybe what he was feeling was love, and he was just too naïve and dreamy-headed to realize it for what it was.
“Felix?”
Felix blinked away his spell of introspection and tried to focus. “Y-you want me to come back to the guild with you? Are you sure?”
“Your village is right down the road anyway,” Merric said, taking Felix’s hands in his. “Come back with me. I want you there.”
“But what would I do?” asked Felix. “The guild is no place for a flautist. I’d be in the way.”
“Nonsense. You can play your flute for all the miserable apprentices.”
“Aren’t you a miserable apprentice?”
“Hopefully not for much longer,” Merric laughed, and the smile on his face was so genuine, so missed, that Felix couldn’t resist returning it. “Please say you’ll join me.” He sank his fingers into Felix’s thick curls. “I don’t want to say goodbye to you yet.”
He brought their lips together in another kiss, one hand secured in Felix’s hair and the other falling gently to his knee. Felix let himself be coaxed to his back, his legs parting and making room for Merric to lie between.
“Come home with me,” Merric whispered against his mouth, and between the comfort of his weight and the sweet trail of his words, his hands, his eyes, Felix found he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to say no.
The next morning, Felix stood with his head bowed as Queen Bellamy placed a sword in Merric’s hands.
“For your service and bravery, I gift you a sword of the Royal Sentinel.”
The weapon was shiny and expertly crafted, with a rose-gold hilt and the queen’s sigil emblazoned on the grip. Merric couldn’t bow properly, not with his wounded leg, but he nodded deeply, and Felix felt a sting of pride. Though technically still an apprentice, and technically not acting under an official guardianship, Merric had acted bravely. He had shielded Felix’s body with his own and battled with rabid elementals to protect the queen. It had been like a dream, like a song, and Felix had started composing a melody in his head the instant Merric had pulled him from beneath the pile of bodies. He was still working on it now, even as the Queen of Viridor continued her praiseful litany.
He studied Queen Bellamy discreetly, through the tumble of hair falling over his forehead, wondering if it would
be too pedestrian to refer to her eyes as “honeyed” in a song, or if he should reach for a loftier likeness. Visions of honeycombs and autumn moons and soft sunrises were swimming in his head until the inspiration for his poetry abruptly turned her attention away from the courageous guardian apprentice and looked toward him instead.
The wistful melody in his head stopped playing and he lowered his eyes from the queen’s honeyed gaze—yes, honeyed was really the best descriptor—and waited for her fleeting interest in him to pass. Surely, her eyes were only resting on him on their way to something far more deserving of her attention. The potted plant behind him, for example.
“Felix, for your service and bravery, I gift you this.”
He heard her words, but didn’t understand. When Axum had attacked the palace, Felix had hidden behind Merric, and then he’d concealed himself beneath a pile of dead assassins to keep safe until the danger passed. Afterward, he had helped a limping Merric reach the carriages, but that had been the beginning and end of his heroics.
Standing before Queen Bellamy now made him feel like a fraud. His eye was blackened from an elemental’s elbow, but he had not fought, he had not served, and he had not been brave. He had been a crutch for Merric until the physician had supplied him with a proper cane. He was a flautist who would compose a song of the battle, but would keep himself solidly out of the story. He didn’t belong there. He’d done nothing to earn a single line of lyric, let alone a gift from the queen.
But she smiled at him and laid her hand on his arm until he unclenched his fist, and then she placed in his open palm a flute. It was silver and covered in a delicate design of razor-thin budding vines, winding up its body and blooming into a moonflower on the curved lip plate. The instrument was slim and light in his hands, and his fingers closed around it covetously.
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