The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

  “Who would want the High Priestess dead?” he asked the Master, who was watching him with a disconcerting level of scrutiny.

  “It’s unclear at this time,” the Master began. “The Queen’s spies discovered only inklings of rumors, but it was enough to raise alarm. So here we are with a grave task at hand.”

  The Guardians’ Guild was orchestrated for missions such as these. Perhaps not every mission was as dire as the assassination of a Holy One, but guardians were regularly sent from the Guild with various jobs. They were protectors; it was why they trained. If someone needed an armed escort through a bandit-infested journey, they would contact the Guild. If someone felt their life was in danger and wished for a bodyguard, they would contact the Guild. In a land like Viridor, there was always a job for one of its guardians, always someone to protect and serve. Scorch had not yet been on such assignments, so he was still considered an apprentice. He wondered why he was being told of assassination plots when he wasn’t even a full-fledged guardian.

  “I want you for this,” Master McClintock announced with a clap of his hands that had Scorch jumping in his seat.

  “Want me for what, Master?”

  “I want you for this task, Scorch,” the Master said, because even he called Scorch by his nickname. Scorch wondered if anyone even remembered the name his parents had given him. “I want you to warn the High Priestess of the assassination and defend her life, if necessary.”

  Whatever Scorch had worried the Master was planning on saying, sending him on a task to save the High Priestess had not been it. The bewilderment must have shown on his face, because the Master lifted from his perch on the desk to touch his shoulder.

  “You’re untested, I know,” said the Master. “But you’re also one of the Guild’s most skilled apprentices. I’d been planning to send you out for your first task soon, and when this fell in my lap . . . Scorch,” he said, bending down to look him in the eye, “I cannot send a seasoned guardian on such a dire task, because I cannot risk them being recognized. You’re the one I want for this. Will you do it?”

  “I will do it,” Scorch answered, because of course he would. He would never say no to the man who had plucked him from ashes and saved him from worthlessness.

  Something changed at that moment, in the Master’s eyes. The tension in his shoulders screamed, but when he spoke, it was with an air of renewed calm. He took his hand from Scorch’s shoulder and returned to his place behind his desk, pipe sticking back into the corner of his mouth.

  “I knew I could count on you.”

  “You can always count on me,” Scorch said, trying not to fidget in his seat. “What must I do?”

  Master McClintock laughed, and Scorch felt a twinge of pride that he’d caused the man a moment’s amusement. “Always so eager. That’s why I know you’re perfect for this.” He reached for his smoking box and lifted out a fresh pinch of purple moss, shoving it down into his pipe. “Normally, I would give you an official Guild missive, but not for something like this. It’s too risky. We can’t have anyone knowing where you’re going or why.”

  Scorch nodded his understanding. His throat felt dry. “Makes sense.”

  “I’d like to say the bulk of the guardianship will be informing the High Priestess of the plot and remaining at her side until the threat has passed, but the fact of the matter is you have to reach her first. And reaching her is where the trouble begins.”

  Scorch did not have to think long to remember his geography lessons. The High Priestess lived in a temple, on the highest mountain in Viridor, at the very heart of the country, and that alone would be enough to deter most. But the mountain was the least troublesome trial of the path. Surrounding the mountain was a desert plane, and surrounding the desert was a lake so big it had more in common with a sea. The pilgrimage to the temple was notoriously dangerous and only the most stalwart in their desires dared pass through the terrain. It was said only fighters wishing to become one of the Priestess’ Monks still traveled into the Heartlands. It was a test of their worthiness.

  Why, Scorch had asked when he was little, did the High Priestess live in such an inhospitable place? The Master had answered, “So she can speak more easily with the Gods.”

  “You know the route to the temple,” Master McClintock said.

  “I know the gist of it.”

  “Then you know why it’s not often we ask our guardians to cross into such lands,” the Master continued, striking a match and puffing at his pipe.

  Scorch watched the flames flicker at the end of the match and felt his fingertips grow warm. “You would not ask me if it were not important,” he said, sounding braver than he felt. He did not relish the route to the temple, but he relished less the disappointment in the Master’s eyes if he revealed his hesitance. “I can do it.”

  “I know you can.” He smiled warmly at Scorch before his expression grew grim and his voice sank to a serious baritone. “You have done well here. I think back to the day we met and—I am glad for it. You are,” he paused, as if collecting wayward thoughts, “a special young man.”

  Uncertainty gripped Scorch when he answered. “Thank you, Master.” He was glad the Master had found him when he was a boy of five, stained with soot, but he was not glad he’d needed finding. He was not glad his life had forced him to run into the Guild Master’s arms. He had love for the Guild, it was true, but that didn’t change the fact that the price had been too high.

  The Master looked down at the smoldering pipe, watching its embers glow orange. “I know you will make the guardians proud. You have already made me proud.”

  Scorch was afraid to speak, so he settled for nodding his head and averting his gaze when the Master blinked more rapidly than was normal for tearless eyes. After a moment of silence between the two men, the elder stood up, walked around his desk, and extended his hand. The younger accepted it.

  “So begins your first guardianship.”

  And so ended his apprenticeship. With his first guardianship, Scorch was a guardian. He stood. “When do I leave, Master?”

  A sad smile tugged at the Master’s lips and he squeezed Scorch’s hand within his own. “I’m afraid you must leave at once.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, well, you must report to Etheridge first for a medical check and supplies, but then . . .”

  “Understood. Of course,” was Scorch’s static reply, and when the Master let go of his hand, he wiped sweaty palms against his jerkin. “Then I suppose I should go.”

  The Master bowed his head solemnly, the skin tight around his tired eyes. “Goodbye, Scorch.”

  Scorch bowed his head, smiled his brightest smile at Master McClintock, and then he took his leave.

  ***

  As he was walking through the white flaps of the herbalist’s tent, stationed by the banks of the river, Merric was walking out. Their shoulders grazed and, though Scorch had been prepared to be ignored, Merric stopped.

  “Scorch,” he said.

  Scorch turned to face the Master’s son. His face was utterly blank, and Scorch found he preferred the crinkle between Merric’s eyebrows that was the usual accompaniment to his Scorch-related ire. “Yes, darling?”

  Merric bit at his lip, a habit Scorch was always happy to observe, and then he said, simply, softly, “Be careful.”

  A hundred quips dashed through Scorch’s brain, but what he ended up saying was nothing at all. Instead of speaking, his eyes roamed up and down Merric’s body, taking in his lean figure and smooth skin, the luster of his auburn hair. When he had trailed back to green eyes, he stared for a moment and wondered morbidly whether he’d ever see them again. He wanted badly to lighten the weight of his gaze, but could think of no better solution than a coquettish wink. It was arguable that he winked entirely too much, but he feared it had become a nervous twitch, which only worsened when he tried to stifle it.

  Merric’s mouth wavered for a few seconds before settling on a sneer. “See you,” he spat, without nearly as
much venom as could usually be discerned. Then he turned abruptly and walked away, back toward the Guild House.

  Scorch dutifully watched his backside until it disappeared into the shadows of the building. After an indulgent sigh, he entered the herbalist’s tent.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Etheridge said, her arms up to the elbows in a bag filled with manure.

  “And you,” Scorch smirked, leaning against the pole of the tent. “I had no idea you liked it so dirty.”

  Etheridge, resident Guild Herbalist and in no way influenced by Scorch’s charisma, made a disgusted face as her hands rooted around in the brownish muck. “I’m looking for Luna seeds,” she explained. “Excellent for detox potions. A single Luna seed can cure almost any poison. I’ve been trying to get my hands on some for years, but they’re rare, the stubborn things.” Her eyes got big and she pulled a fistful of manure from the bag. When she unclenched her fist and wiped away the unsavory remnants, a single spherical stone rested in her palm, shiny as a pearl. “There you are,” she whispered and dropped it into a seashell. It made a dainty ping and she smiled. When Scorch cleared his throat, she pulled her other arm free of the manure and walked right past him and out of the tent.

  Not knowing what else to do, he followed. “Master McClintock sent me to see you.”

  She knelt beside the river and dunked her arms beneath the water. “I know. That’s what Merric was here for.” She looked over her shoulder at him, her dark braid a severe cord swinging at her back. “First guardianship, huh? It’ll be strange not having you around. Though I won’t miss worrying about my garden going up in smoke, you scoundrel.”

  Scorch wasn’t sure whether Etheridge was being insulting or nostalgic. He’d only burned a few of her herbs that one time, and he’d helped her replant new ones. If he recalled, ashes in the soil made the crop especially lush that year, and anyone with an upset stomach reaped the benefits.

  “What do you think about giving me a proper sendoff?” he asked, offering his hand as she crouched by the water.

  She stood up without his help and shook her arms. Little droplets of water landed across the bridge of Scorch’s nose. “If by proper sendoff you mean a medical check, then absolutely. Get in the tent.”

  “Bossy,” he laughed, picking up his pace when Etheridge kicked at his heels.

  Once inside the tent, the herbalist dried her hands with a cloth and ordered him to take a seat. Her chair was much softer than the Master’s and he sank into it gratefully, stretching his long legs and crossing his ankles languidly.

  “Sit up straight,” Etheridge said. “And wipe the smugness off your face before I smack it off. This is a checkup, not a seduction.”

  “Trust me,” Scorch crooned, “if I was seducing you, you would know.”

  “You would know because my boot would be up your arse.” She pushed her hand up beneath his jerkin and linen undershirt. “Don’t get excited. I’m just going to listen to your chest.”

  Etheridge walked him through a series of checks, swatting his shallow advances with cold hands. His lungs sounded fine, his eyes were clear, and his heart was pumping blood through his veins at a healthy pace. When he jokingly bent over for a more intimate exam, Etheridge smacked him hard on the behind and told him to get his act together.

  “I hope the Master knows you’ll be spending half your time on your task and the other half on your back,” she said, handing him a drawstring pouch.

  “What’s this?” he asked, already wrestling with the ties to get it open.

  “A few things for the road. A salve for minor cuts, an ointment for your nethers.”

  Scorch cocked an eyebrow.

  “Just in case,” she said, a crafty smile beginning to bloom across her face. “It’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it. But to be on the safe side, try not to roll with too many bar wenches. Folks aren’t as clean out there as they are in here.”

  Scorch held the pouch against his heart. “I love it. Thank you, Etheridge.”

  She sighed, shaking her head. “Don’t get into trouble, Scorch.” It was an order.

  He tied the pouch to his belt and ran a hand over the scruff of his chin. Observing the herbalist with soft eyes, he teased, “You’re the only trouble I want in my life. Will you wait for me?”

  Etheridge responded by shoving her hands back into the sack of manure. “Don’t set my tent on fire on your way out.”

  He glanced around the little tent, at the flowers hanging from every surface, at the woman he’d known for years who wouldn’t hug his neck before he left. Before the heat could start building up beneath his skin, he patted the pouch at his side, nodded his head to her, and exited swiftly.

  ****

  He had one more stop to make before he could leave, and he made it there on a wave of tired enthusiasm, avoiding populated halls so as not to exhaust his face with insincerity. When he finally reached his room, which was more of a closet tucked away on the highest floor of the Guild House, he was inexplicably tired. After trudging through the door, it was tempting to collapse onto his mattress, but he didn’t dare. The Master had ordered him to leave immediately and he had no choice but to obey his wishes. Scorch had his guardianship, his medical check, and now all he needed was his handful of belongings.

  He wouldn’t take everything with him—not that he had much —but there were a few items that would be useful. He was already wearing his armor, since his morning had been spent in weapons training. It was more casual than the usual sort, made with rough leathers instead of metals. He disliked the weight of most armor, and the leather pieces allowed him valuable freedom of movement.

  His sword rested in its scabbard, leaned against his windowsill, and he picked that up first, looping it to his belt. The weight of it was comfortable, hanging at his side. He cherished his sword. It had been a gift from the Master.

  Everything else he packed into a satchel: a few extra shirts, underclothes, a flask of Guild-brewed whiskey, and a hefty coin purse given to him by Master McClintock for expenses. If he had anything of his parents, he might have tucked it safely away at the bottom of his pack, but he had nothing that hadn’t burned fifteen years ago.

  Scorch fastened a bedroll to the satchel, slung it over his shoulder, and stuck a dagger into his belt. He ran a hand through his mop of hair and realized there was nothing left for him to do. He had no friends to say goodbye to and no lover worth kissing for luck. He bid a silent farewell to the little room and left.

  Flora

  2

  The Guild looked different from the other side. Scorch found it quite ominous, with its high stone walls and intimidating towers. From the outside, one couldn’t see the crystal blue river, or the gardens, or the acres of forest. From the outside, it didn’t look like home, but then again, it had never really been home for Scorch. It was simply a place to live.

  He did not linger forlornly outside the Guild, reminding himself he had a task, an important one that the Master thought only he could complete. He had to save the High Priestess, and since such a sacred charge would eventually require him to take a few steps away from the Guild, he tore his eyes from the old stones and began his solitary trek down the road.

  The first five years of his life had been spent outside the walls, when he’d been with his parents, but he couldn’t remember much of those early days, and once he’d joined the Guild, the opportunity to leave the grounds had been scarce. Several years after he’d begun his apprentice training, when he’d turned thirteen, he’d been sent into the surrounding woods for his hunting test. Given no more than a knife and a bow, he had to collect the hides of three rabbits, the feet of three birds, fill his canteen with the water of a fresh stream, and fill his pack with edible mushrooms and berries. He shivered to think of it. The test was supposed to last two days. He had been missing for two weeks.

  But Scorch was older now, and the woods fascinated him more than they frightened him. It was refreshing to see new trees and rocks
and sky after looking at the same surroundings for most of his life. And when a shadow in the trees startled him, and his palms became sweaty, he hummed a tune to calm himself. New as it all was, he was a guardian now, with no time to fear faceless shadows. The mantra in his head was steady and all-consuming as he walked down the path: Save the High Priestess, save the High Priestess, save the High Priestess.

  By the time the woods began to thin and Scorch emerged from the Guild’s corner of the world, the sky had grown dark and the stars had grown bright and his chest was puffed outward with self-assurance. His thoughts were less bothered by the journey ahead, and his ego was stroked by the certainty in his Master’s voice. The memory of praise might have brought a blush to his cheeks, but the night hid it well.

  But as high-spirited as he was, he was also road-worn and desperate for a meal, so when inviting lights twinkled in a village ahead, Scorch wasted no time in his search for the local tavern. He had never been in a village before, filled with ordinary people, and it was odd passing so many folks with no weapons strapped to their bodies. There weren’t many out, because of the late hour, but those few roaming the dirt road seemed to be headed in the same direction. He followed, a drift of music catching in the wind. When a swinging sign with a mug emblazoned on its front caught his eye, he rushed forward, not even catching the name of the place before he opened the door and stepped inside.