The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

He ignored his tears and bit angrily into his apple. He’d hoped to find answers with the assassins. He’d not expected to find more questions.

  Fires

  13

  Scorch couldn’t sleep. He tossed fitfully on the cot. Several times, he reached for the Dream Moss, but before he could fit the stem between his lips, more burdensome thoughts would weigh him down, thoughts he couldn’t ignore, so he lay awake, dwelling.

  Hours later, as he turned to his side, his sword beside him on the creaking cot, a single figure appeared in the doorway, slim and shadowed. At first, he thought it was Vivid, but as the figure moved closer with sauntering feet and swaggering hips, the candlelight illuminated white hair and teeth, and Elias came to kneel beside Scorch’s bedside.

  Scorch blinked at him.

  “Can’t sleep?” Elias asked. His eyes blazed in the candlelight, blue as the hottest fire.

  “I have a lot on my mind.”

  Elias observed him with a tilt of his head that sent his silken hair sparkling across his forehead. “Need a distraction?”

  Scorch was at a momentary loss, too tired to interpret the sly quirk of Elias’ full mouth and the heavy lids of his eyes, but when Elias placed a hot hand on Scorch’s hip, he understood quite clearly.

  “No,” Scorch said at once. “Thanks.”

  If Elias was disappointed, he masked it well. “Suit yourself.” He stood sleekly from his bended knee and slinked to a cot not far from Scorch’s. He must have assumed he was being watched, because he readied himself for bed like a man on display, slowly removing his shirt and leaning down with his backside to Scorch to unlace his shiny black boots. Scorch watched—of course, he watched—but he felt removed from the exhibition of skin.

  When Elias finally settled down on his cot, Scorch rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Maybe he should have taken Elias up on his offer, but he felt too full to spend himself on such a shallow toss. Scorch of the Guild would have bedded him already. Distracted himself. Fallen to sleep sated.

  He didn’t fall asleep that night until much later, when a second figure ghosted into the room and found the cot beside Scorch. He didn’t undress, take off his boots, or make any noise at all, but he waited a long time before blowing out the candle between their mattresses. Scorch’s eyes were shut, but he could sense a heavy glare pressing against him. Vivid was watching him sleep.

  Only when the candle was blown out with a gust of summoned air did Scorch dare open his eyes. Vivid, on the cot beside him, lifted something to his lips, taking it into his mouth to chew. Scorch reached into his pocket for an ivory stem and did the same, and after the rise and fall of Vivid’s chest became deep and rhythmical, Scorch was finally able to close his eyes and sleep.

  ****

  Wind whirled around them, a cyclone of star leaves and snow. Fingers were fisting his hair. Palms were squeezing his temples. He was roiling, smoldering fire on the inside, but outside was amethyst and the night sky.

  “I thought you weren’t a coward,” the thunder rumbled in his ear.

  “I’m not.”

  “Prove it,” challenged the thunder, and the fingers twining through his hair pulled him forward.

  He set his hands on a trim waist, could feel heat seeping through leather, filling them both. The air grew warm, hot, high on the mountain. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to black, shining hair.

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  He caught the wind in his hands and held it close to his chest. “Stay.” He kissed a pale throat. “Stay.”

  “Scorch.” His name came like a summons from soft, bitten lips. “Scorch.”

  “Scorch, wake up.”

  He woke, rubbing at his eyes and groaning. When he could focus, he found Vivid standing over him, arms crossed, looking displeased, with a sprinkling of concern. Only a sprinkling, mind, and it only revealed itself in the faint line between severe eyebrows.

  “You’ve neglected your Dream Moss,” Vivid said sternly.

  “No, I didn’t,” Scorch insisted, but the sudden awareness of tightness in the snug confines of his trousers silenced him. He bundled his blanket over himself.

  “Don’t lie. I heard you.”

  And for some reason, some inexplicable reason, probably from a desire to instill trust—with an assassin of all people—Scorch said, “I took the Dream Moss.”

  “You were moaning. You sounded troubled.”

  Scorch couldn’t fight the blush. “It . . . wasn’t a bad dream.”

  “Then why—” Vivid’s eyes widened, and he turned away from Scorch to straighten the blankets on his cot that were already straightened. “Get up. Axum is expecting you.”

  Scorch shifted on the cot. “Right. Just, erm, give me a second.”

  Vivid mumbled something unintelligible and headed out of the room, leaving Scorch alone. He sighed, willing away the evidence of his dream. He could see Vivid’s shadow in the tunnel outside the sleeping chamber, waiting for him. He could also see the cot where Elias had slept; he had left his covers unmade.

  When the danger had passed, Scorch stood from the cot and straightened his blankets, copying the way Vivid had folded down the corners, and then he belted his sword around his waist and met him in the doorway. Vivid avoided eye contact and headed down the tunnel as soon as Scorch reached his side.

  The Assassins’ Hollow was livelier than it had been the night before, or maybe Scorch’s head was merely clear enough to notice the smattering of surly, stealthy men and women roaming the vast chambers, all of them in black leathers similar to Vivid’s. They passed a woman with an eye patch and honey brown hair. Her top was sleeveless, exposing lean muscles and inked skin.

  “Vivid. Thought I saw a handsome man sleeping in the cot next to you,” she said, falling in line at Vivid’s side as they walked. Her voice was smoky and deep, and Scorch knew she was the woman he’d heard the day before.

  Vivid didn’t acknowledge her past the twitch of an eyebrow, but neither did he tell her to go away, which might as well have been an invitation to join them.

  “Axum decided not to kill you, I see,” she continued, looking at Scorch with her one eye. It was dark blue.

  “I didn’t realize that was on the table,” said Scorch, glancing at Vivid.

  “There’s only one reason why Axum would let you stay,” she said.

  “You’re right. It was because of my good looks.”

  “Elemental?”

  He looked at her, not knowing if there would ever come a time in his life when the casual mention of his elemental powers didn’t make his forehead bead with sweat.

  Vivid spoke, filling the void of Scorch’s pause. “Fire.”

  Her face lit up. “Fire? No wonder Elias was pissed off this morning.”

  They stopped at the threshold of the tunnel that led, if Scorch’s shoddy memory served, to Axum’s chamber. Vivid had a hardness to him, even more than usual, and when he addressed the woman, it was with a strained voice. “We have a meeting.”

  “Say no more.” She strutted in the opposite direction, pulling a dagger from her thigh holster and twirling it in her hand.

  “Who was that?” Scorch asked, his eyes following her retreat with fascination.

  “Audrey,” Vivid growled, already continuing down the tunnel. They stopped outside Axum’s chamber. Vivid turned to Scorch, looked to be on the verge of speaking, and then Axum opened the door.

  “Good,” the assassin leader said. “Come in.”

  He stood aside as Scorch entered, but before Vivid could pass, he moved his body to impede his path. If Vivid had any respect for the man who was, theoretically, in charge, it didn’t show in his eyes as he glared up at him.

  “You are needed in the southern training room,” Axum informed Vivid with a cold stare.

  Scorch watched Vivid’s expression darken over Axum’s shoulder. His shoulders tensed and his eyes flashed to Scorch’s for an instant, and then he nodded and turned away. Axum shut the door, and S
corch felt very much out of his element. It had been a long time since he’d been separated from Vivid and it gnawed at his nerves more than it rightfully should have.

  “Fire,” said Axum, turning from the closed door and leaning his back against it.

  “I prefer Scorch, actually.”

  “But that’s not your real name.”

  “No.”

  Axum’s grey-speckled hair was slicked back, neater and cleaner than it had looked the night before, and he wore the same obscenely tight leather the other assassins were fond of. Everything about the man warned that he cut like glass.

  “You have questions, I imagine.”

  “I imagine you have questions for me, too,” said Scorch.

  “I do.” Axum waved his hand to the space at the center of the dim chamber. Two overstuffed chairs sat across from one another on a fur rug. Scorch wrinkled his nose at the sight of the rug. It was a white, silky animal skin. “Sit with me and we will see if we cannot satisfy one another’s curiosity.”

  Scorch sat, squishing deep into the lush cushion. It was dangerously comfortable, but he strove to keep his back straight and his shoulders squared and his chin aloft. Axum graced the chair opposite him, crossing his legs so that his foot came to an idle suspension, inches away from Scorch’s knee.

  “Did you sleep well?” Axum asked.

  “What is this place?” Scorch blustered, his hands moving before him, indicating absolutely everything.

  Axum settled his own hands on the armrests of his chair, his pointer finger creating small circles in the velvety upholstery. The rest of him was still. Even his blinks were used sparingly. He was a sinister composition of a man. After a moment, he said, “Vivid doesn’t like people.”

  “He likes animals.”

  “Maybe that is why he likes you.” Scorch’s heart thumped harder. “Elementals are rare. Fire elementals are the rarest. Do you know why?”

  Scorch was too busy reeling over the fact that Axum said Vivid liked him to comment, but Axum didn’t wait long before filling in his own blanks.

  “Fires are the hardest to contain. Their powers are the most volatile. Makes it more likely they will be found out, more likely they will be killed. When the Queen passed her ordinances and the High Priestess started sending out her monks to hunt us down, it was the Fires’ numbers that dwindled the fastest. That you remained hidden amongst the guardians for so long makes you special, but then, your parents were skilled at going unseen, as well.”

  The mention of his parents stirred his blood. “My parents, the assassins,” he said. It didn’t sound right and he felt his brow scrunch unhappily. “What can you tell me about them?”

  “Quite a lot. Rosen and Nahla helped form this Hollow,” Axum began. “After the ordinances, elementals were being murdered en masse. It was no longer safe for us out there, so we made our own place in here, remained hidden in an environment where we could hone our powers.”

  “But you’re assassins.”

  “Even monsters have to make a living,” answered Axum. “What better way to do that than by killing humans who would just as quickly kill us? Your mother was raised by a crew of assassins, knew the workings, knew the circuit, the higher ups. So we formed our own faction, taking in elementals when we could, taking out humans when the price was right.”

  “You say ‘humans’ like it’s a dirty word,” Scorch said. “I’m human.”

  “You are an elemental,” Axum corrected. “And a powerful one at that, if I had to wager.”

  Scorch shook his head. “You keep saying that, but it’s not true. I have no control.”

  “You need a harness to learn, like any other wild thing,” Axum said. “The assassins can be your harness.”

  “Why? So you can use me to hurt other people?”

  “So I can use your powers to help our people. The majority of our assignments deal in the eradication of those trying to eradicate us. I assume it did not escape your notice that Vivid was on such an assignment when you . . . complicated things.”

  In sharp bursts of color, Scorch saw the High Priestess’ body going limp as Vivid snapped her neck, and the way he’d looked at Scorch after, as if he wasn’t sure whether to kill him or free him.

  “He killed the High Priestess,” Scorch whispered. He wondered if the rest of Viridor knew of her death yet. They had heard no tale of it during their trek to the Hollow, but they had steered clear of the bulk of civilization and hadn’t exactly chatted up the few locals they did encounter.

  “He did. And the world will be a better place for us now that she is dead,” Axum said.

  Scorch wasn’t sure if he could argue that one. He certainly harbored no love for her, her temple, or her monks. The thought of Kio made his insides churn, but he knew that soon her memory would be just another scar, tender if he poked at it, but easy to ignore if he left it alone.

  “Scorch,” Axum said. “I’d like for you to join us here. Train, learn who you are and what you can do.”

  “I won’t kill people,” Scorch said. “I don’t want to. I want to protect them.”

  Axum held up a hand, the biggest gesture he’d made since sitting. “When the time comes for an assignment of your own, we can discuss it then, but for now, take advantage of what I am offering you. If we had known you were alive, we would have come for you fifteen years ago.” He leaned forward in his chair. “This is where you have always belonged, Scorch, where you were meant to be raised.”

  Then why did my parents take me away? Why did we live in the woods?

  Scorch sighed, feeling helpless. Maybe his parents would have wanted him to be an assassin, but it was Vivid’s insistence he come to the Hollow that made him nod his head in agreement.

  “That is the right choice,” Axum assured as they stood from their chairs, though neither his tone nor presence lent any feelings of assurance. “Report to Elias to begin your training.”

  “Elias?”

  “He is the only other Fire here,” Axum retorted. “Who better to teach you? I assume you’ve met?”

  “He introduced himself last night.”

  “Then you should have no trouble locating him.” When Scorch stalled, Axum crossed the length of the floor and opened the door for him. “Now.”

  Scorch decided he didn’t care much for Axum as he exited his chambers. He could feel black-brown eyes following his descent down the tunnel and he exhaled only when he heard the door finally close. He’d hoped Vivid would be waiting for him, but he was absent in the cavernous rooms as Scorch searched halfheartedly for white-blond hair.

  Axum had told Vivid to report to a southern training room, and after a befuddling few minutes of trying to find it on his own, Scorch tapped on the shoulder of the first assassin he saw without a knife in their hand.

  “Southern training room?” he asked politely, and the woman jerked her head to the left, toward a tunnel where the torches were all blown out. “Of course it’s down the dark tunnel. Thanks.” He was turning for the tunnel when someone, in turn, tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around and was met with a wide smile.

  “Good morning,” Elias said. He wore his hair stylishly mussed and had the sort of face that looked incapable of growing facial hair, perfectly clear and smooth. He wore the black leather garb of the other assassins, but there was considerably less of it today than there had been last night. His vest was snug, with no tunic beneath, and his trousers hung too low on his hips, exposing a strip of skin around his middle. His boots were a shiny obsidian-black, and his eyes twinkled an impish blue. “Looking for me?”

  “Looking for Vivid,” Scorch answered.

  “Why would you do a thing like that?” Elias leaned in a touch too close. “Axum said I was to train you. Be a good boy and follow me.”

  Miffed, but at a loss of how to finagle an escape, Scorch found himself trekking after Elias’ swaying hips. They passed Audrey on their journey, who glared at them both, and then they came to a stop in a wide-berthed room that Elias e
xplained was the eastern training room. It was a circular, domed space with carvings on the walls of dancing flames. The room was sparsely filled, but there were a handful of items, such as a standing torch, a row of small white candles, and a great tub of water.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on giving you a bath,” Elias laughed. “Not right now, anyway. It’s a safety precaution. In case it gets too hot.”

  Scorch walked slowly around the space, stopping to examine the flames carved into the cave wall. He could feel Elias step up behind him, felt his heat signature seeping into his own.

  “So, Scorch, word is you’re repressed.”

  “I had to be,” Scorch defended, turning around to face the other elemental. “I would have died otherwise.”

  “Hmm. What can you do?”

  Scorch considered the extent of his powers. “Well, I get overheated and sweat a lot.”

  “Those aren’t powers. Those are symptoms of you denying yourself.”

  “Sometimes,” Scorch admitted hesitantly, “my fingers spark. Things I touch can burst into flame. Or melt.”

  “Charming.” Elias sauntered toward the standing torch. “Could you light this?”

  “No,” Scorch said with a shake of his head. “I can’t control it.”

  “I wonder. Do you know what happens to Fires with pent up power?”

  “I do,” he replied, imagining a broad span of leathery wings and fire ripping from his throat.

  Elias stared into his eyes, and his lips quirked into a grin, as if he could see the images playing in Scorch’s mind. “We change. Become beasts, slaves to the fire.”

  Scorch frowned. He’d not felt like a slave when he’d changed in the desert or on the mountaintop. Rather, he had felt free for the first time in his life. It felt good, exhilarating, to let the fire take hold of him from the inside out.

  “I bet your beast is beautiful,” Elias sighed, his gaze shamelessly drinking in Scorch’s frame from tip to toe. “But until you choose when to release him, it’s still a beast, and that puts not only you, but those around you in danger.” He gestured to the torch. “Light this.”