The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

  “Is he dead? We should see if we can help.”

  “Yeah, alright. Go on and check, then.”

  “Y-you want me to check?”

  “Well, I’ve got to hold the reins, don’t I? On you go to play healer, boy.”

  There was the sound of a distressed sigh, followed by the thud of feet leaping from a wagon. Scorch arranged his face in a way to best earn sympathy. He was covered in soot and looked like a shaggy vagabond, but he hoped the robe would lend him some clout.

  He sensed someone nearing and heard a gasp. “Wait a second, Rex. I know this man!” exclaimed the voice, and Scorch cracked open an eye. A young man was leaning over him, studying his face in amazement.

  “Since when do you know any monks, Flautist?” scoffed the second voice.

  “He is not a monk, he is a Guardian of the Guild,” the young man insisted, smiling down at Scorch when he saw he was awake. “You probably don’t remember me, but Gods, I remember you. I wrote a song about the night you came to the inn.”

  Scorch blinked up at him. He was pretty and fresh-faced, with big blue eyes and red lips, and Scorch had definitely seen him before. “The flautist from the inn?” he asked uncertainly, scanning his mind for the night he’d tried hard to forget. He saw a young thing sitting across from him at a table. He saw a pretty bar wench kissing his cheek. “Felix?”

  “Yes!” the young man laughed. He called over his shoulder to his companion. “He remembers me!”

  “Fascinating. Get him out of the damn road.”

  “Oh, right. Can you walk? Are you hurt?” The flautist took Scorch’s elbow and eased him to his feet. “Are you headed back to the Guild? We are going in that very same direction and it would be an honor to travel alongside a guardian. Rex doesn’t mind, do you, Rex?”

  The older man in the wagon grunted.

  Scorch glanced between Felix and the wagon he’d intended on apprehending through thievery. He had not intended, nor would he ever have suspected, that a starry-eyed flautist would be offering him a ride exactly where he needed to go.

  “Felix,” he said, putting a hand on the flautist’s shoulder, “I have never needed help more. I have precious cargo I must deliver to the Guild, and quickly. How fast can your wagon travel?”

  Felix whipped his curly head around to his companion. “How fast can we be at the Guild, Rex?”

  Rex grunted again. “First light tomorrow if we don’t stop, I reckon.”

  “Is that fast enough?” Felix asked, but Scorch was already running to the trees. He recovered Vivid, checking his pulse before wrapping him up in his arms and returning to the wagon.

  “My cargo,” Scorch explained, moving around to the back of the wagon so he could settle Vivid. There was a stack of folded blankets beside a box of foodstuffs, and he quickly assembled a pallet and bundled Vivid up. He gave Vivid’s hair a pet and poked his head around the wagon. “As I said, he is precious to me. Can you promise me a swift journey?”

  Felix traveled around the side of the wagon and peered in curiously. “Rex is good with horses. He can get us to the Guild by sun up tomorrow.” He looked like he wanted to ask about Vivid, but hesitated. “I never knew your name,” he said. “In the song I wrote, I had to call you the Sun Guardian.” He blushed. “Because of your hair, you see.”

  Scorch allowed himself a small smile. “My name is Scorch.”

  “Oh?” The flautist made a face. “Hmm.”

  “Felix?” Scorch asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Could we get going, please?”

  “Yes, yes! All good back here?” When Scorch nodded, Felix patted earnestly at Vivid’s shoe and scampered back around the wagon to fuss at Rex. “Onward, onward, Rex! The guardian’s cargo is precious!”

  The horse neighed and the wagon began to move. Scorch lay down beside Vivid and held his hand, angling his thumb over the pulse point in his wrist. After riding through the night, Scorch’s body was beginning to protest wakefulness.

  “Please be alive when I wake up,” he whispered as his eyes drifted shut, and soon the rock of the wagon lulled him to sleep.

  ****

  He was sprawled on the cold floor of the mountain cave, but his body was warm. The Mountain Flower Whiskey had his head cloudy, and he was floating towards sleep.

  He stretched his arms over his head with a blissful sigh and something shifted against his side. The whiskey had too much claim on him to let his eyes open, so he touched the presence beside him and hooked an arm around it, pulling it closer.

  Someone mumbled against his chest as he rubbed his hand down rough leather. He sighed contentedly, so much happier with the weight in his arms.

  His guardianship had been an ordeal, but at that moment, on the floor of a cave, he thought it well worth it. Hands slid across his abdomen and wrapped around his waist, and he heard the mumble again, dreamy.

  He hoped he would remember that sound when he woke.

  ****

  A clap of thunder jerked Scorch awake, and he sat up with a gasp.

  “It’s okay. Only a little storm. Rex will see us through it in no time.” Felix was sitting in the back of the wagon, scrunched up in the corner, chewing on a piece of bread. He offered some to Scorch, who shook his head even as his stomach rumbled.

  “I couldn’t,” he insisted, eyes flashing down to Vivid. He leaned down and pressed his ear to his chest, listening for the weak beat of his heart. At first, he couldn’t hear it, the rain pounding the wagon’s canvas cover and drowning out heartbeats. He fumbled for Vivid’s wrist, his eyes squeezed shut and breath quick, and when he finally heard the thump, he sighed. He kept hold of Vivid’s wrist as he stared out the wagon’s back. Night had already fallen. He’d slept the day away, and Vivid was still hanging on to his scrap of life.

  Felix remained an unobtrusive presence, and when he offered Scorch a drink of water, Scorch accepted. He drank a healthful sip and then offered it up to Vivid’s lips. It rolled, unswallowed, down his chin, and Scorch wiped it away with the sleeve of his robe.

  “Is he a guardian, too?” Felix asked shyly, nodding at Vivid.

  Scorch snorted. “No. Definitely not a guardian.” He smiled. “You’re lucky he’s not awake or he’d kill you for even asking.” It was fortunate that Felix didn’t delve deeper into questions about their association, because Scorch hadn’t the slightest idea how to describe his relationship with Vivid. He’s my assassin.

  However, now that the silence was broken, Felix had more to say. His fingers fidgeted in his lap, playing an invisible flute, plainly nervous. “No one blamed you for Flora,” he blurted. Scorch had not heard the name in months, and he’d tried not to even think it. Hearing it now shook him, and his grip strengthened around Vivid’s wrist.

  “I saw you,” Felix bit out, in clear discomfort. “That night. I was leaving the inn and saw the slavers dragging you away. I wanted to help you, but I—I only had my flute, and there were three of them, and I was afraid. I’m so sorry.”

  Scorch couldn’t remember being dragged away; he was already unconscious by then. “It’s good you didn’t try to help, Felix. They would have killed you.”

  Felix was frowning, like he didn’t entirely believe Scorch. “I should have tried,” he said, looking out at the rain. “When word came around the next week that the Circle had been taken down by a tall, blond man, I knew it was you. That’s w-when I wrote the song.” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to hear it?”

  “I would love to hear it.”

  When he’d experienced that terrible night with Flora, he’d never imagined any beauty would come of it, but Felix’s song wove a tale so heartrending and inspiring about the Sun Guardian, his barmaid, and vanquishing masked villains, that it almost erased the bloody images from his mind.

  Felix’s voice was high and crisp and exquisite, and after a verse, he would bring his flute to his lips and play an accompaniment that brought tears to Scorch’s eyes. The story was grossly inaccurate and made him sou
nd like a demigod instead of a green guardian, but it was undeniably lovely, and when Felix was finished, Scorch squeezed his shoulder and told him what a talent he was.

  “It wasn’t your fault, what happened to her,” Felix said a few minutes later.

  Scorch didn’t believe it, but it was nice to hear. He asked if Felix knew any songs about assassins, and it turned out he knew quite a few. They whiled the night away to the trills of black shadows and dangerous folk with stones for hearts and blades for hands. Vivid would have hated them all, but Scorch hung on to every word.

  ****

  Rex was true as he was fast, and as the sun peeked over the horizon and the world took on the blue tint of early dawn, the road became familiar. High walls stood among the trees and took Scorch’s breath away. Before the horses had even stopped, he was gathering Vivid in his arms and jumping from the wagon. He ran to the huge front door of the outer wall of the Guild, wooden and thick, with iron bars protecting it from unwanted guests.

  “Help me!” Scorch yelled as loudly as he could, gazing to the top of the wall, where he knew sentry kept a constant post. “Please! I need aid!” His throat burned, and he gathered another deep breath before adding, “It’s Scorch! Let me in!”

  He knew not what to expect. Had Master McClintock told the others he was an elemental? Would he be greeted with arrows or a welcoming committee?

  As usual, the last thing he anticipated was the way of things, and following his yells, the great door unlocked, opened, and a familiar face strode out to meet him. Scorch’s vision was filled with deep auburn hair and green eyes.

  “Scorch?” Merric asked, walking up to him with his mouth agape. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

  So Master McClintock had just told everyone he’d died. He probably assumed Scorch had died.

  “Why are you dressed like that? You look terrible. Who is this?” Merric gestured to Vivid.

  “I need Etheridge,” Scorch begged. “My friend needs healing.”

  Merric eyed the man in Scorch’s arms briefly, and then he said, “Bring him in. Hurry. She’s in her tent, as always.”

  Scorch didn’t have time to soak in his surroundings, or relish the feeling of being within the Guild’s walls again. He ran for the herbalist’s tent, clutching Vivid against his chest. Merric, to his surprise, ran alongside him. Apprentices scattered out of their way and murmurs rose from the grounds in a catching buzz. He could already see the glistening river when a man stepped in front of him and cut off his path.

  “Scorch.” Master McClintock smelled of smoking weeds and looked almost like home, but his expression was displeased, disconcerted, and disapproving. “I was under the impression you had not survived your guardianship.” His words had the air of careful construction, swollen with subtext.

  Scorch had no time for it. “Master,” he pleaded, holding Vivid tight, “he’s dying. You have to let me see Etheridge.”

  The man he’d always trusted—up until the second he didn’t—took a step toward Scorch and spoke to him in a hushed tone. “Your guardianship was a kindness, my boy,” he said. “But I think we both know you cannot be here. It pains me to say it, but you are a danger to us all. You must leave.”

  “This man is dying in my arms,” Scorch said, frustrated tears breaking free, “and you want to send me away? What is it you’re afraid I’ll do? Burn the place to the ground?” He let his voice strengthen with anger. “Because, Master, I will. If you don’t let me through to heal him, I will burn the whole Guild down!”

  “Scorch,” Master McClintock whispered, horrified.

  “If you were so afraid of an elemental, you should have killed me yourself. Now get out of my way!” Scorch shoved past him and started running for the herbalist tent. Behind him, he heard Merric say, “Father, let him go,” and then his own screaming voice filled his ears. “Etheridge! Etheridge!”

  She rushed from the tent, her braids lashing at her back as she ran to meet him halfway.

  “Etheridge!” he yelled.

  “Bring him inside.” She held the tent flap open and Scorch hurried through. “Lay him down,” she instructed, nodding toward the little cot she kept. When he hesitated, not wanting to let Vivid go, she clapped her hands at him. “Lay him down so I can tend to him, Scorch. Do it now.”

  He did as she asked, reluctantly placing him on the cot. She put her hands on Vivid immediately, feeling for his pulse and poking at his skin.

  “What’s happened to him?” she asked.

  “Someone gave him something,” Scorch explained shakily. “Something bad, to suppress his, his . . .”

  “Spit it out.”

  Scorch took a chance, assuming everyone in the Guild would know about their elemental status before long anyway. “To suppress his powers,” he said with an edge of defiance. “He’s an elemental, same as me. Someone was experimenting on him, hurting him, and they nearly killed him.”

  Etheridge showed no reaction to the elemental reveal; she only poked at Vivid some more.

  “Can you save him?” Scorch asked, fearful of her answer. “Please.”

  Etheridge shot him a searching look. “The last time I saw you, my Luna seed was finally ripe for harvesting,” she said. Scorch nodded; he remembered. “Hand me that seashell. Over there.”

  He tripped over himself in his hurry to retrieve the shell from a shelf of dried herbs. “Will this help?” he asked, handing it to her.

  She tipped the shell over her carefully cupped palm and out popped a pearly seed. “The Luna seed is said to cure any ailment.”

  “Give it to him.”

  “I will, but I should tell you first, the process of expelling poison from a body is a nasty, painful business, and as bad as your friend looks, he could spend hours in agony and die anyway.”

  “He won’t die,” Scorch told her. He stared down at Vivid, unmoving and grey and one meager heartbeat away from death. “Do it. Please.”

  Etheridge popped the seed into Vivid’s mouth and massaged his throat until it went down. “It’s done. Go clean yourself up and change into some fresh clothes,” she ordered. “It’ll be about an hour before he reacts.”

  Scorch lingered. “I don’t need to freshen up. I’m fine. I want to stay here.”

  Etheridge fixed him with a withering glare. “That was my polite way of saying you stink. Go bathe, for the love of Gods. And shave that blasted beard. You look like a mountain bear. Merric, get him out of here.”

  Realizing Merric had slipped into the tent without his notice was the catalyst for Scorch agreeing to freshen up. If Merric could sneak up on him, it meant his senses were dulled, and a splash of cold water on his face wouldn’t go amiss. Scorch was, in a way, in enemy territory, and he would be useless to Vivid if he allowed himself to become sloppy. He indulged in a final glimpse at Vivid, and then, with downcast eyes, followed Merric from the tent.

  Master McClintock was waiting for them outside. He and Scorch stared bleakly at one another, until Merric spoke. “Etheridge has sent him to clean up, and then we’re reporting back here straight away,” he explained to his father.

  “I need to speak with you, Scorch.” The Master looked older than Scorch remembered, and bone tired.

  “It can wait,” Merric said, moving so he blocked Scorch’s body with his own. “I will stay with him, if it sets your mind at ease, but time is short, and you can speak to him when his ordeal has passed.”

  Scorch could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he kept his mouth shut and hoped Merric’s out of character defense would be enough to let him walk away from Master McClintock. Merric stood straight, his hands relaxed at his sides and his head tipped high, and Scorch had never thought him handsomer.

  After an unsettling bout of familial glaring, the Guild Master stepped aside, but as Merric made to pass, he grabbed his arm. “See that you do not leave him alone” he whispered, loudly enough that he may as well have shouted.

  Merric’s only response was a terse sigh and a rapid progres
sion toward the Guild House, with Scorch on his heels.

  He received looks from every direction as they wound their way through the halls and into the bathhouse. Some seemed to know who he was, murmuring his name as they passed, but many didn’t recognize him. When he spotted his reflection in the bathhouse looking glass, he was surprised anyone had known it was him, especially Felix the Flautist.

  The greatest offense was the layer of soot on his face and in his hair, mixed with days of worried sweat. For once, there was no blood, but that was only because he had burned all the monks before he had a chance to pull his blade. His hair was too long from travel and neglect and his beard had grown thicker while living in the woods. He did sort of resemble a mountain bear. When Vivid recovered, he might not recognize him in such a scraggly state.

  “I need shears and a razor,” Scorch decided, eyes sweeping over Merric as he filled one of the tubs with water heated by the natural springs within the Guild walls.

  “They are where they’ve always been,” Merric answered.

  Scorch fetched them from the bathhouse’s toiletry chest and set to righting himself. He gathered chunks of his hair, dulled and darkened with grime, and clipped it off until it was his usual messy scruff. The beard took longer, because he had to clip it and then shave, but soon that was gone, as well, and his face was smooth. He looked more like himself, but his reflection still instigated unease in his stomach. He was leaner, his jawline sharper, his cheeks gaunter, and his eyes were clouded with weariness.

  And he had scars.

  “Water’s going to get cold,” Merric said from the corner of the room. He planted himself on the edge of another tub, his body angled away from Scorch as he disrobed and sank into the hot water.

  There was no luxuriating in the bath. He scrubbed his skin and hair perfunctorily, until the water resembled liquid slate, and then he hurried out and wiped himself down with the towel Merric set out for him. Clean and anxious to get back to Vivid, he stood a bit awkwardly with the towel wrapped around his waist, coughing to garner Merric’s attention.