Guardian

by P B Hughes

  “So,” said Gregory slowly, “I guess I should say I’m sorry. My mood has been in the gutter, I guess. I just hate this city, and I hate this rain. And I hate the Empire for making us do this. Nera being a twit hasn’t helped, either. But you, you don’t deserve to be stepped on. Taking care of me this morning, that was nice.”

  “We have a mission, Gregory—a responsibility to our kingdom and people. If we don’t do it, then who will?”

  “I know all that,” said Gregory. “For the Empire and its interests! But sometimes I want to ask them, what about my interests? Never mind those. It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

  “No, it does matter,” said Martha quickly, seeing that she had annoyed him with her response. “And I accept your apology. Don’t worry, Gregory; all is forgiven.”

  Though he tried not to, Gregory pouted. He had apologized and was given another lecture.

  “You know,” said Martha, “I’m just glad you didn’t try to steal bread from Sir Weston. Have you seen him sleep? The man’s eyes stay open.”

  A smile tugged at Gregory’s mouth.

  Martha leaned forward, eyes widening. “Can you imagine? He would have asked you for a duel.”

  “Why do you think I took your bread and not his? He would have had my head.”

  Martha stifled a giggle. “Oh, what an odd fellow. But I like him.” Her smile vanished, and she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “You know,” she said slowly, “if you’re bored, I could come sit next to you. Maybe read out loud.”

  Gregory felt his skin turn hot. He realized, with quite suddenness, that they were all alone. For over an hour, no less. Yet all he could think about was his wounded pride, brooding over how angry he was at Nera.

  What a waste of time! he thought to himself.

  He sat up and brushed the floor next to him with his sleeve. “Here, I found the perfect spot.”

  “Why thank you,” Martha rose from her chair and sat down next to him, leaning against the crook of his arm. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but at her touch, it felt like electricity passed through his body.

  She began to read, but he paid no attention. He only watched her. Daniel always teased him that he would marry Martha one day, but he would always brush him off. Martha was only a friend; perhaps his best friend. But then there was that night at the Autumn Ball. What fun they had dancing and laughing! It felt so natural. It was as if the world melted away, leaving only him and Martha on the dance floor, the sea of people around them merely a backdrop to a fabulous painting. It was then that he had started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was supposed to be with her after all.

  Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her. That would tell him the answer, he decided. He hadn’t kissed a girl before, but he knew it was supposed to be like magic. And if he was ever going to do it, there, in the dim light with no one around to ruin the moment, it seemed like the perfect time.

  There was a deep roll of thunder that shook the room; the rain roared against the glass.

  Martha laughed at something in the book and turned to him. They locked eyes, and her voice trailed off. He wondered if she could sense his thoughts.

  He felt silly. Embarrassed, he started to pull away. But she placed her hand on his. Slowly, her eyes rose. She was perfect, he thought, sitting there beside him, brow scrunched in a look that told him she was his.

  And then he leaned toward her.

  The door at the top of the stairs flew open; they were met by a blast of freezing air.

  The two of them tore apart, lurching backward across the floor.

  “News!” cried Sir Weston. He flew down the stairs two at a time, cheeks flushed, wet hair matted against his head. “An explosion—did you not hear it?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” snapped Gregory, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

  Just my luck, he thought. Right when I try to make a move.

  “I heard thunder a moment ago,” said Martha, standing. “Was that it?”

  “That was no thunder,” Sir Weston replied. “That was an explosion! Our compatriots are in trouble—come, we must render aid.”

  Chapter 21

  It was a strange sensation, running out into the frigid downpour and into the grid of darkened streets. Gregory felt disembodied, as if, instead of following behind Sir Weston and Martha, he watched them all from atop the shadowed recesses of the rooftops that walled their way.

  The boy below is helpless, he thought of himself, condemning his skinny frame and exposed head of golden hair that seemed to glow like a beacon amidst a canvas of stone, wood, and black water. He can’t produce a flame; he can’t protect himself.

  But he has his knife, he mused, remembering Mordecai’s speech about how he must learn to protect himself through other means than Miraclism. He watched his hand clutch his belt, thinking it madness that they left the safety of the basement just in case Nera, Jelani, and Barnabas needed aid. But Sir Weston seemed so sure, so convinced that they were in dire straits, that Gregory knew the knight would leave with or without them.

  And then I’d have to rescue Sir Weston, too, Gregory thought. The knight was too brazen. Gregory imagined him being arrested in the street for shouting, decrying the Obsidian Plague openly when he could not locate his ‘endangered’ companions. Just another jester in need of liberating.

  Gregory wished his friends would see things his way. They needed to be more concerned for their own skin and less for the good of the Empire. We should have taken the gold, headed home with our pockets lined, and then lived the good life. Curse this fool’s errand! He used to think that living the good life included his friends.

  But now he wondered if his friends were just holding him back.

  The city was clear of guards, of people—of all life, for that matter. There wasn’t even a rat in the flooded streets. Even the rats aren’t as miserable as I am, Gregory brooded silently to himself. I bet Nera and Jelani have already taken shelter and we’re just wandering about for no reason.

  But the thought was premature. They rounded a corner and collided with a young man, and all of them were knocked into the gutter.

  The man jumped up. His hood fell back revealing a wet tangle of inky hair and wide-set, colorless eyes. A pair of silver hoop earrings dangled from his ears. Gregory could feel his terror, his pupils dilated and brow corrugated like a washboard.

  “We failed,” he sputtered, glancing to and fro frantically. “They’re coming for me. They’re coming!” He dashed down the narrow alleyway to the left.

  Gregory scrambled to his feet, watching over his shoulder as the fellow melted into the darkness.

  Sir Weston rose and offered a hand to Martha. “If he’s fleeing something, then whoever it is won’t be far behind. Quickly, we must get out of sight.” He pulled Martha behind a collection of barrels and crouched low. “Gregory,” he hissed, “hide!”

  Gregory stared down the way the man had come. It looked more like a tunnel than a roadway—with dwellings on both sides, black sky above and its reflection on the watery street. Something wasn’t right, he could sense it. It was as if the town had warped unnaturally into a mirage of mist and shadows; as if another world had risen from below and transposed itself on top of reality.

  “Gregory, didn’t you hear Sir Weston?” said Martha. “We need to hide!”

  Gregory ignored her, transfixed. He heard the faint sound of whispers floating toward him. There was a flicker of lightning, revealing a ghastly sight.

  A dozen figures—warriors clad in heavy, serrated armor—were rushing toward him with tremendous speed. For men so encumbered to move that quickly seemed unnatural, and Gregory knew they must be elite warriors of the Obsidian Plague. The whispers grew louder; the walls, street, and sky seemed to bend ever so slightly. Gregory could sense the soldiers’ murderous desires flying toward him like arrows. He wanted to run, but his feet remained frozen to the ground, his body shaking with overwhelming fear. They would surely crush him.

  A few feet from Gregor
y, their leader held up his broad hand, and the men pulled to a halt. He wore no helmet, and his long black hair hung wet over his shoulders.

  I’m done for, Gregory thought. What is wrong with me; why can’t I move? He braced himself, ready to be cut down right there in the street by their long, cruel blades.

  “He’s not the one,” rasped one of them.

  The leader stared at Gregory with dead, black eyes. “Which way did he go?” he asked in a low, harsh voice.

  Gregory blinked in surprise, relief flooding his veins. Their bloodlust wasn’t for him; they wanted that fellow who was running away. His eyes betrayed the lad, darting down the alleyway he had fled. The signal was all they needed. The warriors darted away, continuing their hunt.

  Gregory watched them disappear, ashamed at his momentary paralysis; his muteness. He was useless, and he knew it.

  “My boy,” said Sir Weston, coming out from hiding. “There is a difference between courage and foolhardiness. And you’re walking the razor’s edge!”

  “Why didn’t you hide, Gregory?” said Martha, her voice shaking with anxiety. “You could have been killed.”

  “I-I don’t know,” he said. “I just lost control.”

  “You cannot afford to lose control again,” said Sir Weston with a severity Gregory had never heard from the knight. “Thank your lucky stars they did not murder you.”

  A horrified scream interrupted them, sending a ripple down Gregory’s spine. Martha clutched his hand. There was no question as to whom the scream belonged. The young man had finally been captured.

  Sir Weston’s skin turned white and he uttered an old proverb: “Woe to the hunted man, to the one no better than a beast.” He grabbed Gregory’s bicep. “We are on a hunt of our own. Come, we near our friends—I can feel it.”

  They set off at a trot through the back alleys. Guilt set in as they moved. I gave the man up, Gregory thought to himself. With a flicker of my eyes, I gave him up. But what else was I supposed to do? I am not strong enough to fight soldiers like that! And if I had lied, they would have figured it out and killed me in his place.

  For a reason Gregory could not explain, he thought of his crown. Suddenly, a flood of thoughts hit him, so accusatory it seemed as if they came from a judge sitting before him: Weakling! You are nothing. You have a king’s crown and yet you hide it for fear of judgment from your friends. Put it on, coward. Stop living like a frightened mouse. It’s yours. It will give you strength, it will give you courage, it will give you power. Who is Sir Weston that he should reprimand you? Who is Nera that she should question you? It’s time to be a man. Take what is yours!

  The judgment went on like that as they hurried through the streets. So lost was he that he forgot the burn in his lungs, the icy sweat pouring down his back, the fear in his limbs. And when they entered a broad street, he did not notice the figures up ahead limping toward them.

  Sir Weston placed a hand against Gregory’s chest, snapping him back to reality. With a jolt, he realized the figures were Jelani, Barnabas, and Geoffrey. Jelani carried a bundle in his arms, and the front of his cloak was soaked in blood.

  Gregory’s heart jumped into his throat. It wasn’t a bundle in Jelani’s arms; it was Nera.

  Chapter 22

  Gregory threw open the cellar door. The rest of them stumbled down the stairs, Jelani at the lead, cradling Nera’s limp body. Immediately, Gregory could see Nera’s cloak had been burned through in many places, revealing scorched flesh beneath. Geoffrey reported that she had broken her back along with both arms and several ribs. She was hanging by a thread. Gregory could tell the burns did not come from a Miraclist; no, they were too haphazard, entirely random.

  “I can’t believe it,” Barnabas cried as Jelani set her on the floor. “Little Nera, caught in that explosion. I never thought she’d be a casualty in all this.”

  Jelani was silent, his face grim as Barnabas hovered over his niece.

  “What will my brother say?” Barnabas wailed. “His baby girl, dead on my watch!”

  “Stop it!” Martha snapped. “She’s not dead—not yet.”

  “Nera’s alive?” said Barnabas. “But how?”

  Martha began to pour healing mist over Nera’s body. “Miraclists are more durable than an average human,” she said. “Now, please, step back. I need space.”

  What happened next, Gregory had never seen before. Jelani, like a furious grizzly bear, turned on Barnabas, his face contorted with rage. He snatched the man by the front of his cloak and slammed him against the wall.

  “You!” Jelani roared. “You did this. You took the bomb!”

  Martha’s head shot up; she eyed Jelani fearfully.

  Barnabas cowered beneath Jelani’s ire, shielding his face with his arm. “I swear to you on my good mother’s grave, I knew nothing of a bomb. I swear it!”

  “Liar!” Jelani cried. “I could see it in your eyes when it exploded. I heard it on your breath—you knew it was a bomb. It could have been anything—it could have been a Miraclist attack, it could have been a gaseous leak—but you said it was a bomb!” He shook Barnabas mightily. “How did you know?”

  “Jelani, please,” said Sir Weston.

  Jelani stayed the knight with his free hand. “Do you think you are safe simply because you are Nera’s uncle? I swear to you, if you are in league with the Plague, I will end your life swiftly. Now, speak!”

  “I’m not, I’m not!” Barnabas sputtered. He closed his eyes, his chest heaving.

  Jelani shook him. “Speak!”

  “All right, all right! I’ll tell you what I know. Last night, at the pub, I might have said too much. I was just so excited that—”

  “What did you say?” Jelani growled.

  “I told a few fellows, young men, earnest in their desire to rid this city of the Plague, what we were planning. I thought they could be trusted!”

  Jelani’s eyes widened in disbelief. “By all that is holy!”

  “What exactly did you say?” Gregory inserted.

  “Just that we were stealing a spider gear.”

  “And what of our bomb?” asked Jelani.

  “Y-yes, come to think of it. I might have mentioned it. But I swear, I thought they were allies. I told them our plan in hopes they might be of help, that’s all. They said they had a plan to kill Maloch.”

  “And what was that plan?”

  “They didn’t say exactly. Said it would compromise their mission if I knew.”

  Jelani threw his head back and gave a mocking laugh. “Of course!”

  “Don’t you see?” said Gregory, keen on their artifice. “You didn’t walk in on their trap. You were the trap. They used Nera as bait. One of them likely slipped the information to the Plague in hopes that Maloch himself would come. A Miraclist thief? The Cythe couldn’t resist.”

  Realization flooded Barnabas’ eyes. “Yes, that must be it. They used us. The rats used us!”

  “Then who gave them the bomb?” Gregory asked.

  “I don’t know!”

  “I promise,” Jelani spat, “if Nera dies because of your wagging tongue—”

  “No,” said Barnabas quickly. “No, it wasn’t supposed to be her. I never mentioned she was a Miraclist. Besides, they thought it would be me, remember? I was the one who was supposed to sneak into the warehouse, not her!”

  “Let him alone,” said Geoffrey, suddenly. “He speaks the truth. I was the one who stole the bomb, not Barnabas.”

  Jelani whirled around to face the young man. “You?”

  Geoffrey’s beady green eyes narrowed to slits. “Yes, me. When I found out you had that bomb, I knew what had to be done. It would be our best chance at killing Maloch. So I stole it from you and gave it to my comrades.”

  “How dare you!” Sir Weston cried, dismayed. “That was government property!”

  “Spare me,” Geoffrey scoffed. “I saw an opportunity and I took it. Everyone knows the depths of Maloch’s pride. Mutiny and thievery alone would be enough
to draw him out. Barnabas was supposed to be the bait—not the girl. The lads set the bomb up knowing full well when you would arrive. They spoke of trying to get you out before it went off, but it was an empty wish.”

  Jelani released Barnabas and shook his head in dismay. “You…you would let your friend die? How could you do such a thing?”

  “I’d kill the lot of you if it meant getting rid of that fiend,” Geoffrey sneered. “But before you break out the pitchforks, remember this: you need me. Without my help, you’ll be stuck in this cellar until you rot.”

  “The plan failed, Geoff,” said Barnabas. “We never found the gear. Looks like we’ll be rotting along with them.”

  “Wrong,” said Geoffrey. “I found the gear in her pocket—two in fact.” He held up two shiny gears between his fingers. “Her sacrifice was not in vain. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Sky-Whale to repair.”

  With that, the Geoffrey spun on his toe and slipped silently up the stairs.

  “I can’t believe it,” mumbled Barnabas. “A man thinks he has friends. At least he’s gone to fix the Whale. I won’t be able to help him with it until tomorrow. I’m absolutely bushed.”

  “We can’t bring such a fellow with us!” Sir Weston expostulated. “He’s a weasel and a traitor.”

  “At best,” said Barnabas, “he’s a fine engineer. One of the only young minds capable of understanding Chimaroo babbly-boop. He’s coming with us, though I’ll be keeping an eye on him going forward.”

  “Crooked men tolerate crooked men,” Sir Weston replied, frowning deeply.

  Nera coughed. All eyes fell on her.

  “She’s going to make it,” Martha said, smiling weakly. “She has serious burns, a concussion, and too many broken bones to count. But she’s alive. I’ll have her as good as new by tomorrow. But she’ll need some rest. Perhaps another day or so.”

  “Thank the heavens,” said Barnabas. “My brother would have put me in an early grave when he found out.”

  Jelani knelt beside Martha and wrapped his arms around her neck. “Thank you. I do not know where we would be without you, Martha Frost. You have healed us again and again. If we did not have you, all hope would be lost.” He pulled away and slumped down onto the floor, placing a broad hand on his brow. “I hope she can forgive me,” he muttered. “I would not have left my post, but those guards were going to butcher you, Barnabas. I had to protect you.”