Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit (13 page)

The hill had changed, exposing a path that led to the crown. There, under the tree of dripping white-white flowers sat Fuller.

Father.

And he was not alone.

Mother was at his side. Garbed in their grays and reds, they lounged on a blanket, sharing a cup of tea, just like he had seen through a town window one time. A family sitting down, a father, a mother, and their children. And a little dog curled up at the youngest boy’s feet. A pet cat purring on a daughter’s lap. They were talking about their day, each taking a turn—not usual for most houses he peered into. Children usually sat quietly and separately and sometimes in another room until they were almost adults. They only met again after the meal for conversation. The difference had intrigued him. So he had lingered a little too long on his day trip at that particular window. Watching. Listening.

Wanting.

“Come, join us, Archer. Just a moment for tea. Wouldn’t you like that?” Mother held out an inviting hand.

“We have so much to catch up on, Son,” Father said as he filled a third cup of tea. “I’ve missed you so.”

Guard gripped his bow so hard it actually hurt. Which meant he was seconds away from damaging it. He instantly eased his hold, flexing his fingers. He was but feet from the tree. He did not remember stepping onto the path and giving into to their false call—for it was false.

False.
He backed away. “You are not real. You’d never do this.”

“So?” they said. “What would it hurt to pretend? To have a little bit of humanity, just one last touch before you lose it all? Come, sit. Just for a little while.”

It took more than he thought to refuse. Their offer, this scene, touched on a desire he didn’t know existed. It felt like hunger when it came upon him. But stronger. So human. Too human.

And what of your humans, your charges that the temptations are trying to keep you from?

Focus on them.

Guard did not walk but run from his temptation, so far out he no longer could see them if he looked back, no longer hear their familial chatter. There he breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Thrice. He dared no more delay. He turned about in a circle, shielding his eyes, seeking . . .

But there was no sign of his charges.

He had lost them.

He’d find them. “Lydia!” Guard shouted. “Shalott! Where are you? Answer me!”

They did not respond. So he took another deep breath, forced himself to ignore the whispers on the winds, the laughter, the promises, the wants . . . Even when Victoria, unexpected Victoria, joined them, he ignored them, though he knew not what she represented. Instead, he focused his all on casting about for signs.

I’ll find them.

I will.

And as Guard repeated those thoughts, over and over to himself, he searched that much harder.

CHAPTER 13

The grass was treacherous. It hid much, covered much, tripped him up much. False trails kept winding him back around to his temptations in all their myriad forms.

But he had learned.

Time and time again, Guard ignored them, gripping his bow and the memory of his charges. And eventually, sheer determination was rewarded with true signs: bent blades, a heel print in the mud, a broken branch that led true. Even this place would yield to the mission.

The more he believed it, the faster and easier it went, until he stumbled upon them, Shalott and Lydia, but not in scene he had expected. They were sitting together on a rope swing. Shalott had stripped down to his shirt, day coat and waistcoat discarded on the grass. The buttons running down the back of her green bodice was open, exposing undergarments. She was in his arms, almost in his lap, and they were kissing. That Guard had seen humans do, too, just usually not so publicly, and once he had understood its implication—Fuller had explained that one early on—he didn’t watch. Something had never felt right about it.

Something didn’t feel right now, watching Shalott hold her, caress her back, and . . . over her chest.

The Lydia he knew wouldn’t throw it all away like this. Guard marched toward them, withdrawing one of his arrows. He nocked it. “Stand aside, Shalott.”

Shalott lifted his head, like a man drugged or drunk—he had seen both—and a look of horror dawned on his young face. But he wasn’t fast enough. There was no time to waste; Guard took the shot. The arrow whistled through air and struck the wide-eyed lie, on the side of the chest farthest from the human—just to be safe. And he continued running, covering the ground in large strides.

Shalott screamed at him all the while, a tearing sound of pain, clutching at her as she fell back, off the swing. But then Shalott soon leapt free, in the opposite direction. “Bronze sap?” He stared down at her stained chest and his arm. “I don’t—wh-what?” The fletching of the arrow had turned white. It began to quiver when Guard was a foot away from Shalott.

Guard leapt.

“Oww!”

They had landed a safe distance away, rolling, Guard covering him with his own body.

There was no need: The arrow exploded deep in her chest, sending out only a plume of citrus odors, not shrapnel. And unlike the Ravenscar-Shalott meld in Labor, she only jerked and wailed and then sprawled across the ground.

Tomb-wood sap flowed in her veins, but her body was made of something rose-scented.
Stone-wood.
It only smelled when freshly cut or damaged.

The stone-wood made her strong.

And so humanlike.

Shalott blanched. “Lydia!” But he couldn’t shove Guard off.

“Listen!” Guard sat up to his knees, one hand planted between Shalott’s shoulders pinning him in place. “Listen! She is a temptation, built of this place to mislead you.”

But instead of being repulsed Shalott looked at the fallen false-Lydia. Stilled. Then reached out a sap-covered hand to her. “Maybe I want to be misled.”

The temptress reached back. “Love,” she whispered. “My only. Stay with me.”

“You can’t.”

“Why can’t I? I can have this one.”

“You want a lie?”

Shalott twisted his face until it was buried in his other cleaner arm in the ground. Guard took the opportunity to rip off the tainted sleeve and cast it safely aside. Shalott barely jerked in response, too busy mumbling, “Because I can’t have the real one. I—I’m not enough for her, not rich enough, mature enough, exciting enough, strong enough. Never enough, not like Ravenscar, though I tried once I realized I loved her. Once I realized he
wanted
her, not loved her. Gods, I tried, but something about him always got my back up, threw me off my game. I couldn’t control my temper around him when he touched her hand. I couldn’t control my tongue when she spoke about this thing or that thing he was doing for her. I just couldn’t . . . control it, but I tried. I tried. I even joined the Society because of him, because his reveal piqued her interest. I followed her to this damned island on this damned lunacy because she needed someone with her, not because she asked me to; she never asked. Never wanted anything from me. But I hoped . . . oh, gods, I hoped when we failed to capture a spirit, when it failed to help, when it explained it was all a pipe dream, I hoped
then
,
then,
she would see
me
. Not her old, quiet, childhood chum, good for a laugh, but not an adventure. Not the angry
boy
throwing a tantrum under
his
shadow. Me. Just me, and just let
him
go.” Shalott’s reaching hand stopped, fisted, then drew in close to his chest, to his face. When he used it to scrape at his eyes, sniffling, Guard dared to remove his hold. Shalott did not sit up. “That is . . . wrong, in so many ways. He was my friend, too, until I realized I couldn’t stand him wanting her and knowing he always gets everything he wants, always . . . Then he was dead, and I thought, ‘
This is it
.’ He might have gotten there first, but I would be her last. Mistakes aren’t forever. There are second chances. Then . . . all this happened. I can’t . . . How can I go back? Everything’s so . . . ugly there. I can stay here; it’s so much better here. Everything I want is here, and no guilt.”

Not all of that misery belonged rightfully to the male; not all were his thoughts or words. Some were placed there insidiously, sly as a creeping ghoul. For while Shalott gasped them out into the ground, her mouth moved, sharing his words, but soundlessly.

Guard rose, leaving Shalott, and aimed another arrow. “Quiet, or the next goes through your face. You would have to spread your lies without a mouth.”

Shalott moved; Guard could hear him rustling in the grass. When Guard spared him a glance, he saw the man was pale, blinking, but not sunken in his misery. No, he was reaching once more, ready to move from his crouch to crawl after his temptation.

“Shalott!” The male barely jerked, gaze stuck on the falsehood he craved. Guard picked up his discarded clothing and tossed them at him, though they made for poor protection against tomb-wood dangers. “Prepare yourself.” The male didn’t move, body or gaze. “Shalott, is your guilt and lie worth dying for? Worth having the real Lydia die for? If you were to be lost here, so would she.”

That made him sit up straight. He looked around, clutching at his clothing. “Lydia?” He rose with a moan of pain. He rubbed his knee. “Where is she? How could you leave her?” He wiped his face, leaving a streak of dirt in the tear tracks, and began to dress. Slowly, stiffly. Once he was done, his hands fell, and he gasped, “Oh, Bara, oh, Lydia, how could I?”

Then he looked back at Guard, and like Lydia before in Labor’s Trial, he averted his face, as if he couldn’t bear to look at something he saw there.

“Focus, Shalott. We need to find her. Before she too falls to temptation.”

Shalott firmed up his stance and only looked back once or twice—slowed only once or twice, as the reaching hand and querulous voice implored his return. Guard seized his elbow and guided him firmly away.

CHAPTER 14

They found Lydia in a scene much like but much different than Shalott’s idea of paradise. She was standing before a group of children romping with a dog about her skirts. A man stood behind her, his hand squeezing her shoulder, and she leant into him, a blissful expression on her young face.

But the man was not her fiancé. It was her companion. Though taller and more muscular.

“Gods,” Shalott whispered.

“Stay here,” Guard growled at him. “Don’t interfere.”

Guard marched across the way, weaving around obstacles. Playful children tried to trip him. The bounding dog stopped, planted its feet, and growled. Taller-Stronger-Shalott leveled a revolver. Guard spoke over his shoulder to real one, “Duck.” Then Guard, too, dodged, the bullet whizzing past his cheek. His counter? Far more useful and satisfying: he pierced the other’s skull with his arrow.

Lydia, shrieking, whirled, clutching for the fallen form.

Guard grabbed her before she could defile herself on the dangerous sap.

“Now approach, Shalott.”

The male picked himself off the ground and did so. “Bara, you . . . ” He shook his head. “You didn’t even hesitate—been wanting to do something like that for a while, have you?”

“Harm you? No.” Guard looped his non-bow arm around her and lifted the struggling, sobbing Lydia up and faced her toward the real Shalott. “Bind your mouth, however? Now that was tempting long before now.”

Shalott chuckled. Then his jaw snapped shut with an audible clack, and he scowled down at the ground.

“No, speak to her, Shalott. Let her know what is real. She needs to remember herself.”

But she didn’t need it. She saw what was real and wasn’t. Even better, she wasn’t the hysterical type. She was too strong for that. “Oh, Perce—” She reached for the real one.

With a mewling sound, the real one reached for her.

Ah, but she is too weak in other ways.
Guard moved so he stood between them. Kept them apart. Blocked her view.

“Remember your mission, Lydia. It is not Perceval; it is your fiancé. It is him you came for, and him you fail if you continue on in this way.”

Lydia reacted as if slapped. She clutched her red cheeks. Looked away. “How—how can I—I—
you have seen!
”

“Yes, I have.” He grasped her shoulder. But when that did not make her look up at him. He cupped her face. “I have seen a woman risk her safety and collar a spirit to do her bidding. I have seen a woman brave her nightmares on the word of a stranger. I have seen her wear herself to the bone yet shoot true with a steady hand. I have seen
you.
A woman too strong to fail.”

But her dark eyes, welling with tears, skittered past him toward the real Shalott.

“Not him.
Focus.
What is more important? Dying here or saving the man you risked death for?”

“Ravenscar.” She blinked. “Roland.” She clutched at Guard’s arms, spine ramrod straight. “Oh, my.”

“Good. Now where is the door that leads to your fiancé?”

“It’s—” She looked behind her.