The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

  “Does it hurt, Scorch?” Elias asked. Scorch heard him scrape his blades together, metal echoing above the crackling drone of the fire.

  Scorch’s mind was a disharmony of thoughts: maneuvers to escape Elias’ hold, the seconds it would take to change, whether he wanted to escape at all. He saw his parents as they were cut down by the Priestess’ Monks, all in black. All in black leather. Wait. No.

  He laughed and coughed, tasting blood in his mouth. After going so long without his nightmares, what he saw when he’d been unconscious was clearer than ever before, and he knew, he knew that his parents hadn’t been killed by the High Priestess. The assailants in his memory didn’t move like the monks. They moved like assassins.

  The wind gusted upon his epiphany, blowing a clean bout of air through the smoky night. It felt cool on the side of his face. It even made the pressure of Elias’ boot lighten. It lightened so completely, in fact, it was as if no one held him down at all. A gargling sound from above had Scorch moving, confused as to why he was able to. He rolled over in the grass and looked up. Elias was levitating, his hands clutching at his throat. Scorch staggered to his feet.

  First, he saw the barkeep’s body drop from high in the air and land with a deadweight thud. Then, he saw Vivid. He was standing in the field, and though the light of the fire hardly reached him, Scorch knew him from the cut of his body and power of his stance. He was but a Vivid-shaped shadow some thirty feet away, with hair blowing wild.

  Elias kicked his legs madly in the air and Scorch drew his eyes away from Vivid to watch him squirm. His face was red, but Vivid had not taken all his oxygen yet. He had enough to wheeze and choke and meet Scorch’s eye with a mutinous glaze. And then, because Scorch could never stand to look elsewhere for long, he sought Vivid’s shadow again. He was walking forward, the wind growing stronger as he came closer, and when he finally stepped into the light, Scorch was stricken by the intensity on his face. He stopped at Scorch’s side, but his eyes were for Elias alone.

  “I warned you, Elias,” he said.

  Elias stopped clawing at his throat and lifted his hands in front of him, flames sparking at the tip of each finger.

  Vivid stepped closer. “I told you.”

  Elias’ fire flared high in his hands but Vivid’s commandment of air was faster, and with clenched fists and a pained grunt, he stole the last of the air from Elias.

  It didn’t take long.

  When the blue fire of Elias’ eyes dulled, Vivid lowered his body slowly to the ground. Scorch stood silently beside him, or as silently as he could, breathing with a broken nose. For a few moments, Vivid watched Elias’ body as if he expected it to rise again, but when Elias did nothing but lie there dead, he turned to Scorch.

  Vivid looked him up and down, distress engraved in his pinched brow and bitten lip. Scorch’s bare skin was covered in grime from the smoke, and blood was flowing from his nose, coating his neck and chest. Adrenaline had temporarily numbed the pain in his shoulder, but there was still a wound there, doubtlessly staining his back with more blood. He looked a fright. But Vivid, for the first time since the desert, looked frightened.

  “You followed me,” Scorch said, hating how stuffy his voice sounded. He scrunched his nose, wincing, and then Vivid’s hand darted to his face, closed over his broken bridge, and snapped it back into place.

  Scorch doubled over, clapping both hands over his nose. “Ow,” he gasped, but the pain was already receding, and he could breathe easier. He straightened and wiped at the blood on his face with a sooty forearm, probably making an even worse mess of himself, but none of that mattered, because Vivid was standing there, staring at him.

  “Thank you,” Scorch said softly. The words fell heavy between them. They didn’t feel like enough. “You saved me again.”

  Vivid’s eyes were brilliant in the glow of the fire and his jaw was clenched so tight that it sent his whole body into a subtle vibration. “I should not have had to,” he whispered. “You should have told Elias what he wanted to hear last night.”

  Scorch frowned, not understanding. “You heard that?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me to go along with it, then, when I tried to speak to you about Axum’s plan?”

  “Because Elias was listening to us.” Vivid was speaking quietly, but he was furious, and Scorch felt conflicted by his instincts. He wanted to move away from him, and he wanted to touch him.

  “And in the cot room?” he asked. Vivid nodded. “So you followed me here, why? Because you knew Axum had ordered my assassination? You couldn’t have told me that before I left?”

  “I hoped I was wrong.” Vivid’s eyes swept to Elias’ body at their feet.

  “You,” Scorch began, tight-throated, “you killed him.”

  “Your observational prowess never ceases to astound me.”

  “No, Vivid, you killed the Leader of the Assassins’ son. You can’t go back there now.” Scorch did try to touch him then, and made it as far as an inch from Vivid’s shoulder before his effort was knocked away.

  “I know I can’t go back,” Vivid snapped. “I’ve buried myself.”

  “What are we going to do?” Scorch flustered. If they couldn’t return to the Hollow, and they couldn’t return to the guardians, where were they to go? Frustrated and dirty and exhausted, and probably concussed from hitting his head against the ladder, Scorch asked, “Why did you do it?”

  Vivid’s reaction was sudden and heart-stopping. “I did it for you!” he yelled, an outburst of feeling so strong that the wind picked up and a shower of embers from the barn swirled around them. “Apparently, I would rather destroy the only future I’ve ever had than see you dead.” The tone of his voice was a contradiction to the words he spoke, thunderous and fuming, and all Scorch could do was listen, his hammering heart a suitable backdrop to the impossibilities he was hearing. “You have,” Vivid continued, speaking softer now, but with no less ire, “burned everything.” Scorch tried to touch him again, and Vivid moved away. “Stop trying to touch me,” he growled. “Stop looking at me like you know who I am.”

  Scorch blinked and saw Vivid as the scared boy Elias described, but that didn’t make him broken in Scorch’s eyes; it made him even lovelier than he already thought him, and he had to tell him so. “Elias told me how you got your scars,” he breathed. Vivid was motionless, hardly breathing. “You were the elemental the High Priestess kept in the temple all those years ago. That’s how you knew how to survive the Monk’s Path. Because you’d walked it before.” When Vivid remained quiet, Scorch tried, one last time, to touch. He reached for the hair hanging loose over Vivid’s eye. Vivid let him tuck it carefully behind his ear. “Vivid,” Scorch pleaded. For what, he wasn’t sure.

  Vivid shook his head. “This was the last time.”

  “No.” Scorch didn’t know what Vivid meant, but he strongly disliked the sound of it. “I’m sorry about the Hollow, but we can figure it out. Axum is planning to take over Viridor. We have to stop him.”

  “We,” Vivid scoffed. He turned his back to Scorch. “Whatever this has been between us, it’s done now.”

  Scorch watched the fine hairs on the nape of Vivid’s neck catch the leaping light of the fire. “Why?”

  “Because you’re dangerous,” Vivid answered, his voice almost lost to the howling of the wind. Barely did he turn his head, blessing Scorch with a final view of his sweet profile. “Don’t follow me.”

  He began to walk away, and Scorch called helplessly out to him. “Or what?”

  Vivid didn’t stop. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  Scorch dropped to his knees and watched Vivid’s shadow until it disappeared into the darkness. Every piece that made him whole begged to follow, but he forced himself stay. If Vivid could dismiss him so easily, Scorch had misunderstood everything. He cast a glance at Elias. He didn’t want to be like him, forcing his presence where it was unwanted. If Vivid was finally tired of him, Scorch would accept it. It was a miracle he’d tolerated him as long as he had.
/>
  Scorch sat in his sadness and grieved among the dead until the barn was only a heap of charred skeleton, and only then did he stand. He looked up and down the field in the dawning light. He had nowhere to go.

  So he just started walking.

  Stealthy

  17

  In case more assassins were hiding in the shadows of Elanor, Scorch didn’t pass through the town again, nor did he walk the main roads. He kept to the woods, shirtless and filthy, until he found a stream to wash in. The water ran black as he sluiced the grit and grime from his body. He cleaned the wound in his shoulder as best as he could without quite being able to reach it and hoped rinsing it with clean water would be enough to stave off infection. As a slim piece of luck, the knife had not plunged too deep. The barkeep had been a menace, but an unimpressive knife thrower. If he’d been better, Scorch might be dead instead of pattering about in a stream.

  He tried not to think about Vivid.

  Still shirtless, but clean, Scorch traveled on, unknowing of where, precisely, he was traveling. When he spotted a village near day’s end, he almost succumbed to its offer of shelter and food, but as he watched the people light their torches and ready themselves for the night, he found he couldn’t be bothered. He would need clothes and a meal and a room, and he would be asked questions, and people would stare. He wasn’t in the mood to smile and lie and make nice with strangers. A roof over his head would do nothing for the pit in his stomach. Besides, if he went to an inn, someone would inevitably try to kill him or worse. Better to stay away.

  He journeyed deeper into the woods until the trees grew bigger, denser, and he found a decent spot where the roots didn’t stick up too much and the grass was soft. He moved quietly, collecting dry brush, and then, without flint or friction, he made a fire. He didn’t need the heat, could stay warm through the night all on his own, but he craved the comfort of it, the familiarity. As he sat in its glow, memories shook him. He’d spent so many nights in front of a fire with Vivid and Kio, Julian even. Now, he sat alone, all of them disappeared from his company, through one means or another.

  But he tried. He tried really hard not to think about Vivid.

  With no Dream Moss to chew, he hardly slept. In part, he was afraid of the dreams he might have, but mostly, his heartbeat was too rebellious for sleep. He tossed and turned in the grass, his sword held tight in his hand, and as soon as it was bright enough to see, he got up for the day.

  He was not moved to venture, so he hunted instead. He had no bow, but he fashioned a few traps and caught a rabbit to cook. It tasted good, but it was hard to swallow, and he never felt lonelier than he did in that moment, hunched over his meal in the silence of the forest. Birds seldom chirped, most moved southerly for the cold months, and for the first time, he was paying close attention to the wind. It hardly existed, not even to rustle the leaves.

  That first day of solitude passed slowly, Scorch trapping more rabbits and snow finches for cooking as the sun made its lazy progression through the sky. Before night fell, he found a stream a mile off and a shallow cave hidden behind a wall of vines. He saw the choice before him, and it was surprisingly easy to make. He set up a new camp within the cave. He made a bed of leaves and moss and waved a hand before a pit of kindling to make a fire. When he was a child, he had lived in the woods, and he could remember being happy, with his parents. Alone, he could live there again and try not to be so miserable that he couldn’t move.

  Scorch could take care of himself in all the expected ways. With his skills learned from the Guild, he hunted with a success to keep his stomach full. He abated his thirst with fresh water from the stream. His stealth, meager as it might have been, kept him hidden and unbothered. He was sheltered, fed, and—partially— clothed.

  It was his mind he could not make well.

  While his body was surviving in the wild, his mind was not, burdened as it was. He worried constantly over Axum’s plan, and the guilt of inaction swamped him. Were he a proper guardian, he would have gone to the Master and worked a solution to the assassin’s madness. If Vivid had not banished him from his side, they could have discussed a counter plan. Vivid would have reproached him for talking too much, but he would have listened, and he might have helped.

  Axum’s intentions were an issue of import, no matter whose company Scorch kept, but alone, he couldn’t drudge up the courage to act. In the cave, he was neither guardian nor assassin, human nor elemental. What good could he do against Axum, besides get himself killed? He kept close to his cave, kept his blade sharp, and tried not to let his thoughts consume him. In a way, it felt right to be so completely on his own. He had always felt like he was alone at the guild, and now the feeling had manifested into a cave-dwelling reality.

  At night, when he wasn’t sleeping, he tried not to wonder where Vivid was.

  ****

  Three weeks passed, long enough to grow accustomed to his new routines, and long enough to grow his beard thick. He scratched mindlessly at it as he made his daily trek to the stream. The air had grown colder and the water icy, but Scorch remained shirtless, clad only in his assassin trousers and red boots. The temperature had no effect on him, and the trees had no complaints of his indecency, so why cover himself?

  He knelt at the stream, dipping his hands in the water and running his fingers through his hair. It was as untamed now as it had ever been: messy, falling in golden sweeps over his ears. He should have asked Vivid to cut it for him when he had the chance, though Vivid might have run him through with shears before deigning to groom him with them.

  Scorch was smiling sadly when he sensed it, a subtle shift in the air, when space ordinarily unoccupied was suddenly filled with presence. He unsheathed his sword with a whoosh of steel and spun on the bank, water splashing in a dramatic arc around his legs.

  When he saw her, he rushed forward, only to be waylaid by a surge of water around his ankles, spinning with a binding force that held him prisoner.

  Audrey lifted a hand, her expression fierce. “I’m not here to kill you,” she promised, and the familiar scratch of her voice made Scorch ache. He had gone nearly a month without hearing anyone’s voice but his own. “Put your sword away and I’ll release you.”

  Scorch stared into her eye in search of a lie. He found none. But he was not the best judge of character. It was with great hesitance that he lowered his weapon, sliding it with a click into its scabbard. Audrey let her hand drop, and the water swirling around his ankles sank back into the stream. He gave his soaked boots a frown.

  “If you’re not here to kill me, why are you here?”

  She looked at him strangely, and he realized his appearance might be appalling. He wished for the first time in weeks that he were wearing more clothes.

  “I want answers,” she said. “Axum told us you murdered Elias and fled, an easy enough truth to accept. We’ve all wanted to kill Elias from time to time. But then Vivid never came back.” Scorch squeezed his hands into fists to stop their tremor. “Many have the idea you killed him, but I know that’s impossible.”

  “Because I would never hurt him,” Scorch said solemnly.

  She shrugged. “That. And Vivid’s not so easy to kill.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “I assumed he’d left with you,” Audrey continued. “I assumed you were off together, doing, Gods, I don’t know, each other, probably.” Scorch blushed. “So imagine my surprise when I found this outside the Hollow.” She pulled a rolled cloth from beneath her belt.

  Dread rose in Scorch’s throat like acid as she opened the cloth. At its center was a thick lock of hair, black and shining. He touched it with an unsteady finger, and it was impossibly soft. “Vivid,” he whispered.

  “Normally, a few strands of hair wouldn’t be enough to make me think so,” Audrey said. “But look at the cloth it came in.”

  Scorch had hardly noticed the cloth before, but he examined it now with disbelieving eyes. It was a simple fabric of brown weave, and Scorch knew it we
ll. “This is cut from the robe of a Priestess’ Monk,” he said. Audrey nodded. “That means—”

  “They have him.” Audrey’s one-eyed glare was horrible. “You really didn’t know?”

  “Do you think I would be hiding in the woods if I knew Vivid was in danger?” Scorch asked, the truth of Audrey’s news hitting him so hard that he thought he might collapse. He was sweating, he was red in the face, and his inner fire was huffing and churning, begging for release. The idea of Vivid captured had him heaving, bracing his hands on his knees, and exhaling slow, uneven breaths. Steam escaped his nostrils and his fingers sparked.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Audrey asked.

  Scorch wheezed a hot breath and reminded himself it would do no good to change yet. He had to save it. Let it fester. Use it when it counted. “The night Elias died,” he answered. “He left. He didn’t—he didn’t want me. He left me.”

  Audrey was not sympathetic, she was angry, and that was okay, because it was what Scorch deserved. “You should have followed him.”

  “He asked me not to.”

  Her hands found his shoulders and wrenched him straight so she could better scowl. “When has Vivid ever been honest about what he wants?” she asked. She released him with a violent shove, and he fell back into the water. “Now he’s been taken, and I have no idea where he is.”

  “I’m sorry,” Scorch gasped, crawling to his feet, soaked.

  “Do you know what the High Priestess and her monks did to him the last time they had him?” she yelled.

  “I’m sorry!”

  She stomped toward him, kicking up water, and they stood face to face. “Don’t waste your mind feeling sorry. Think, Scorch. You and Vivid were the last ones to see the monks, and Axum says they no longer live on the mountain. Do you know where they might be now?”

  Scorch was shaking his head when the memory surfaced. “I overheard Axum the night before my assignment. He mentioned something about a fortress. Elias was supposed to be staking it out, determining a new leader. They might have been talking about the monks.”