Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit (11 page)

“You’re not listening to this nonsense, are you, dear?”

Fortunately, Lydia was. She bit her lip, and her shoulders lifted and drooped as she gave a great sigh. Her voice came out weakly, “He has not . . . you have not lead us wrong before, Guard.”

And while Shalott struggled with a disparagement that mostly consisted of “But, dear!”, she rubbed at her mouth and finally lifted her gaze to the statue.

To its chest.

She couldn’t meet its gaze, not yet.

But she did not quail, and in a stronger voice, she ordered, “Do it, Guard.”

CHAPTER 10

Guard handed Lydia his pouch, bow, and quiver of arrows, and then ordered, “Move down a few stairs in case there is shrapnel, but do not look away.”

When they did so, huddling close to the wall, Guard moved to face the statue squarely. Its gaze did not follow Lydia. It remained in place. Good signs.

Guard drew his short sword, and a sense of rightness surged through him.

And a sense of wrongness crept in, too, for he remembered the fate of his knife. But that had just been the loss of a weapon.
But this . . .
Guard turned the short sword in his hand, focusing on the nicks from years of use, focusing on the worn spots on the handle. He had not put them there; his fingers had not shaped that grip. When they had cremated Father, Guard had wanted to keep a piece of him from the holy fire. So when no one was looking, he exchanged weapons.

This was the last piece of his father he had. He squeezed the handle tight, tip lowering. If he used it now, it would be gone forever. It was irreplaceable.

“What now?! Why are you hesitating?”

“Guard, is there something wrong?”

Guard did not answer, for only a lie would not hurt, and that was a human thing, a human need, just like it was to hold on to this sword. Use would eventually destroy it—after all, this was far from Father’s first blade—because there was no way to preserve a weapon except by not using it. And that was a weapon’s fate:

To be used.

And due to the terrible nature of spirits’ foes, to eventually be destroyed.

And finally, because guardians needed weapons, to be replaced.

Weapons, all weapons, were replaceable.

Even this one.

Yet why did the idea still hurt?

Because humans
—he looked at his charges and their worn, open faces—
and their sentiments, are dangerously contagious.
Guard shook his head and stabbed the statue in the heart.

Then, leaving the rapidly whitening sword in place, he rushed down the way, shielding his charges with his body and duster, flattening them against the stairs.

The statue exploded. Tomb-wood flew everywhere. Guard hastily brushed it from himself, but even so, numbness spread in patches. But the citric-smelling shrapnel had not torn his duster, and it had not touched his wards. Except for stunned looks, they were fine. Not a scratch on them.

And his items looked the same, bow and arrows protected by Lydia’s body, and pouch clasped in her hands.

Guard helped Lydia sit up, and gently, he retrieved the pouch from Lydia’s white-knuckled grip. Then, his bow and arrows. His fingers lingered over feathers and string, despite knowing they were fine. But they were his last weapons.

Once both charges were sitting up, and after his possessions were returned to their proper places, Guard couldn’t help but rise and search.

To no avail; there was no trace of his sword. It was gone.

So was the statue. In its place was an opening, not gouged out, but as if always there: square shaped and taller and wider than he was, but just.

Only room enough for one person at a time. Guard nocked an arrow and stepped through.

It was a circular room, tiny compared that of the chasm but larger than most he knew outside the Tower. He looked up. Not tiny at all, considering the ceiling. It loomed overhead, sloping to a point. So, the room was not circular, but bullet shaped. And gloomy, by human standards. The faint band of string lights was only about a foot tall . . . and placed at a height just above the heads of two tomb-wood statues. They stood on the white “wall” opposite to the opening, shoulder to shoulder, citric-smelling replicas of Ravenscar and, of course, Shalott.

There was no exit except for the one at Guard’s back.

Even so, Guard did not feel he had erred. “Come,” he called over his shoulder.

As soon as both were through, Guard was proven right. Wall lights brightened in welcome, and the opening began to shutter close. With a softer rumble and fewer sharp edges than the stair incident earlier in their journey.

But the room was not finished. After the exit had sealed shut, that area began to bulge, bronze-colored, reshaping slowly into . . . a statue of her companion. That face he could not mistake. Its twin across the way was disappearing at the same pace, slinking back into the wall as the other reappeared behind them. Once it had fully materialized in the new place, both it and Ravenscar’s statue began to slide along the wall, slowly, like creeping, circling beasts, their eyes on Lydia. And from the ceiling, something bright began to fall down, powdery as snow.

A good sign or bad?

Lydia shuddered at the pale, glowing material’s contact, startling away from the statues, brushing at her face and bare head. Then she held up a palm. “Sand.”

She looked up, squinting, and then cried out as a sudden, brief stream struck her. She scrubbed at her face. More streams fell, here and there, but especially near Guard’s charges.

Shalott grabbed her and tried to shield her under his arms. “Do something, Guide! Get us out of this trap!”

Aetherizing had proven to be a poor choice of action before, so Guard nocked an arrow and shot it to the white ceiling.

Ignoring the shout of “What will that do, poke more holes? Great!”, Guard listened. There was a faint crack, and bits of stone-wood rained down in a rose-scented cloud. He looked back to his quiver—now holding five, not six arrows. It had been destroyed utterly.

“Tomb-wood. It lies beneath the surface. I cannot get through it. My weapons will not aid us here.” He shouldered his bow and reached for his map. He moved just in time to avoid sudden gush of sand.

“I think the statues are moving faster,” Lydia added softly.

Indeed, they were.

But, according to the map, that was not all they were doing.

“One conceals a door.” Guard weaved around another brief sandfall and tapped the square, black shape to show her, but it was no longer there. Not only had it leapt back to the other figure, changing it from statue icon to door icon and vice versa, but both were advancing along the paper. Guard looked up and then back down, tracing the movement to be sure. “Same pace.” But whichever icon he touched, the door symbol leapt away to the other. “One of the two statues contains our exit, Lydia.”

“Which one?” Shalott snatched the map. “They look the same to me.” And in Shalott’s hand, they did: two door shapes. He tossed the map back, and bright sand pinned it to the floor. “Fine, mine. Mine reformed over the door. Shoot mine.”

Instead, Guard retrieved the map from under the mound of sand, though he suspected it had served its purpose, that of confirmation. He carefully dusted it off before securing it in his pouch. Only then did he speak, “As I said before, Shalott, my weapons are not the answer. It is not my Labor, but Lydia’s.” He pointed a finger to the ceiling without looking up. “But I do think the shape of the room is a clue.”

Both humans peered upward, frowning, and then dodged and wiped glowing sand from their eyes.

“Bullet-shaped,” Guard explained.

Lydia shook her head. “But you said we shouldn’t bring it.”

“The Trial adapted.”

“Or he was wrong,” Shalott spat.

“Or I was wrong,” he agreed, tight jawed. “Now is the time to make use of the gun, Shalott. Hand—”

Instead, the male cast him a smirk and said, “So it is up to me to save us? Well, then, stand back and watch how it’s done, Guard.” He whipped out the gun and discharged it in the direction of his replica.

And missed by a foot.

“Shalott, you are wrong—”

Flushing, the male stomped forward and shot his replica from a distance of less than a foot away.

There had been a reaction at the first shot, his miss. A sudden stream, man-sized, had struck the ground. And the statue had gone faster. The hit doubled both reactions.

“Male, I suggest stopping—”

“Oh, Perce, you’re making it worse.”

Four more bullets pierced his replica’s forehead before he listened. Now instead of a sedate pace, they moved at smooth trot. And now, the flow of sand did not come in bursts and stop, but poured like waterfalls in a half dozen places around the circumference and middle.

“So either your map lies, or it’s not the gun. The hourglass sand was bullet-shaped, too, and the six-shooter did a smashing job on the retrievers, now didn’t they? They regenerated!” He tracked his own. Gestured with the gun. “So has mine!”

Guard had had enough. He waded through the sand and grabbed the revolver. “I hope you have spare.”

He handed the gun to Lydia.

She nearly dropped it. “Me?”

“It is your weapon. Your quest. Male?” Guard held out his hand. Moved it to avoid a new, growing stream of sand.

Finally, Shalott obeyed, digging in his trouser pockets . . . and sheepishly, he pulled out one. Guard took it. Handed it to Lydia.

But Shalott charged over, saying, “Oh, let me.” He chambered it and handed it to her. “Let’s get real close.” Moving behind her, he placed his hands on her waist and helped her wade till a few feet from the wall. Then he placed his hand over her hers on the gun, aiming it at the wall. “I’ll hold your arm steady. It’s coming. Be ready.”

“Shalott,” Guard said. “Lydia.” They both ignored Guard calling their names, and Lydia’s finger moved to the trigger.

Just as Replica Shalott moved into position, the real one barked, “Now.”

Guard stepped closer. “Lydia, listen to me.”

Her finger tightened, but Replica Shalott’s eyes stared into hers, and she stared back, and didn’t pull the trigger. It passed unhindered.

“That’s all right. Wait for the next—”

“No! I mean, no.” She fought from his hold, letting him keep the gun, trying to escape him. She did not go far. Her skirts being more of a hindrance than trousers, weighing her down, and she just mired down in place. She buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. “I can’t—I can’t—”

Guard moved closer, hating how the sand, now knee deep in places, held him back. He longed to aetherize, but he suspected that would produce a disaster of much worse proportion than that in the chasm room. But if Shalott was left unchecked, it would be the same.

Once at their side, he took the gun, though Shalott fought him. “What, your turn? Why don’t you stick to your bow and arrows, Guide. They seem to be as useful as you are.”

Guard turned to Lydia and drew her hands down one by one and said. “Lydia, you are wrong. You can do this. You must. This is your Trial. You know what you must do. You have always known.” He folded her sand-grimed hands around the gun. “Just listen to the truth.”

Lydia grasped the weapon.

Then tried to hand it back.

He did not take it.

“You can and you must. This is your Trial, Lydia, so finish it.”

Taking as deep a breath she dared in the sand-filled air, she nodded. “All right.” Then she coughed. Clenched the gun tighter. “All right.” And she turned and faced the wall, blank for a brief moment, but not for long. Shalott’s replica approached at a jogging pace. She leveled the gun.

Guard’s hand clenched, but he held his tongue. He thought at her, though she couldn’t hear,
Listen to your own truth, not a distraction.

Just like he could never go with Victoria, he could not take this Trial from Lydia. The chasm room shifting had made that clear. The seeker had to do it on her own, and he had to let her.

No matter what.

But it was hard, watching her prepare to make a mistake.

Shalott’s replica lined up with her aim.

Her finger tightened.

It stared at her; she stared back.

Her arms shook. And she let it go. Guard’s sigh of relief was covered by her cry, “But I don’t know which one!”

“Mine, Lydia, remember?”

“Be silent,” Guard snapped.

The anger in his voice surprised even himself.
Remember, it’s her decision, not your own.

But Guard’s little mistake seemed to be just what Lydia needed. She turned back to the wall. “I need to focus.” She leveled the gun. “Focus.”

At some unknown command, the room changed. The statues picked up speed, approaching a run, slicing through the sand, the sand parting and flowing around them. And with a soft rumble, the ceiling began to peel back, starting at where the exit once stood. That entire space was flooding with sand, and it was moving in their direction, to cover them. Shalott paled and shouted “Lydia!” and lunged toward her, but she did not notice that or anything else. She had her focus now. Her choice was made.