by Jodi Ralston
But not much of one.
The sand did not fall through, being held back by some invisible force. Only a sliver of blackness, about an inch wide, was left.
Enough. While Lydia sagged in place, dropping her gun, and Shalott grabbed her to pull her into his arms, Guard aetherized. He grabbed them both, turned them both, much faster than last time, and slipped them all through to safety.
CHAPTER 11
Guard swooped down the stairs and deposited his wards on the landing outside this last Trial. This time, outside the Tower, there was much less panic—and lesser sense of victory. As soon as she recovered from the transformation, Lydia retreated to the uneven white wall, where she sat, knees drawn up, head buried in her arms. She shimmered with sand, her dark hair, looser now, looked like a star-speckled sky. For the second time, Guard thought she looked beautiful, but he doubted she cared about that at the moment, not when no amount of fussing or dusting off by her companion could move her.
Finally, Shalott, his gaze on her, shuffled over to where Guard stood. Slowly, he turned his gaze to Guard, raking him up and down. Then, wiping at his dry, sand-stained mouth, he croaked something. He cleared his voice, coughed up some glowing sand, then tried again, “Not a speck on you, and I bet you aren’t even feeling anything. Lucky you.”
Guard looked down at himself. He couldn’t have done the same to them. “Maintenance comes easy to spirits. Be fortunate I was skilled enough to keep all parts of you intact.” Holding their forms while aetherized meant holding it all, not picking and choosing bits at whim.
That news inspired Shalott to physically take stock of himself, but not even the brief alarm kept his eyes long from her still form. He dropped his voice to a raspy whisper, “This Trial—so it was Ravenscar—why? I thought she would have to destroy . . . other things. Things not her true love?”
Despite his impetuous nature, the male was not entirely unobservant. The statues, in any case, left little to the imagination about Lydia’s struggles. Even for one such as Shalott.
Any hopes it might have encouraged in the male, Guard needed to destroy, far more swiftly than he had handled the mutated Shalott statue.
“Because it was the path—” At Shalott’s dramatic hand gestures and shushing sounds, followed by subsequent coughing spells, Guard lowered his voice to a whisper, too. “It was the path she had started. It was what her focus should have been. She could have lost it and failed all Trials.”
At that information, Shalott looked away, fists clenching, and then he scrubbed a hand angrily through his light blond hair. He scowled at resultant shower of sand. “You know, after these two, I’d hate to see what Temptation is about.”
“It will be the worst. She is worn down, so it will be easier to give in.” Guard had seen ghosts give in this point. After being worn down by a few years of a labor and facing the prospect of many more in the future, their temptation appeared ever the sweeter to their eyes. “Nevertheless, it must be faced.”
Shalott cast him a sidelong glance. “It would be better if she had something to eat or drink or rest on for a while.” This he did not bother to whisper.
So neither did Guard. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you? I thought that was a human emotion, Spirit.” He stomped off, as well as he could on legs that he didn’t want to bend. He groaned as he eased down the wall to sit beside her.
Guard might not have food, but he remembered Shalott’s admonition during Labor. He remembered their coats he carried in his pouch. But they did not seem particularly cold—for the windless void that this part of the Tower existed in was not as chill as winter—but then, why was Lydia huddled in on herself?
Before Guard could make his offer, she noticed she was no longer alone. She lifted her head and said, “Already? I’m ready, then. Lead onward, Guard.”
Guard’s hand dropped away from his pouch, and he stepped nearer her.
Using the wall, she stood and shuffled toward the designated wall, but she didn’t want Shalott’s touch or assistance. She did allow Guard to tuck an arm around her sparkling green waist.
To keep her upright and moving down the stairs.
To keep her steady as she rested a hand on the smooth patch on the waiting wall and tiredly asked it to open for the final Trial.
Hasp returned and intoned its name: Temptation.
For her sake, because he assumed she was too tired (but not too defeated), Guard asked, “What can you tell the seekers about what they will face, Guardian?”
“Only that it is the hardest Trial. Yet by passing it, you will be admitted into The Vault. I will not accompany you any further. If you pass through and gain your shade, a door will open within The Vault, and you will be allowed to return to The City and your corpse.”
“Hopefully by a shorter route,” sniped Shalott. “Inside, too.”
“It will be much shorter, and it will open directly onto East Arcade, where you began. But be warned. If you fail, no door shall open, and you will perish where you are, and your sought-for shade will continue its journey, to become a ghost of whatever Afterlife it was meant to reside in.” Then Hasp split wide so they might enter. “Begin, Seekers.”
Hasp had a few parting words for Guard, but he had to speak them publicly, for Guard was busy supporting Lydia. “Be careful, Young, Future Guardian. This is your greatest test, too.”
Guard nodded. Then he helped his ward step through.
CHAPTER 12
The very sight of this level was uplifting, even to Guard. It would take days of labor for him to feel what his wards felt this night. He wondered what it would take to feel what they felt now. Lydia stood up straighter, no longer needing his arm. Shalott whispered Pleasance’s name, not as an imprecation, but in appreciation.
Even Guard, who had never seen the Garden, only heard it described, could see the parallel. Soft grass spilled out before them, like a tossed blanket but one of boundless, living green. It didn’t seem so much the plant as the color. Every hue was like that here. The sun was a blazing orb of gold, not an oppressive furnace or fire, but an offering of warmth and brightness in a blue sky. Not just any blue, though. Lower on the horizon, between mounds and layers of white cloud, the blue was so soft it seemed to have a like texture; higher up, the sky darkened to the richness of jewels. Then there was that little breeze that gave the clouds their quiet languor; it whispered through the trees which offered shade. It carried with it the scent of ripe fruit, spring flowers, and . . .
“Fresh water.” Guard cocked his head and heard it. “Come, Lydia, rest here.” Though her steps came more easily, as if something in the very air had revived her, he didn’t trust her energy levels. He set her beneath a fruit tree, where she seemed torn between burying her naked hands in the lush grass and reaching up to a caress a drooping ribbon of curling leaves, pink-white flowers, and tiny strings-of-pearl-like fruit. She ended up doing both, laughing. Not even Shalott spared time or attention on a complaint—or on an all-too insightful comment such as, “Water? In what? You told us we’d need no canteen.”
He’d find something. He stalked off toward the water he sensed—which she needed if she was to be strong enough to resist temptation. He’d get it quickly, restore her quickly with fresh water and fruit, and set her on her way before distraction set in too strongly.
Guard followed his nose and ears around a green hill masked by a lovely tangle of dark limbs and white-white petals that drifted like snow in the wind. There, skating the emerald edges, he found it: a small creek, running through silky smooth stones of a hundred colors, ending in a crystalline pool. Perfect. Now for a vessel? Guard looked about, but a sparkle of sunlight dancing on water caught his eye, and when it cleared, he found at the bottom of the pool just the thing he needed: a castoff wooden bowl. The Trials did indeed adapt, and not always against its seekers. A great sign. The goddess wants to bless us with success. He unslung his bow and placed it at his side. Then he knelt, removed his glove, scuffed up his sleeve, and dove
his hand into the water.
Just as his fingers closed on his goal, the water rippled. Not a breeze stirred it. When it stilled, the water revealed a figure standing just behind him. But all his other senses told him the truth: She was not there. Just a reflection.
The gray-eyed woman, who looked to be in her middle years, had long, dark blond hair threaded through with gray. She had woven a braid about her head, capturing all except two curls, which trickled down both cheeks, just touching her neckline. Two necklaces adorned her throat, but only one rested exposed over the blue-green collar of her dress: a knotted strand of unknown plant fibers and a single glass ball. Without meaning to, he touched its twin through his shirt. The moment his fingers found the bubble of blown glass, she spoke, “Oh, my long-lost son.”
Guard dropped his hand. Sat back. “I don’t know you.”
Her shoulders sank. “I know. That is my fault.”
“I don’t know you.”
She shook her head. “Part of you remembers me. You were barely three when you saw me last.” She reached for him, just one hand. “Try to remember.”
He stood, quickly. “No, I don’t know you.”
But that was a lie. And he wasn’t good at lying. Something about her, her necklace, that voice . . . He looked away to clear his head—and discovered he was not alone: an ashen-faced Shalott stood behind him, and Lydia leant on his arm. Her hand was clapped over her mouth, and her dark eyes were bright with tears. “Oh, my, that’s your mother, Perce. That means—”
“It means nothing.” Guard grabbed his glove, was in the act of pulling it on when he remembered his goal, so he crouched and grabbed at the submerged bowl, dashing the image. “She is false, a temptation. Nothing more.”
“My mother is a temptation to you, Spirit.”
Guard, determined not to talk, filled the bowl, rose, and handed it to her, the water sloshing over the wooden edge. That angered him, because it had spilled—because he was angry. The emotion was a plague, infecting everything. It even made it impossible to hold his tongue. “What are you doing here? I was fetching you a drink. You should have waited.”
Lydia looked at him with so much sympathy that not even a strong spirit could mistake it.
“Arden.” That name said in that voice was impossible to ignore. It was like “Archer,” but it ran deeper, felt more . . . real. “Oh, my sweet Arden, you must have questions. I can answer them now.”
Guard looked over his shoulder, just a little, and adjusted his hood so it cut off most of his view. If only it would his hearing. “No, I don’t, Temptress.” There was movement in the water, but Guard ignored it, pushing on Shalott’s chest, forcing him back. The male had moved too close when Guard was not looking. “And neither do you, Male. She is a falsehood. A temptation. We are to deny—”
With a cry, Shalott shoved back, hard, ineffectually. Then he swung a fist. It did not move Guard either, save to turn his face. So finally, Guard was cursed, “Damn you,” and Shalott fled around the tangle-wood hill. Lydia cried for him to stop. Then she dropped the unused bowl and ran after.
The water ran onto the grass and was soaked up in seconds, leaving no sign it was ever there. Not an emerald blade had been disturbed.
“Arden.” That name made him shiver like a bowstring plucked. “I know the question on your mind. Did I coldly abandon you to your probable death, or were you taken, ripped from my arms? And I know how that question now inspires a new one: Why you and not your brother? If you just come back to me, Arden, and listen, I will tell you everything you want to know.”
It was wrong, but part of him did want to know, part him needed to know. When Father had died, it had left an ache he carried still, both a hole and a weight. It was not the only pain that lingered . . . His hand crept his necklace. Tightened into a fist. Now, this woman was offering to lift this oldest pain, fill it in—
With lies.
Or not. Guard’s hand dropped. Not all temptations are lies.
Those were worse. This was . . . he didn’t . . . couldn’t . . . Lost, Guard cast about, not knowing what he was looking for, not realizing he was looking for anything, until he saw hints a gray among brilliant green. His scattered possessions, the gray glove and gray bow, were slowly sinking from sight, the grass growing over them, trying to keep them from him.
Guard snatched them back.
When he replaced the glove, flexed his fingers in the familiar material, strength woke in him, warmer than any illusory sun. He felt almost normal when he gripped his bow. He almost felt himself. And he remembered his mission. He ignored the empty bowl which waited for him, unhidden. There was no time to waste here. If he was tempted this much—
Guard took off at a run.
Rounding the tangle-wood hill, he heard something he hadn’t heard in a long time. Father’s voice. Raised in laughter. He stopped and looked up . . .
The hill had changed, exposing a path that led to the crown. There, under the tree of dripping white-white flowers sat Fuller.
Father.
And he was not alone.
Mother was at his side. Garbed in their grays and reds, they lounged on a blanket, sharing a cup of tea, just like he had seen through a town window one time. A family sitting down, a father, a mother, and their children. And a little dog curled up at the youngest boy’s feet. A pet cat purring on a daughter’s lap. They were talking about their day, each taking a turn—not usual for most houses he peered into. Children usually sat quietly and separately and sometimes in another room until they were almost adults. They only met again after the meal for conversation. The difference had intrigued him. So he had lingered a little too long on his day trip at that particular window. Watching. Listening.
Wanting.
“Come, join us, Archer. Just a moment for tea. Wouldn’t you like that?” Mother held out an inviting hand.
“We have so much to catch up on, Son,” Father said as he filled a third cup of tea. “I’ve missed you so.”
Guard gripped his bow so hard it actually hurt. Which meant he was seconds away from damaging it. He instantly eased his hold, flexing his fingers. He was but feet from the tree. He did not remember stepping onto the path and giving into to their false call—for it was false.
False. He backed away. “You are not real. You’d never do this.”
“So?” they said. “What would it hurt to pretend? To have a little bit of humanity, just one last touch before you lose it all? Come, sit. Just for a little while.”
It took more than he thought to refuse. Their offer, this scene, touched on a desire he didn’t know existed. It felt like hunger when it came upon him. But stronger. So human. Too human.
And what of your humans, your charges that the temptations are trying to keep you from?
Focus on them.
Guard did not walk but run from his temptation, so far out he no longer could see them if he looked back, no longer hear their familial chatter. There he breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Thrice. He dared no more delay. He turned about in a circle, shielding his eyes, seeking . . .
But there was no sign of his charges.
He had lost them.
He’d find them. “Lydia!” Guard shouted. “Shalott! Where are you? Answer me!”
They did not respond. So he took another deep breath, forced himself to ignore the whispers on the winds, the laughter, the promises, the wants . . . Even when Victoria, unexpected Victoria, joined them, he ignored them, though he knew not what she represented. Instead, he focused his all on casting about for signs.
I’ll find them.
I will.
And as Guard repeated those thoughts, over and over to himself, he searched that much harder.
CHAPTER 13
The grass was treacherous. It hid much, covered much, tripped him up much. False trails kept winding him back around to his temptations in all their myriad forms.
But he had learned.
Time and time again, Guard ignored them, gripping his bow and the me
mory of his charges. And eventually, sheer determination was rewarded with true signs: bent blades, a heel print in the mud, a broken branch that led true. Even this place would yield to the mission.
The more he believed it, the faster and easier it went, until he stumbled upon them, Shalott and Lydia, but not in scene he had expected. They were sitting together on a rope swing. Shalott had stripped down to his shirt, day coat and waistcoat discarded on the grass. The buttons running down the back of her green bodice was open, exposing undergarments. She was in his arms, almost in his lap, and they were kissing. That Guard had seen humans do, too, just usually not so publicly, and once he had understood its implication—Fuller had explained that one early on—he didn’t watch. Something had never felt right about it.
Something didn’t feel right now, watching Shalott hold her, caress her back, and . . . over her chest.
The Lydia he knew wouldn’t throw it all away like this. Guard marched toward them, withdrawing one of his arrows. He nocked it. “Stand aside, Shalott.”
Shalott lifted his head, like a man drugged or drunk—he had seen both—and a look of horror dawned on his young face. But he wasn’t fast enough. There was no time to waste; Guard took the shot. The arrow whistled through air and struck the wide-eyed lie, on the side of the chest farthest from the human—just to be safe. And he continued running, covering the ground in large strides.
Shalott screamed at him all the while, a tearing sound of pain, clutching at her as she fell back, off the swing. But then Shalott soon leapt free, in the opposite direction. “Bronze sap?” He stared down at her stained chest and his arm. “I don’t—wh-what?” The fletching of the arrow had turned white. It began to quiver when Guard was a foot away from Shalott.
Guard leapt.
“Oww!”
