by Jodi Ralston
“His Firefly” had backed up, face red, eyes wet. “You . . . you came here for this?” But the tears didn’t fall as she rushed forward, fatigue suddenly gone, and slammed her hand against the barrier. Her tone matched her movement: “You killed yourself for a blasted spirit ring!”
Shalott stepped forth, fists clenched, on the other side of Guard. “I told you, Lydia, Crawford didn’t murder—”
“Not now, Perce!” She pressed her fist against the barrier, the rainbow rippling wildly. “How could you, Roland! How could you! How could you put me through this!”
Shalott spat, “You risked our lives for a ring.”
“Risk? What risk? For the last three months, my fiancée has had access to my laboratory. I have shared what knowledge of the spirit world I could. I have seen to her training on that revolver I gifted her with. And my cousin had agreed with my assessment on her mental readiness before dosing me with the poison. And now all my fiancée needs to do is secure myself, bid the ferryman row her ashore, and step into the coach my cousin should have ready to convey us to my home and waiting body. I consider that well prepared, especially considering the quality of her spirit, so to say.” Ravenscar leant on his cane, now in his left hand, and buffed his ring against his waistcoat. “Quite the remarkable woman, my future wife. Do you not agree, Shalley? Was she not wonderful?” He turned to her, leaving Shalott to sputter inarticulately. In that same soft tone, Ravenscar said, “Dearest, I know I distressed you, and I am sorry. It was necessary, and I promise I will make it up to you once I am alive once more. The jar, please?”
“Oh, I’ll give you your jar.” Lydia’s hand reared back, and she seemed more than ready to dash it against the barrier. “Here’s your—”
Guard moved and caught her arm. “Remember your goal. Your success is linked to his retrieval.”
Lydia took a deep breath, though the red color did not fade from her cheeks. Then she nodded. “We shall talk after this.”
“I look forward to it,” Ravenscar said, eyes sliding to Guard. “Thank you for your level head, Guardian Spirit.”
“Oh!” Lydia stomped her foot, commanding his attention. “You will not—you will promise me you will not—take this spirit, he who worked so hard to get us here, who worked so hard to become a full spirit. Nor will you take another from his City. If you don’t promise me, I will . . . I will, oh, I don’t know what I will do, but it won’t be pleasant, mark my words!”
“I’m sure it won’t be, dear. But how fascinating! So that is how spirits are made? You must tell me more, Firefly, over . . . ” He pulled out a pocket watch, flipped open its lid with his thumb, and “hmmed” over it. “Breakfast, I suspect, by the time we cross the river and reach my estate.” The watch devolved to black smoke and then flickered away to nothingness.
Guard caught his ward’s arm again before she did something foolish. “It would be best if we hurry. The smoke is growing weak.”
“Yes, of course. Roland, did you hear that? Stop being your usual infuriating self, and do as I ask.”
“Of course, Firefly. Don’t I always give you want you need? Aren’t my promises more secure than gold? I will not so dishonor my future wife and her legendary quest; consider it a wedding present, the first of many.”
Hunched shouldered, red-faced Shalott, who had retreated a bit, stalked off further now, to his original “corner” where barrier met wall. “How generous,” he spat.
Lydia nodded, sniffed, and wiped her face. “You always get me out of sorts.”
“It makes for better color.”
Over Shalott’s growls and her foot stamp, Guard advised, “Take a deep breath, Lydia. It will make the passage easier.”
She nodded, ignoring Ravenscar’s raised eyebrow and inquiry of “You entrusted him with your name?” Ignoring as well Shalott’s rebuttal of “He’s proven more trustworthy than some in this room, and that is saying something.” For the smoke was indeed more thready.
“Oh, stop it, both of you.” Reprimand complete, Lydia closed her eyes, held her breath, and stepped forward—
And rebounded. She rubbed her face again. “Oh, what is wrong!” She looked down at her jar. “It’s still smoking, though more weakly.” She pulled her fingers through the wisp, winding it about her finger. “See? Roland’s here—” Then she blushed. “Oh.” She whispered to Guard, “Do I need to . . . divest myself of my possessions out here?”
“No, the barrier should do it for you.” And he closed his eyes and breathed deeply as the truth hit him like a physical force. “Lydia. You can’t . . . you can’t pass because you didn’t succeed. You failed.”
“What? Of course, we won! She’s here, isn’t she? How is that possible? Did you know this all along and keep it from us? Why didn’t you say anything? No, you lie—we’re here!”
Guard didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to see the impact truth would make on her, but he did anyway.
Her face, it looked awful, twisting that way, blanching that way. Even worse was her whispered chant of “oh gods, oh gods, no” as she slid down the barrier, one hand scraping against it, fingers shaped like claws, rainbows bleeding down. Her other hand clasped her jar close to her heart. “No.”
Ravenscar had approached right away, reaching for her fingertips, but he didn’t place his own over hers. Instead, he sighed, hand clenching into a fist. Voice low and rough, he said, “I take it we are no longer engaged?”
“Oh, Lydia.” Shalott reached out to her.
But she cried out and tucked herself into her corner, hugging her jar closer. “No, no, no. I do love him, I do! I chose him! I choose him!”
Guard looked away from her to The Vault. But he didn’t know what to focus on now. So he let his eyes roam, trying to think of nothing, trying to feel nothing. He failed when his eyes fell upon the discarded locket.
Victoria.
She reminded him of Lydia, though there were night and day differences. One black-haired, the other red. One talkative with a sprightly voice, the other melodious even when melancholy. Both struggled so hard, needed much encouragement, but only Victoria had passed through The Vault and found a waiting door.
Ghosts did not handle emotions well. Ghosts did not handle failure well, whether of a mission or from succumbing to their temptation. It made them lose control of their favored form. And the temptation was always close at hand. The possession that embodied it was more than a burden; it was a part of the ghost, a part one could not relinquish until The Vault. Guard always knew the difference between Victoria’s failures, between not making a difference in a human life and illicitly visiting her family, for Victoria would so lose herself in the locket’s portraits of her husband and Rose, her red-haired daughter, she’d so lose herself in the portraits that remained unchanged since the day Victoria had died, that she became a shapeless mass of floating white and sad green eyes. Then she’d see Guard and sometimes aetherize her obsession away.
It worried him more when she didn’t care to.
In those moments, Guard knew she needed him most. He couldn’t take her temptation or her labor from her, so instead he would sit her down and talk to her. It was from her he had gathered clues on what the Garden might look like—he had asked her to seek that knowledge out, to ask around on her labor trips. He made it her mission to find out. At first, she did so fitfully, not wanting another duty. But as her knowledge grew, she began to seek it out on her own, eagerness growing. And when she was weak, he reminded her of those details—the soft grass and succulent fruit, the perfect sky and sun, the sweet breezes and perfect waters, the utter peace—to shift her eye from the rosebud-shaped burden to something real and waiting for her.
And bit by bit, she turned from her temptation more and more, and needed him less and less. She spoke more and more on the Garden, not on her family or her failures. For there were still failures. Ghosts failed their charges more often than they helped them. Yet this night Victoria had succeeded: he had seen it in her green eyes the
same way he had seen it in his human charge’s dark ones. That was why he thought faltering didn’t matter. Only The Vault. Get his charge to The Vault and she’d win, just like Victoria.
But it was not just like Victoria. He had made a mistake, simple to make, but damning: human Trials were not ghost trials. While he was so busy pushing Lydia through, he never realized her deciding moment was not The Vault; it was the moments she was judged by, all those that came before in Time and Labor and Temptation, where she refused for far too long to let her temptation go. Rewarded for her strength, she was allowed to survive this far. But they had condemned her for her weakness. Maybe not to the Slough. Likely to a City, maybe this City, where as a ghost, she could work off her temptations and sins, whatever they were, for nine years.
Guard turned from The Vault, sickened by the idea of Lydia in Victoria’s place, of her ducking into a crack, dematerializing under her burdens, only to face this rainbow wall once more.
But by that point he’d not care, not like he did at this moment.
For as a full spirit, as Archer, he’d see nothing wrong. Lydia would be just another ghost, just another spirit.
As a full spirit, he’d no longer remember how wrong it felt, that her death spelt his victory.
That was what sickened Guard the most. How could that be worthy of a true guardian spirit? How could that be worthy of “Archer”? How could that be everything he dreamed of?
It wasn’t. And though this wasn’t either, at least it felt right: Guard turned to Lydia. “Get up.”
When she didn’t respond, he marched to her and pulled her to her feet, ignoring Shalott’s growled complaint. “Be ready,” Guard ordered.
“W-what?”
He nodded to the jar and its tiny puffs of smoke.
“What!” Shalott stomped over. “You can retrieve him? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Why put her through this?” Shalott seized Guard’s arm. “Gods, you’re no better than him.”
Guard stared down at the touch. It dropped. “Step back, Seeker. Stand close to . . . Lydia. We may have to exit in a hurry.”
“Why?”
“Remember Labor?”
Shalott stilled. Then he nodded slowly. “Do it.”
Lydia squeezed his hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Thank you, Guard.”
“Guard,” he thought. Yes, that’s who I am now. Not Archer, just Guard. And it would have to be enough.
And with that, before they ran out of time, Guard faced the barrier. Ravenscar stood close, ready, palm out as if to shake hands. Except it was his unadorned left. Part of him wished to extract the promise of removing and leaving behind the treacherous ring, but Ravenscar had made his choice. Just as with the ghosts, it was a part of him now. So, though distasteful, Guard thrust a hand through, just hand, and there was no pain, no punishment, just a shift of rainbow to gray as it accepted his aether. So he grasped Ravenscar’s outstretched hand and pulled.
And out he came.
And in the next second, he burst into black smoke and wended into his charge’s waiting jar. She sealed him in. And that was that. Having seen his father’s and her failures, Guard had thought his own would have hurt more, this moment where he lost everything. But it hurt a little less seeing her smile as she clutched her jar to her chest. She hastily snatched her book and thrust it into Shalott’s arms before hugging Guard.
“Hold your breath,” Guard ordered, looping an arm around her, grabbing Shalott’s wrist. Then, aetherizing, he took them all with him up through the ceiling.
CHAPTER 16
The journey was short, Vault to Anteroom to East Arcade, but there was no Hasp to chuck his chin and wish him well and say his almost-name. In the courtyard outside Guard’s home, there was no Mace ready to impart a few words or carry out his mother’s wishes. No Susurrus and no Mother waited for him. No ghosts flagged him down as he rushed toward the West Forecourt and deposited his charges by the dead body.
His charges just lay there on the broken stones, gasping, not moving for the moment. They had spent many hours in The Crypt, enough time for the cold night to give way to a cold dawn in the east; being human, they were exhausted and “needed a moment.” But the spirits, who had spent that same time witnessing their ordeal through spectral windows, were not and needed not.
So Guard sat up Lydia, pulled the journal from Shalott’s loose grasp, and urged, “Finish it.”
Lydia shook her head and set the book aside. “All . . . all I need is the body.” She took a shaky, deep breath. “Help me uncover it.”
Shalott, struggling to his feet, pointed back the way they had come. “Who is that?”
So ends the reprieve, Guard thought. He unslung his bow and set it down on the white stones. He unstrapped his quiver and placed it beside it. Now, ready as he could be, Guard faced West Entry.
Red smoke hovered there. An unexpected envoy.
The only envoy.
“Guard?” Lydia asked.
“It’s my mother,” he answered. “You had best act quickly.” He left them to their work.
As he approached, she deaetherized. When he was three feet away, she held out a hand. He stopped. Only then did Mother speak, her voice carrying, “You were warned not to solve it for the seekers. Now you are no longer one of us.”
There was a brief pause in the hurried activity behind him, and then at Shalott’s urgent whisper, it resumed.
“There is no second chance?”
“Did you expect one?”
No. Second chances were for Purgatory’s ghosts. Even so, he felt he should say something.
The only thing that came to mind?
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Now she closed the distance, red glove raised. Guard did not move as she touched his forehead. Before a benediction, now . . . not. “Do not return, Cambion, or you will be considered a threat.” And in burst of aetherized, red smoke she left him.
And still, there was no pain. Just a nothingness that seemed alive, like the void outside The Crypt, but far from beautiful. It reminded him of the hollowness he felt, and that had never been filled, after Fuller died.
Just absence.
Just loss.
And this time no one cared about how strongly he felt this emotion. No one would care again.
Knees weak, Guard gave into the sensation, and fell to them. He remained on the broken white flagstones, staring at the opening to his home. His former home.
He didn’t know how long he knelt there, but eventually a sound intruded upon him. Footfalls. A voice. No, voices—Lydia’s he recognized. But he didn’t listen to the words. There was an argument—three voices. But one stood out strongest, a timber to it, like a touch of iron down bare skin, a taste of it on his tongue, chains snaking about his wrists, his ankles, dragging down on him.
But the speaker was not that near, only a few feet from his back.
More than near enough for an activated spirit ring to seize his will and begin to numb it.
Guard didn’t bother turning around to confirm. “You are going to bind me now, aren’t you, Ravenscar?”
“No! No, Roland! No! You promised!”
In the same friendly, soft tone he used in The Vault, Ravenscar said, “As you recall, dear Lydia, I promised my future wife, but as I no longer have one, I no longer feel beholden to such vows.”
“Roland, please. I know you are angry with me.”
The spirit holder must have raised his right hand, for to Guard, in this moment, that movement of the ringed hand sounded like a blade drawing from sheath, and worse, he felt it twisting about his limbs, coiling upward and downward, lengthening. Guard couldn’t help but wince.
That encouraged the invisible bonds to wrap tighter.
So, no movement allowed, then.
“Oh, do not think this is done out of spite, Firefly. I was aware of your affections, but I assumed they were of such nature that these last six months together had rendered them negligible. By the time you we
re twenty-one, you’d remember it as a calf-love everyone goes through from time to time. I suspect you still might.”
Guard may not be able to so much as flinch without binding himself tighter, but he remembered there were other ways to move. While the humans were distracted, Guard sought the sensation of himself that was other, that was spirit, that was aetheric . . . (“Calf—my love is better than yours, Ravenscar. I would never risk her life for a damned ring!”) Heat sparked in Guard’s body as it began to obey his will. As Lydia had done with her jar, he cupped this other sense, sheltering it, breathing on it. Breathed . . . (“Shalley, you know I do not like to repeat myself, so I won’t. There was no risk. Now, my dear, you may not wish to witness this.”) The pinprick flame shivered and began to spread, beating back the growing cold. (“Perce, stop him! Please!”) Sparking here. (“He can’t, Firefly. He’s sworn to an oath, as a member of our elite society, to not interfere in another’s choice. It’s a matter of honor.”) Sparking there. (“Well, I’m not a member. I’ll stop you. I’ll—”) Growing. Almost enough to pick at it, to unravel numbed bone and blood and flesh . . . (“Very well!”)
The scream startled him—was it Lydia’s? The ring’s? He did not know which; he only acted. Acted wrongly, reaching for a knife—no—an arrow—none of which he had. And the ringed-hand grabbed that hand, and the pain roared in, slicing through his glove, through his skin, and into the aether. His aether, his hope, went out like a light.
Once a ghoul had caught him with a claw, right down his back, toward his hip. So deep had its poison-like claws gone, the aether there had clotted like blood. The wound did not heal for days.
This hurt worse.
Once Guard could jerk himself away, he curled around his hand. The pain died instantly, but his hand was worse than numb. It felt not his own. He pressed his forehead to stones, bowled over, as the sensation crept through up his arm, inch by inch. The iron snakes had found a way in, and they burrowed like parasites.
There was no escape. Guard knew that now.
