The Sun Guardian

by T. S. Cleveland

  “As a guardian, the risk of death is ever present,” Master McClintock defended.

  “But to send him down the Monk’s Path when his aid was not even requested?” He looked to Scorch with wonder. “It’s a miracle he’s alive.”

  “Hey,” Scorch said, with a hand to his chest, offended. Then he recalled how many close brushes with death he’d experienced and deflated a bit. “That is true, actually. I would be dead ten times over if it weren’t for Vivid.”

  “Vivid?” asked the Master, handling the name with care, as if it dirtied him to speak it. “I assume that is the name of your elemental?”

  “He’s not my elemental,” Scorch said, hating how often he was blushing these days. “But yes. That’s his name. And one of the more memorable times he saved my life was when the High Priestess had me tied to a chair with intricate plans to torture me.” Scorch let himself enjoy their shock before speaking again. “I take it you were unaware that the High Priestess was insane,” he ventured after a suitably dramatic pause. “And that she despised elementals so much that she tortured the few she didn’t have murdered, even small children.” He grimaced at the thought. “I didn’t kill the High Priestess,” he admitted, “but good riddance.”

  More silence, and then Master McClintock asked, “And the Priestess’ Monks?”

  “Oh, I killed them,” Scorch answered briskly. “But believe me when I say they started it.”

  “The High Priestess was going to,” Merric’s face was screwed up in concentration, “torture you?”

  “She was,” Scorch said, zeroing in on the Guild Master. “After I risked life and almost all my limbs to save her, she had no qualms about torturing me to death once she found out I was an elemental. Should I be thanking you, Master, for being kind enough to send me straight into her arms instead of doing what she wanted to do yourself? The man who saved my life, who was lying in Etheridge’s tent a bit ago, nearly dead, would you see him tortured and killed, as well?”

  “Scorch,” Master McClintock said calmly.

  “I trusted you. And you wanted me dead.” Scorch was losing steam as the emotions attached to his words caught up with him. Maybe the Guild had never truly been Scorch’s home, and the Guild Master was never his father, but they were all he had for a long time, and he had clung desperately to the idea that Master McClintock took him in because he cared whether or not he lived or died. And he might have, up until the time he discovered who Scorch really was.

  “I never wanted you dead.” Master McClintock had set his pipe down again and was back to pacing in front of his desk, stirring the smoky air around him. “But I had the entire Guild to protect, and elementals . . . you know how dangerous they are.”

  “Burning down a forest dangerous?” asked Scorch.

  The Master shook his head. “I should have realized the truth back then. Maybe I did and didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Easier to cast out a man of twenty than a boy of thirteen. When did you find me out for sure?”

  “It was no moment of absolute epiphany, more an awareness of no other possible conclusion. One too many laundry days where my things were returned to me with . . . scorch marks, if you will. Only on days when you were scheduled to do the folding.”

  Merric coughed, but it might have been a laugh.

  “So setting a forest on fire is fine, but mess with your underclothes and it’s a step too far,” Scorch said.

  “More like a step too many,” the Master sighed. “Once I opened my eyes to it, the rest all made sense, and as much as I would have liked to, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I sent you away shortly after. I wasn’t proud to do it.”

  “That doesn’t excuse what you did,” said Merric.

  “It’s okay,” Scorch said, keeping his eyes on the Guild Master. “I’m thankful you sent me away. I never would have learned to control my powers otherwise, and I never would have—” He paused. Merric was grinning slyly beside him. “I never would have met . . . anyone else like me. If I’d met Vivid sooner, if more elementals had someone to teach them how to control their power, instead of bottling it up until it became dangerous, then maybe people wouldn’t be so afraid, and maybe elementals wouldn’t be hunted down like terrors. But the past is the past, isn’t it? The real question is whether or not you’re going to send me away again, or raise the alarm that elementals have infiltrated the Guardians’ Guild.”

  Master McClintock walked around his desk and collapsed into his chair, his head falling into his hands. “I never wished you dead, Scorch. And I do not wish it now.” His green eyes peered through smoke-stained fingers. “All the same, I cannot allow you to remain a guardian, as it is forbidden by Viridorian law.” Scorch nodded. He’d figured as much. “But you may remain here while your friend recovers.”

  “Housing an elemental is also forbidden by Viridorian law.”

  “Which is why you will not be allowed inside the Guild House,” Master McClintock said. “You can make camp beside the river, well away from any structures. Or trees.”

  “You’re spoiling me,” Scorch said drily.

  “I will stay close to him,” Merric offered.

  Scorch narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Careful, Merric, you’ll give me the wrong idea.”

  “Please. Your boyfriend would murder me.”

  “Whatever this conversation is, it can be continued elsewhere, far from my ears,” pleaded the Guild Master. “Merric, you are to remain at Scorch’s side while he remains within the Guild walls. Any unsavory activity is to be reported at once. Understood?”

  “Is that your idea of unsavory?” Scorch asked. “Or mine? I have a hunch they’re quite different.”

  The Master tsk-tsked them out of the room and practically slammed the door shut. Scorch was preparing something smart to say when a woman rounded the corner and caught sight of him. She was pretty and tall, with sandy blonde hair, and her name was . . . Gods, her name, her name began with an M, right? Millie. Molly. Missy?

  “Mazzy,” greeted Merric.

  “Mazzy!” Scorch announced as she stopped right in front of him.

  “Hi, Scorch. Someone said you were back, but I didn’t believe it.” She flattened a palm against his chest. “We all thought you were dead.”

  He backed away from her touch, half-hiding himself behind Merric. “I thought I was dead a few times, myself,” he laughed.

  She looked at him as if she knew exactly what he looked like without his apprentice clothing on. And she did. “We should get together later and talk. I would love to hear about your guardianship.” The way her eyes twinkled when she said “talk” made Scorch doubt she had anything to say to him other than single word commands concerning pace and enthusiasm.

  “I can’t,” Scorch said. “I’ve got a thing. That is to say, I’m busy later. And forever.”

  Mazzy didn’t look disappointed or insulted, but she did look at Merric with fluttering lashes.

  “I’m busy, too,” Merric hurried to say, interestingly enough. Scorch remembered Merric being extremely keen to “talk” with Mazzy.

  “Okay, then.” She was utterly unbothered by their rejections. She squeezed Scorch amiably on the shoulder. “I’m really glad you’re alive,” she said, and then she sauntered back down the hallway, her hips swishing. When she rounded the corner, Scorch turned to Merric as Merric turned to Scorch.

  “You’re in love with him,” Merric said.

  Scorch gasped, then coughed, then crossed his arms defensively across his chest. Far too late, he coolly asked, “With who?”

  Merric looked at him like he was stupid, and maybe he was. “Vivid. The elemental you were crying over and refuse to shut up about.” Scorch gawked, his mouth hanging open in a way that was probably unattractive, but honestly. In love with Vivid? “He’s pretty,” Merric added thoughtfully.

  “I am not in love with Vivid,” Scorch insisted as they continued down the hall.

  “You didn’t even look at Mazzy,” Merric pointed out un
helpfully. “The Scorch I know would have, you know, definitely looked.”

  It was true. They passed three more apprentices on their way outside, two boys and another girl, all of whom Scorch had looked at prior to his guardianship. But Scorch had been through a lot lately, hadn’t he? And he was tired. Too tired to look. “Just because I’m not interested in sleeping around doesn’t mean I’m in love with Vivid.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Merric. He held the door open for Scorch and they stepped outside. “Have you slept with anyone since you met him?”

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but I have been extremely busy,” answered Scorch. He could already see the white tent in the distance, and the sight of it was instantly soothing.

  “Busy being in love with Vivid,” Merric mumbled, and Scorch swatted his arm, barely thinking of how strange it was to be talking with Merric and walking with him in camaraderie. He wasn’t even compelled to stare at Merric’s backside as he trudged ahead of him toward the tent, and he knew from years of admiring that it was an exceptional backside.

  But that didn’t mean he was in love with Vivid.

  Felix poked his head out of the tent as Merric walked up. They smiled sheepishly at each other and Scorch realized why Merric hadn’t been interested in Mazzy. He walked past them into the tent, where Etheridge was quietly mixing something mint-scented in a bowl, and where Vivid was lying on the cot asleep, a fat grey cat curled up on his chest.

  Scorch went to his side, sinking to his knees and resting his elbows on the cot. The cat blinked sleepily and Scorch watched her lift and fall as she rode the tide of Vivid’s breathing.

  “He’s kept down water and a bite of porridge,” Etheridge whispered.

  Scorch nodded his thanks, but he couldn’t look away from Vivid. He’d fallen asleep with his hand buried in the cat’s fur. He liked animals, Scorch knew, and the cat certainly liked him. Her head was resting on his chest and she was purring loudly.

  “When was the last time you slept?” Etheridge asked.

  Scorch rubbed at his eyes. “Not too long ago,” he answered. A yawn crept up on him, and he covered it with his hand.

  “I can make a pallet for you,” she offered, but Scorch was already lowering his head to rest on the edge of the cot.

  “I’m fine here,” he insisted. “I like it here.”

  He did like it there, his head resting an inch from Vivid’s body, close enough to touch. He liked it so much that he fell asleep within seconds, the cat’s tail curling around his wrist. He liked it so much that, even though his back was bent uncomfortably, and his neck already had a crick in it from the weird angle, and grey fur was irritating his nose, there was nowhere else he would rather be.

  But that didn’t mean he was in love with Vivid.

  Changes

  21

  Scorch woke up some time during the night. Someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders and lit a candle, which flickered all alone on Etheridge’s worktable. Etheridge herself was absent. The cat had moved from Vivid’s chest to his feet, and Scorch’s hand had moved from the cot to Vivid’s thigh. He let it rest there a moment before realizing that Vivid was just as awake as he was, and then he snapped his hand back, pushing himself so forcefully from the cot that he landed on his backside. It was a relief for his knees, honestly, which had been awkwardly bent for hours while he slept.

  Vivid’s face was candlelit, and Scorch tried his best to focus on his eyes instead of the tantalizing span of his bare chest. Absently, Vivid’s hand moved to brush the lock of hair from his eyes, but it was no longer there. It hurt Scorch to see his fingers fumbling, only to find his hair carelessly clipped to the root. Vivid hid his surprise well, but Scorch still saw it, in the freezing of his fingers and the delicate pursing of his lips. He must have been unconscious when Kio took the lock of hair. Scorch swallowed down the urge to grab onto him and prove to himself he was okay, but he had to settle for watching him in the dark, too many inches away.

  “Time for a haircut, I think,” Vivid said, tugging on his uneven strands.

  “I can give you one in the morning,” Scorch proposed, giving his own freshly sheared hair a tug of acknowledgement. He expected a multitude of reactions to such an offer, something sharp thrown at his head, for example, but Vivid, as Scorch should have known by now, was full of surprises.

  “Alright,” he answered. He flexed his feet beneath the blanket and the cat started purring again, nuzzling against his toes. With no thick lock of hair to hide behind, the way Vivid looked at Scorch was far more distracting, and the route his eyes cut of Scorch’s face was far more intimate. When the scrutiny landed on his jawline, Scorch remembered the last time he’d been freshly shaven around Vivid. The memory made him smile.

  “I can’t tell,” Scorch said.

  Vivid’s eyebrows competed with the rest of his features for the best portrayal of grumpiness. “Can’t tell what?”

  “Whether you like me better with a beard or not.” He rubbed a hand over his smooth cheek.

  “I dislike you equally, with or without a beard.”

  “So I should grow it out?” Scorch asked.

  Vivid shrugged noncommittally, but his fingers were tapping a quick rhythm on his leg. “I don’t know why you think I care how you wear your facial hair.”

  “I’ll keep it shaved,” Scorch decided. Vivid’s fingers stilled and his nostrils flared, and Scorch laughed. “See? You do have an opinion.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Tell me what you prefer.”

  “I prefer not to see your face at all, let alone dictate its state of unkemptness.”

  They sat in silence until Scorch began to ache from not talking. It had been too long since he’d exchanged words with Vivid; he was craving it. And since he was yet to be thrown from the tent, it seemed Vivid wasn’t against it either.

  “You should have seen my beard a few hours ago,” he said. “Etheridge made me shave it.”

  “I’ll add that to my list of reasons to thank Etheridge,” Vivid snarked.

  “Thank Felix, too. He brought us here in his wagon.”

  “And you made it sound as if you carried me in your arms the whole way here.”

  “Just some of the way,” Scorch admitted. He tried to smile, to make light of it, but the memory of holding Vivid was too heavy and too fresh, and he had to duck his head while his eyes misted.

  “Stop it,” Vivid growled. “Look at me.” Scorch’s eyes found his in the candlelight. His expression was severe. The cat had moved to his knees and was making biscuits. Scorch waited for Vivid to speak, but he wasn’t speaking, only looking.

  “What?” Scorch asked self-consciously.

  “I went with Kio, because she said she had you. And when I arrived at the fortress, she told me you were dead.”

  “I wasn’t,” Scorch whispered.

  “I didn’t know that until I woke up. Come here.”

  Scorch’s heart fluttered. “Come where?”

  “Come here,” Vivid demanded impatiently, and Scorch scrambled to his knees, scooting closer to the cot. Vivid stared at him intently. “I like it both ways,” he said.

  Scorch frowned. “What?”

  “Your beard. I like it shaved and full. But I like it best in-between.” Vivid relayed the admission with annoyance, leaving Scorch blank-faced and speechless. “Now go away. I’m tired.”

  Somehow, Scorch managed to climb to his feet and stumble from the tent, leaving Vivid to rumble grumpily and roll to his side on the cot, the cat mewing at the disturbance.

  The night air was cold, but Scorch was hot, and he walked to the edge of the river, where he dipped his hands into the water and splashed his face. He wasn’t surprised when he heard the flautist calling his name. Glancing up, water dripping from his lashes, he saw where Felix and Merric had set up camp a ways down the river. Felix waved his arms, even as Scorch began making his way over. When he collapsed beside the fire, Merric handed him a blanket and a piece of b
read.

  “Did you get kicked out?” he asked.

  “No,” Scorch lied. He looked over his shoulder at the white tent standing in the darkness, the tiny glow of the candle within barely visible, like a quiet heartbeat, like a beacon. He couldn’t stop rubbing his hand over his chin as he ate and drank, calculating how long it would take for his beard to come in. It suddenly felt dire that he grow out his stubble as soon as possible. It was a silly desire, he knew, but he wished for it nonetheless as he spread out on the grass and gazed at the stars.

  ****

  In the morning, following dreams filled with soft hair and rough edges, Scorch went to Vivid. Etheridge was anointing him with the same black salve she used the day before, claiming it was good for circulation, and as a result, Vivid had black smudges on his skin and a malcontent expression on his face. He was also, Scorch noted with a modicum of disappointment, dressed. And though Scorch knew Vivid was relieved he was covered, he also knew he was anything but thrilled to be stuck wearing the clothes Etheridge had given him.

  “We match,” Scorch said as he bopped into the tent.

  Vivid leered at him in his light brown apprentice garb. The soft, loose clothing was a stark contrast to everything else about the assassin, which made Scorch smile.

  He tried to stand up from the cot, but he was so weak his knees buckled. Scorch was there in an instant, catching him before he could fall, and then he was pressed up against his chest, his hands seizing Scorch’s shoulders for support.

  “I told you not to try that yet,” Etheridge tutted, and Vivid glared at her. Scorch liked watching him glare at other people, but he didn’t have much time to enjoy it before Vivid was pushing away and falling back down to the cot with a frustrated sigh. “You’ll feel better with some food in you.” Etheridge said. She nudged Scorch. “I’ll be in the garden. Make him eat something.”