by Jodi Ralston
“I would hope they’ve not fled. Can you not see? Guiding them on their quest is how you complete your initiation.”
Guard blinked up at her. “That is the secret to finalizing my guardianship? Helping mortals penetrate our domain?” Father had told him a little of how such things happened in the past (for such events were rare nowadays), but he had not revealed how seekers proved worthy of the attempt. Guard thought on the ironweed, and the iron currently encircling his throat. “It is hard to believe these humans are worthy of the goddess’s blessing.”
“All spirits face the final test in a City’s Tower, but the timing is left up to the goddess Purgatory. The Council was told to watch this night for a sign, and we thought you would have a sense of it, that you would realize this is one of the few times mortals are welcome in a City, but it is no matter. They remain. You will guide them through The Crypt to The Vault at the bottom of the Tower, to shade they seek. As their worthiness to reclaim the dead is tested, so will be your worthiness to become a spirit. The trials will shear away the last of your humanity, and when you emerge triumphant, you will be Archer, Guardian Spirit of Holm of Kaskey.”
Guardian. Some part of him thrilled at those words, at real spirithood and a real name at last. Archer. A very human part of him, found in a quickened heart, a caught breath, a growing smile. Guard did not eagerly reach for his waiting bow, making sure to hold himself absolutely still, betraying nothing. Only then did the excitement quiet enough for him to process the rest of her pronouncement.
“Guardian of the City? I had thought—” Had hoped for something more . . . mobile. Not a replacement for the one who ferried spirits to and from the shores. As important as those spirits were, they rarely lasted a decade because the running water nibbled at them as it did the riverbanks. And he had so much life to live, so much world to see—which was why he had hoped there might be room for another reaper in this City. Though not tethered to the small but rapidly growing mortal town across the river, of late Holm had seen more traffic in death. He had hoped for a position like Mace’s at the new reaper’s side.
Hoped.
Mother pulled her hand from his, her face shadowed by her hood, but even without it, her face would be expressionless as always. “Are you ignorant of the honor Holm’s Council of Spirits will bestow upon you? Has already? You are the first mortal to take the place of a City’s guardian. Holm may be small and well protected by the river, but it is not an easy duty, especially for a human. You have proven yourself capable of the temporary position. Now you must prove yourself worthy of the permanent.”
“It is an honor I will rise to, Mother.” Guard bowed his head again.
City’s Guardian was an honor. A great honor. How could he have forgotten that?
She stepped toward the door but stopped at his side. He did not look her in the face, instead focusing on her boots, half-hidden by the hem of her red duster. She always seemed too small for her outfit, much less her designation of reaper, but the body only mattered to humans, not spirits. Mother was the toughest, most ruthless spirit he knew, especially when she disapproved of something.
But when her hand settled atop his head, he knew it for the blessing it was. A feeling of warmth spread through him, and he blinked heavily despite himself. Focusing on her words helped rein in his wayward emotions.
“Remember, Son, though Purgatory has seen this night as a milestone in your life, she has not seen your success. That is yours to earn or lose. Your fate is now linked to your charges’ quest.”
Then she stalked outside to the welcoming whicker of Susurrus.
Guard rose and almost leapt over the raised threshold. Too late. Mother had galloped off, bursting herself and her mount into red smoke once she reached the mouth of West Arcade. She avoided the exit at the far end, instead surging up through the opening where ghouls had once leapt down upon his foster-father, when they had killed him.
He flinched at the memory.
And startled at a touch on his shoulder: Mace leaning down in her saddle. “Don’t worry, Future Archer. I know you fear boredom in this little City, but once you are a spirit, you’ll no longer be plagued with that or other human emotions. There is only duty.”
Duty. Duty had assigned him, through the Council, his foster-parents. Duty had allowed for a single day of mourning for a lost comrade.
That ceremony had made things worse, sharper, because it had been too brief.
By human standards, not spirit.
If Fuller were here today . . . he would have left as quickly as Swift herself.
“Did you hear me, Future Archer? Tip your head back; I want to get that troublesome bit of metal off your throat.”
As soon as he complied, her blade moved, a slick of gray slanting upward. She was already resheathing her vanilla-like-scented bone-wood sword by the time he caught the shorn collar in his gloves.
“Oh, and take this.”
He accepted the roll of thick, old paper but didn’t open it.
“The map only covers The Second Trial of The Crypt, but Swift thought it might help you. Now I must follow my charge to where we will watch and await your return. We will not be far, just outside The City. I will see that nothing happens to it in your absence. Good luck, Future Archer.” She tipped her head and kneed her bayard forward.
She disappeared the same way his mother had gone, aetherizing herself and her horse.
And then Guard was alone.
With a map his mother had given him. With a future name more solid than the broken metal in his hand. And with a future purpose, which while not perfect, was still one he longed to earn. Spirithood. Guardianship. Honor. Duty.
So when he returned to his home, he crossed the short way to the wall opposite the door, tossed aside the blankets that were his occasional bed, and lifted the trapdoor over his cache. He placed inside the iron until he could properly dispose of it, taking care to wrap it in bone-wood cloth so when he was a full spirit he could safely touch it. Then he pulled out his bag and removed from it what he might need. He would travel light. The map and a few other items went into a magically expandable pouch. He secured it to the belt over his right hip. On his right leg, he strapped on a sheathed bone-wood knife. And this time, he remembered to add his bone-wood short sword over his left hip. But it was his bow he retrieved and squeezed and smiled over.
By the time a new night fell, he would no longer be mortal.
He’d be Guardian Spirit of the City of Dead, Holm of Kaskey. He’d be . . .
“Archer,” he breathed.
CHAPTER 3
Guard found his charges arguing over the corpse. Percy was for taking it back and trying the next day with a real spirit, but Lydia was shaking her head, rummaging through the iron-smelling contents of her bag and ignoring the slide of the leather-bound book on her lap toward the cobblestones.
Guard pushed back his gray hood and approached.
She spotted him before he could speak.
“You!” Lydia shouted. She stood, the book striking the stones of the forecourt, a jar of iron dust clutched in her gloved fist. Percy stepped around her to block her (partly) from view.
“Come with me, Mortal Seekers,” Guard said. “Leave your iron here.”
“Just you wait.” She dropped to her knees and groped in her bag without lowering her gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere.”
The iron remained in her hand.
“Dear—” Percy glanced over his shoulder. “Lydia, that won’t work. I’m not even sure a spirit ring would threaten the likes of him.”
Guard stilled, thinking, A ring.
She rose, leaving the iron dust on the cobblestones, having replaced it with her muff. “That may not, Percy, but this will.” She pulled from the furry hand warmer a small revolver. “He’s mortal, isn’t he? If he’s not a spirit, this will do very well.”
“When did you tuck that in there, Lydia?” Her male stared at the hand warmer dangling from her wrist by its strap. Then his gaze l
ifted to her weapon. “And who taught you to shoot?”
“Ravenscar. It is his, and he had me practice on it every weekend.” She moved around her staring companion. “I am ready for your obedience or your wrath, False Spirit.” She cocked the gun and steadied her aim. “But in no way am I leaving without my fiancé’s shade.”
Guard was still stuck on the unexpected threat of the ring. For years, he had been fed on aether-laced spirit breath, but he was not a full spirit. Would that be enough to save him from being bound to a spirit ring and its bearer? His right hand tightened on the bow. At the moment, the difference between mortality and immortality felt very slight, slighter than a magicked iron band about a finger.
But remembering the collar of normal iron and the ironweed net, he thought a cambion stood in no danger.
But he wasn’t sure.
Guard peered at their bag, straining his senses, and gained nothing.
No spirit could sense a ring, despite its iron content, until it was too late.
But why would they not wield it against him in the first place?
Guard turned his gaze to the weapon aimed at his chest. And as uncertain as he was about the ring, and their possession of one, he was even less certain that bone-wood cloth fibers would protect him against bullets as it well as it did ghoul claws and teeth. He had yet to test mortal weapons on his clothing on any account. He fought the urge to draw his duster tighter about himself.
Instead, he widened his stance to seem imposing and kept any trace of emotion from his face. He refused to betray a touch of fear or doubt, heavy as a collar about the throat, because he needed them, their quest—as much as they needed him to retrieve their shade. Remember that. “I have come to guide you to through The Crypt so you can reclaim the shade of your intended spouse, Lydia.” What had he seen other humans do to seal deals? Shake hands? Hers were busy with a weapon. Bow? So he did.
When he lifted his head, her gun was lowered to below his midsection. Not the most comforting response.
“Why?” she asked. “Why did you change your mind?”
“You shouldn’t trust him, Lydia. It might be a trick.”
While Guard disliked revealing secrets, his or others’, he did not lie easily. Not like humans did. So he told them the truth: their success was his success now.
By the end of his explanation, the gun had dipped until it was pointed at the ground. A better direction for it.
“Dear.” Percy covered her hand with his own. “Careful.”
“Oh. I know what I am doing.” She uncocked it and stuffed it and her gloved hands inside her muff. “What do we need to do to prepare, Guide?”
Good. They were moving in the right direction now.
“You must do as I ask, Seekers. Leave your iron behind.” And on second thought: “And that weapon.” Guard shifted his bow to his left hand, pushed his duster off his pouch, and loosened the flap. “You only need to bring that with which you will summon your shade and that which will contain him. I have everything else we need in here.”
She crept closer, but Percy caught her arm. “Lydia! You can’t trust him!”
“As your guide, it would defeat my purpose to harm you.”
“Do you hear that? Besides, spirits cannot lie.”
“Pledge it three times, and I might believe you.”
“Oh, Perce!” She shook his arm off. “Ravenscar said spirits cannot lie. Not without harming themselves or turning themselves into a ghoul.”
Not true, but so went most human knowledge of things beyond their narrow range of experiences. Guard only cared to correct one misapprehension, though, for it disgusted him. “A spirit cannot turn into another spirit, much less a ghoul, which is not one.” He almost shuddered at the thought.
“Oh.”
“He’s not a spirit, Lydia.”
“Well, not yet. Not until we succeed, right?”
At Guard’s nod, she knelt down, replaced her iron dust and muff in her bag, and picked up the fallen book—her fiancé’s journal? It was filled with drawings and handwritten notes. She smoothed a page. Then she set it aside and began rummaging in her bag.
Hopefully not for something stronger than iron.
Such as the casually mentioned spirit ring.
Guard watched her carefully, but once again, her companion tried to block his view. Percy said, “I still want you to swear it thrice, Spi—whatever you are: you will not harm us, or we will not go.”
Lydia rolled her eyes and concentrated on moving items (none of which were iron-related) into a small, knit bag that resembled a sock. Though Guard suspected it mattered little to her, he obeyed her companion’s dictate to forestall another delay from ignorance and argument. Doing so caused a smile to flit across her lips. Then, equipped with her fiancé’s journal, the small bag (smelling of herbs), and an empty, lidded jar (for holding the shade), she marched across to him.
She had tucked the gun-holding muff in the bag during her preparations, but it did not stay there. Unknown to her, her companion retrieved the weapon. He defiantly met Guard’s eye as he slid it into his coat pocket.
It was not worth arguing over. Besides, he was the lesser threat.
Lydia was busy peeking inside the pouch he held open. “There doesn’t seem to be much room.”
“It is made of bone-wood fibers.” When that gained him a curious look, he explained to her, “The inclusion of such fibers means a bag holds more than it appears to.”
“But it does not hold food. And you have no water canteen. Is the journey so short?”
Food? Water? How often did normal mortals eat and drink? He only needed mortal food and drink once a week. So, since they were so very mortal . . . once a day? Surely they had already taken care of those needs before coming here this night. “One does not linger in The Crypt.”
“Good, for I’m in enough trouble as it is for spending the night with a man.” She looked up at Guard. “Men. Our parents would force us—Percy and me—to marry to preserve my honor.”
Something fell behind her, pinging against the stone, and she whirled around. “What are you doing, Percy?”
“Nothing.” His face was red, everywhere, with emotion. But Guard had seen what he had swiped from the stones and placed in his coat pocket. An extra bullet. Probably to join several others. Percy closed their travel bag and set it beside the shrouded corpse. “Just making sure we have everything. I don’t like leaving behind the—the lantern. I like a lot of . . . light.”
“You heard our guide. Bring nothing else.”
An order Percy was already disobeying. The gun was one thing, but what other deception might he be up to, since he found it so easy to lie? Perhaps he should not be so easily dismissed. “If you have a spirit ring,” Guard suggested, “you must leave it behind.”
“This is our only ring.” Lydia pulled off her left glove, fiddled with something on her finger, and offered up her hand for inspection. On her ring finger was jewelry: a black stone set inside red. The black stone looked like a raven with elevated wings and about to take flight; the rectangular red gem was perhaps a ruby. The band looked made of gold. Harmless mortal jewelry. “It is my fiancé’s, from his mother. It was meant for his sister, but bad spirits snatched her up eighteen years ago when she was but three and he nine. Speaking of which, do we take . . . ” She looked over her shoulder. Her gaze stole toward the corpse. “ . . . him?”
“No. We deliver his shade to his body.”
“But will . . . he be safe here?”
“Nothing will happen to his body during your quest. The spirits will ensure that.”
She nodded, turned the ring upside down, and pulled back on her glove. Then, taking hold of his pouch’s lip, she eased one corner of the journal inside. In a gray, obscuring haze, it slid in easily, and she laughed. “Oh, how nice!” Squinting, she tugged the “shrinking” journal back out halfway before pushing it back in, fascinated by how the journal’s size would adjust and readjust, fascinated by how the gray
pouch’s cloth would expand without changing size, even at the mouth. “I would love one of those when I travel, for I have ever so many dresses and not enough room for them all. Do they come in other colors?”
“It’s dyed.”
“How nice! Though pink or green would be even nicer.” She tugged on the journal again. “You should see this, Perce!”
“I’d rather we held onto our items, Lydia. For safety’s sake.”
Lydia rolled her eyes, secured the journal, and added her other items. “Never mind him.” She lowered her voice. “You should have heard how he complained all the way here, enough to set the strongest head to pounding, until, well, I let him have his way and he played bait. Which, I, uhm, you understand was a misunderstanding now, Good Spirit? Ahem, yes, well.” She stepped back, smiled over her shoulder at her glaring companion, and raised her voice, “Lead the way, Guide—or, do you have a name?”
At last. Guard shook his head, returned his bow to his right hand, and started across the forecourt. Fortunately, they took the hint and scampered after. He never realized how hard it was to herd humans, even toward their own declared goal, until he had to try; they had to talk over everything and were so easily distracted. Hopefully, they would be more manageable in The Crypt, where it really mattered. Realizing more distractions lay dead ahead, he shortened his stride once he reached the entrance to The City; this way, they fell in at his side, Lydia nearest. Even three abreast, they had ample room as they walked down West Arcade.
“You see? He’s won’t answer,” Percy said. “Why do you even ask?”
Lydia shot Guard a sly look. “I could compel him by asking three times.”
“He’s not a spirit, remember?”
“I will be,” Guard reminded them, “after we succeed tonight.”
“Such confidence!” She beat on her companion’s shoulder with a gloved fist. “You should try it on for size.”
“I never said we couldn’t—I just said we shouldn’t—that you should have left it in my hands. This place is not for the faint of heart.”
