Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit (4 page)

Percy intruded on this reverential moment with:

“Yes, quite imposing looking. I refuse to go further with him without a name to summon him by.”

“Oh, Perce! Don’t be so rude!”

“I have no name to give. Only the designation I am apprenticed to: guardian. ‘Guard’ if you prefer.”

“No name?” Lydia asked.

Guard shook his head. “I will be given it once I am fully a guardian spirit.” That name was something he’d not share with iron-loving humans or care to hear on a human tongue.

“That is . . . he is tricking us, Lydia, can’t you see? He was—is—mortal. He must have had one once. I compel you, I compel you, I compel you to give it, Spirit.”

Guard cocked his head at the man, who paled under his stare. After a moment, Guard spoke, “If I had one, Percy, I do not remember it.”

“Oh, that is terrible! How can that be?”

He turned to the young woman, who had a natural friendliness about her. Were all human women this way? It had taken years for Victoria, she who had hidden herself in the courtyard at these humans’ arrival, to be that way with him. Mostly it emerged when Victoria grew excited, talking about her future destination—that was, her future destination once she had shorn off the last of her sins. A richness would creep into her melodic voice then.

Only because Lydia reminded him of his closest friend, only because she—and not her foolish man—was asking did he answer at
all.
“I was only three when my mother abandoned me here.”

But it wasn’t the same. Sharing this information with Lydia didn’t make him feel less human but more. Not so with Victoria. When he had spoken on it to her, she simply said, in the same unimpassioned manner she spoke on anything but her future home in Pleasance’s Garden of Plenty:

“I recall something about that. Humans once considered it an honor to offer children up to the churches, to be made available to the spirits, but that was in my grandmother’s years. Now they are taken.”

Lydia’s reaction? It fit a mortal. She gasped then clutched at his left, empty hand—a startling gesture. He pulled it free. He and Victoria had never touched.

And Victoria had never said anything in that tone of voice as if she were horrified:

“Abandoned? Oh, surely not. No, the bad spirits must have snatched you up. That happened to my fiancé’s sister and Percy’s older brother and others, all in the same year.” She looked over her shoulder at her companion and then back at Guard, frowning. “Gray eyes. And blond hair, though of a darker shade—like your mother’s, Percy. But you do not quite look like anyone, much less . . . How old are you, Guardian Spirit? Oh, is your throat sore?”

Guard dropped his hand as if struck. Every time he talked too much or thought too long on his birth mother and that day he was too young to remember, his hand crept to the hidden necklace, a knotted work of plant fibers unknown to him. At least, he had not pulled it out to play with the small, unbreakable glass ball that hung from the strongest knot. It was a protective amulet, he knew. And rare and powerful. It had grown with him over the years. And that glass ball had been blown from vanilla-like-scented bone-wood sap (usually reserved for spectral windows) . . . and something else, whatever made it opaque. Somehow it always bothered him, knowing his birth mother had placed this precious thing on him before she had abandoned him. If a reaper named Swift and a city’s guardian named Fuller had not been granted leave to take pity on him . . .

Yes, staring down into Lydia’s open expression, taking in Percy’s scowl, Guard was glad he had not revealed anything; some things he did not care to reveal. To anyone. And hated when he did even a little. He squeezed his bow and clenched his free hand, and turning from them, he faced their destination and destiny.

“The Tower awaits.” He strode off.

They hurried after—their footfalls so heavy sounding in this place which held few sounds. He crossed to the middle of the courtyard . . . and there was the crack where Victoria had hidden herself. Was she there still? Would she give a little sign of farewell or good luck?

Guard must have slowed as he watched to no avail, for Lydia grabbed his arm again. “You move so fast, and I have so much yet to tell you. My name is Lydia Aude Lancer, though my fiancé calls me Firefly. I am eighteen and an only child. Percy is Perceval Heriot Shalott, and he is nineteen, and third born. Roland Russell Ravenscar is twenty-seven and first born. We have been engaged for six months.” They entered East Arcade as she spoke, but she never paused long enough for him to respond to or stop her. “I know what you are thinking, Guard. It is old-fashioned to marry one so much older than oneself, but it is only nine years separating us, and he said he would not marry me until I was twenty-one, though I have been working away at him on that, for I am ready now.”

Percy choked and looked sickly at that.

“And I would have succeeded too if he hadn’t been murdered.”

By now they had reached the end of East Arcade, which unlike the others was not an open entryway. It dead-ended at a smooth patch on the white Towerbase. “We have arrived.”

Percy—or rather Shalott—had recovered by now, the color of his face no longer white but red. “Lydia, it’s not right to say such things.”

Guard continued, “This is your mission, Lydia. You need to place your hand on—”

“But it is true, Percy. Who else would poison him—conveniently on the day of his cousin’s and my ‘ladies’ only’ trip we had planned for so long, and why was it only his cup of tea, none of ours? I know you don’t want to think poorly of your mentor, but he was a dreadful rival of Ravenscar’s, always trying to hamper our relationship and his Apprenticeship. You didn’t have to be another Society member to see the animosity—”

“Society member?” Guard, no longer interested in instructing them, rounded on them instead. “Apprenticeship?”

Shalott flinched back. So did Lydia. Guard did not realize he had switched his bow to his left hand and had reached for his knife until it was free of its sheath and before him.

Instinct. Pure instinct. Too close for an arrow, so . . . He dropped his hand. But instinct had run up against rules. Humans couldn’t be killed. Not even enemy ones. He tightened his grip on the bone-wood handle. But they could be harmed. A little. If the situation called for it. If they were judged a threat.

“You belong to the Society of Spirit Holders?” Guard demanded. Apprenticeship, it explained much about how they had found The City, about their knowledge, their tools. But what of their intent? “Tell me truthfully.”

Lydia answered in a small voice, “
oh-you-know-of-them?
”

“They know the spirits for what they are. But with their knowledge, they do not seek to enlighten the world but to keep it in the dark.” And worse in his opinion: “They enslave spirits. Your shade, if he belongs to the Society, is little better than a ghoul.”

“Oh . . . does this mean you won’t help us? I’m sure he won’t—Percy and Ravenscar are just Apprentices. Ravenscar has been for years and years, but Percy only joined three months ago, and I am just an Apprentice’s wife-to-be. None of us have rings, and none of us will bind you, not a nice good spirit like you, not after all you have done for us. Isn’t that right, Perce?”

Shalott scoffed. “‘Nice good spirit’? I guess he rates a little better than the kidnapping bad sort.” At a sharp
“Perce! Be serious!”
, he added, “I am. Oh, fine: I wouldn’t want him in any case. Too untrustworthy and secretive. But I can’t speak for Ravenscar; his tastes are often suspect.”

“Perce!”

The thought of being bound to a spirit ring and a mortal, his will gone, his purpose corrupted to fit mortal whims . . . Guard would rather be eaten by a ghoul. At least, they were honest in their desires.

At least, they were swift, too.

Binding was an eternal torment.

But guardianship was an eternal reward, one worth any risks. If he quailed at the thought of the ring while he was partly mortal, he was not fit to join the ranks of spirits who risked their freedom every day.

Grip on the knife still tight as his gut, an unaccustomed feeling, he turned and pointed the bone-wood weapon toward the smooth patch on the wall. “We should begin. Place your hand on the wall and announce your intention to begin your quest.” Then without looking down, he slid his weapon back into the leg sheath.

“Oh, good, good, thank you, Guardian! I knew we could trust you.” She grabbed his right arm and squeezed despite the other’s
“Lydia”
and despite his own tensing. Humans had shoved him aside when he stood entranced at some sight in their marketplaces or elsewhere in their town, but he didn’t know what to feel about her touches.

They confused him and made him miss part of her words.

“. . . did I describe Ravenscar to you? No? I was quite sure I had—well, I’m afraid I’ve been so distracted I can’t remember what I told you, so I will simply begin again. I am Lydia—”

“I do not need any of this knowledge, Seeker. Place your hand on the wall, announce your intention, and we shall begin.”

“But . . . I thought knowing us, our names and details, helps you locate us if we are lost, and how will you know if it is my fiancé, if you don’t know him inside and out?”

“Summoning and claiming the shade is your responsibility. Guiding you is mine. Seeker, place—”

With a roll of her eyes, Lydia proclaimed him to be as bad as Percy. Then while Shalott sputtered, she skipped over and slapped the smooth wall. Giving Guard a look, she said, “I want to enter this Tower, with my travel companion and my guide, to reclaim my fiancé’s shade. Now what—oh my!”

She shrank back against Guard, clutching her gloved hand, as the barrier began to shiver.

CHAPTER 4

As the quaking picked up, an earthy groaning noise began. It came from the gray patch that bled across the smooth whiteness, rapidly expanding upward to the roof of the arcade, then protruding from the white surface itself. Then, with the sound of metal against breaking stone, a form three times taller than the average human stepped forth: a knight of old, with a helmet covering his head and cheeks, a naked blade in one gauntleted hand, and a tall shield in the other.

This frightened both mortals, but when the guardian lifted the sword to ring it against the ground in greeting, the male seeker whipped out his purloined revolver and started shooting. Bullets bounced off the shield, which the threshold guardian had levered into place faster than the boy could pull the trigger. The seekers winced and ducked as the three bullets ricocheted harmlessly back.

“Percy!” Even as inexperienced as Guard was on mortal interactions, he sensed several rebukes in that word. But he was surprised by what Lydia settled on: “Apologize to the door spirit.” Then with a sniff, she added, “And put away my gun.”

The male did—with all the excitement of dog facing a “shooing” gesture. Or like Susurrus facing the same from Mother. “It’s not your six-shooter; it’s Ravenscar’s.”

“My future husband’s. So it is mine, too.”

“No, it isn’t. A wife’s property belongs to the husband, not the other way around—and you’re not married yet.”

Threshold Guardian Hasp looked at the mortals, waiting for the appropriate moment to interrupt and continue his duty. Guard, assuming it would never come, gestured for him to speak anyway. Hasp did.

“Greetings, humans.” His rumble startled them into appropriate silence. “I am the Threshold Guardian of the Tower of Holm of Kaskey, City of the Dead. For what reason do you seek entry?”

“Not to shoot at you, you poor threshold guardian. I’ll apologize for Percy if he won’t. We three need to enter so I can claim my fiancé’s shade—the shade of the recently departed Mr. Roland Russell Ravenscar, uhm, from the town Camlann, across Kaskey River.”

Hasp lowered his towering head a little, inclining it in her direction. “Shades are not easily recovered. Your worthiness to reclaim the shade will be tested. Only the resolute and strong of heart succeed. Why do you seek this spirit?”

“Why—? What do you mean? He is my fiancé. I love him; I want him back.”

“Could you not love another?” Hasp made a sweeping gesture with one gauntleted hand, causing Shalott to twitch violently. “Could you not marry another?”

“No. He asked for my hand, and I accepted. I do not give my promise or heart lightly.” Lydia stood up straighter. “I want my Ravenscar, and I will not leave without him.”

“So be it. A seeker’s heart determines her obstacles and her success, but all paths lead through The Crypt and its Trials, that of Time, that of Labor, and that of Temptation. At the end of which is The Vault, where you may summon the shade and where you may reclaim it.”

Purgatory’s ghosts underwent trials, too: nine years (time) of missions (labor) and temptation in the name of penance. At the end of their sentence, they faced The Vault, too, where they had a chance at being welcomed into the Garden of Plenty instead of being lost to the Slough of Despond.

In fact, Victoria’s trials were coming to an end this night as well—so she had been telling him before the seekers had breached The City.

Although the purpose behind honorable trials like Victoria’s and this defiance of death were far from comparable, Guard sensed he was meant to hear some clue in the names: that the similarity ran deeper than words.