Blood of the Guardian Read online

  Finally, Jezebelle swung from her horse and called out to a nearby gypsy. A boy, around the age of twelve, jogged toward her. She handed him the stone and pointed up, speaking to him quietly.

  The boy took off toward the tree, climbing it at an impressive speed. He shimmied down a branch and jammed the stone in a v-shaped notch.

  The circle of Empathy flickered to life on the ground, larger than Nolan had ever seen it before. The branch reached higher than the ceilings of the temple, or even the warehouse in Renfrew. Maybe it was too high and wouldn’t work right at all … Nolan hoped.

  Jezebelle turned toward Nolan, flashing him a brilliant smile; her white teeth contrasted to the dark hues of her skin. Then she stepped under the light. All the gypsies gathered around her, watching the spectacle. Almost immediately, the violet pinpoints of light swirled around her.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A DAY OF TRAVEL turned into a day of chaos. After Jezebelle took the light, all the other gypsies did the same. People writhed on the ground as they came into Strength. Others vomited, overwhelmed with Perception. The entire camp came to a grinding halt, while Nolan sat forgotten behind his bars.

  Even Morna, the four-armed woman, took the light. Her cage remained empty as she sat next to a tree, rocking while she wrapped arms around her head.

  What had he done? Brim told him to spread the light, but he’d assumed he’d do it for normal people. A camp full of Shay-empowered gypsies didn’t seem right. It was almost as if he’d perpetuated a small army of depraved Rol’dan.

  He glanced over at Rikar, whose strength continued to improve. He now stood, pacing the small confines of his cage.

  As each person took the light, Nolan stared longingly, wishing he could do the same. He licked his cracked lips, realizing he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since the morning. The creatures in some of the other cages fidgeted, their growls increasing as the day dragged on. They were probably hungry as well.

  “How about some dinner?” Nolan finally yelled out.

  “Shut your nightforsaken mouth, freak,” a man answered, followed by a rude gesture.

  Nolan grumbled, his stomach echoing him. At this rate, he might not eat for days.

  Time passed, and the moans from the gypsies lessened. Nolan sat, his throat dry and parched. And when night fell, the gypsies didn’t even bother lighting a fire, making the forest darker than usual. Rikar’s light was the only thing to shine.

  The Guardian opened his cage and maneuvered through the gypsies splayed around the camp. Finally, Nolan could see the Guardian make his way toward him. He slid a water skin between the bars.

  Nolan grabbed it, popped open the closure, and threw his head back, drinking deep gulps until he’d had his fill. He sighed and met the Guardian’s light-filled eyes. “Thank you, friend.”

  Rikar smiled. “Glad I can help, Master Nolan.”

  He handed Nolan a loaf of bread next. The crust had hardened, probably left over from the day before. Nolan tore into it, breaking the thick brown coating and swallowing it in huge chunks.

  “I’ll be back shortly.” Rikar flared his Speed and disappeared.

  Darkness enveloped the camp with his departure, but Nolan sat more comfortably—now that his stomach didn’t gnaw from hunger. After several minutes, the Guardian appeared again, pausing at the other cages, pouring water into buckets and giving them the food they so desperately needed. It if weren’t for Rikar, the dumb gypsies might lose their entire sideshow. Not that Nolan cared, but it wasn’t the creatures’ fault.

  Finally, Rikar appeared again, handing Nolan a package wrapped in cloth. Nolan unfolded it, and the fragrance of warm, roasted meat greeted him. He groaned. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Town is not far away.”

  Nolan dug into it, slowly this time, chewing and savoring the juicy meat. It was good. Really good. Rikar watched him with a pleased expression. Guardians were strange creatures; they cared more about serving man than even their own lives.

  “Did you eat anything?” Nolan asked.

  “I did.”

  Nolan nodded, satisfied the Guardian had the sense to take care of himself. “So why are you here?” Nolan asked between bites. “Why don’t you leave?”

  Rikar didn’t answer. Instead, he examined his finger, the one he’d been using to save Nolan, his expression contemplative. “Where are you from, Master Nolan?”

  Nolan took another bite, chewing. So he wanted to avoid the question. “I grew up in Galva.”

  “The fishing village?”

  “Yes. Have you been there?”

  “I have been everywhere.”

  Nolan took another bite. “My father and uncle own a fishing business. I spent more time on the boat than on land.”

  He remembered Kael and the time they’d spent on the boat. He missed those days. At least he was building a relationship with his brother again.

  “And your mother?” Rikar asked.

  “I never knew her. She died when I was born.”

  Rikar nodded, his brow furrowing. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Nolan hadn’t known his mother. Kael had talked about her, missed her a lot, but Nolan had never had the chance.

  “So your surname is … ?”

  “Trividar,” Nolan answered.

  “And your parents’ names?”

  “Belen is my father’s. My mother was Frann.” His questions were odd. Why did the Guardian want to know?

  Rikar stared at him, more intently than he’d ever done before. His light-filled eyes searched Nolan’s face, examining him.

  “Rikar, what’s wrong?”

  Rikar pulled his gaze to the ground. “How old are you, Nolan?”

  “Seventeen … almost eighteen.” He huffed. Irritating Guardian. He avoided all questions by adding his own.

  Rikar inhaled, releasing a prolonged sigh. “You asked me why I stay.”

  Nolan shoved the last of his meat into his mouth and chewed, waiting.

  “I stay because I have done things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Dangerous things,” Rikar said slowly. “Locking me behind bars is best.”

  Dangerous? No. He was a perfect Guardian. Kind. Sacrificial to a fault. If it weren’t for Rikar, he’d be dead!

  “How dangerous could you be?” Nolan asked. “You’ve never killed.”

  “How would you know if I have killed?”

  Nolan scraped some blood-coated straw from the floor of his cage, flinging it outside the bars to the ground. “Brim would’ve taken your powers if you’d killed.”

  “You know much about our laws and ways.”

  Nolan shrugged. “Greer told me what happened to Alcandor.”

  “And what makes you believe I am not like him?”

  “I’ve met Alcandor. You are nothing like him.”

  “I have not killed, Master Nolan—at least not directly. But because of me, many died. And if I were to leave here, away from the shelter of my cage, I would most assuredly do it again.”

  Nolan’s mouth dropped open, and Rikar turned, retreating back to his cage. Nolan stared at him, alone in his stunned silence. What in Brim’s name was he talking about? He caused deaths, but didn’t kill? It make little sense. Instead of gaining answers, Nolan was more confused. What had Rikar done to think he deserved to be treated like a beast?

  Rikar climbed into his cage and turned his back on Nolan, his large hands grabbing the sides of his head. Something tormented the Guardian, and Nolan would find out what that was. He would help him regain his self-respect and get the honor he well deserved.

  ***

  Morning came, and with it, the gypsies stirred. A few moved around the camp, seeming to realize they had other responsibilities. Without much heart, they gave water to their creatures, tossing scraps of food into the cages. A man approached Nolan, tossing a plate at him before backing away. He coughed, covering his mouth and nose as if Nolan was the most revolting thing in his life.
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  Nolan grunted. Try staying locked in a cage for a week and see how good you smell.

  Nolan ate, even though he wasn’t hungry. Best not to let them know Rikar had already fed him. As he sat and pondered more on the Guardian’s words, an Empathy Shay touched his mind. He raised his head and found Jezebelle standing next to his cage; the violet light of Empathy blazed from her eyes. Her Shay was strong.

  “You are thoughtful this morning, Emissary,” she said.

  Nolan put down his plate. “I’m always thoughtful.”

  She circled his cage, ramming her Empathy into his mind.

  He glared at her, giving her a full dose of his opinion.

  She blinked, seeming surprised. Then her anger flared. “I don’t care what you think of me.”

  A slow smile formed on his face. “Oh, yes. You do.”

  She jerked back, obviously not expecting the voice in her head. She opened her mouth to speak, snapped it closed, turned, and stomped away.

  Nolan tore off a hunk of bread, smug satisfaction surging in his chest.

  “Is it best to antagonize her?” Rikar’s voice said.

  Nolan shrugged and met Rikar’s glowing white eyes. “Probably not. But I don’t care.”

  The camp still lingered in the clearing, though they were supposed to have traveled already. He presumed all the transformations had changed their plans. The lights of Brim shone in the clearing, haphazardly jammed in different branches of trees. Each symbol spread out on a section of the camp, some large and others scarcely big enough to contain a man.

  Jezebelle went through the camp, checking on others. Empathy was one of the easiest transitions; she appeared to take to it well. A few people sat, hands over their ears or retching in the weeds. Others lay on the ground, curled in tight balls with their emergence of Strength. Nolan shuddered, remembering. Strength was, by far, the worst Shay to gain.

  Jezebelle paused, stopping in the light of Empathy, standing in it while she played with the violet hues on her palm. Nothing happened, of course. Once one gained a power, the lights were useless to them … but not to Nolan. By Brim, he needed the light.

  He’d become part of this freakish show because of his powers. Now that the whole camp had them, what use would he be?

  Maybe the gypsies would go on pretending they were normal. It was possible. Nolan had done it. But he doubted they would have enough self-control to keep up the façade.

  Now that there was no law against having a power, they could display them without the threat of being a traitor. If they were going to keep Nolan, they would have to stretch him further, make him more unique. They’d already pushed him near death. Somehow, he had to get the stones and escape.

  Jezebelle cut across the clearing, around the unused fire pit, and straight through the symbol of Strength illuminating on the ground. She stopped in her steps, hesitating in the light. Holding out her hands, she wiggled her fingers in the foreign Shay. Alec had done that once—he’d stood in a light that wasn’t his own—and it had given him a massive headache for days. Nolan smiled, amused at the idea of her laid up in bed. However, Nolan’s grin melted, falling from his face like a dropped stone. He stood slowly, blinking back the shock, as Jezebelle’s feet lifted from the ground and pinpricks of red light formed around her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  MEGAN GASPED, sitting up straight. Her nightshirt clung to her as her body dripped with sweat. She jerked her eyes around the room, then to her wrists, rubbing them.

  No ropes.

  A dream.

  The dream—it always felt so real.

  A hand touched her arm. She whirled, her hand squeezed into a fist. She relaxed when warm brown eyes met hers. “Megan?”

  Her aggression and fear melted. Emery. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, whispering that everything was all right. She wept, contentment and safety replacing the forced passion and fears. Finally, she drew back, looking into Emery’s concerned face. She placed a hand on his moist cheek. Were they her tears? Or had he been crying too?

  The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows on half his face. His pallet of furs and blankets lay on the floor near the flames. Disheveled blankets spread across the space where he’d jumped up to comfort her. Now he sat next to her on the bed that was supposed to be theirs. Her heart thrummed, increasing. She leaned in to kiss him, and his posture stiffened.

  “Meg … No.”

  She jerked away, turning from him. Her cheeks burned. She wasn’t asking for … well, for that. Was she that revolting?

  The weight of his body left the bed. She heard him retreat to the floor. Blankets ruffled. He sighed, and silence took over. Like every other night, it ended with Megan alone.

  Megan tossed on her mattress, pulling the covers over her face. The tears came again; this time, it wasn’t because of her past with Alcandor. She held back her snuffling, not wanting Emery to hear. Then a memory floated into her mind, pushing away her grief. Alcandor had controlled her when he’d made her kiss Emery. Her face heated in the darkness as she remembered. Alcandor had controlled her, yes; but he hadn’t pushed very hard. Every smidgen of yearning she’d withheld over the years had burst through at that moment. Alcandor had only broken her guard.

  And Emery had kissed her back.

  His hands had touched her neck, her back, her hips, pulling her into him, pressing her body against his. So strong and gentle and full of yearning. She hugged the blanket, biting into it. She wanted her husband, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

  What kind of marriage did they have? How could Emery love her when he never wanted to touch her? Emery had told her their marriage would be for show. But when she’d discovered he actually loved her … she’d hoped differently. Had Nolan lied? Maybe Nolan had only told her about Emery to get rid of her. Maybe Emery didn’t love her after all.

  Her anger at Nolan abruptly washed away. He was still missing. So was Alec. The kingdom balanced on the brink of war, and all she wanted was to pull Emery into her bed? What was wrong with her? Emery had bigger things to worry about than the desires of a silly girl—even if the silly girl had just married him. She pulled the blankets closer, gripping them under her chin. She needed to give him space.

  A faint knock sounded at the door. Emery jumped to his feet, grabbing the bundle of blankets from the floor. He flung them on the other side of the bed, out of sight, avoiding Megan’s gaze as he headed toward the visitor. He cracked the door open, and it creaked in protest. Emery’s eyes flared violet as he frowned with annoyance. “Yes, what is it?”

  A soldier stood in the opening, his feet shifting. He looked like a child who’d been caught disobeying. Megan snorted. The guy believed he’d interrupted them.

  “Your Majesty,” the man said, “General Trividar has returned.”

  Megan sat straighter, listening.

  “And?” Emery prodded.

  “And, my king, they’ve found Ekon.”

  “I will be there in a moment.” Emery shut the door and met her eyes. “Finally, we might have some news.”

  Megan jumped from the bed and grabbed the dress she’d discarded that night. Emery strode to his closet and yanked out a fresh tunic. He pulled his nightshirt over his head, and Megan froze. Emery was always private, unlike the other men who strutted around showing their muscles. Emery wasn’t a fighter. He negotiated and led. He never trained with swords or spears. He was thin, but defined muscles covered his torso, and a smattering of black hair decorated his chest—just the right amount. Megan blinked, realizing she’d been staring. And why shouldn’t she? He was her husband, wasn’t he? Emery turned toward her, his fresh tunic in his fist.

  Mustering what little bravery she had, she pulled her nightshirt over her head and imagined being alone. The only men who’d ever seen her like this were Alcandor and Maska, neither of which were under good circumstances. She’d never chosen to let someone see her, until now. Stepping into her dress, she pulled it over her shoulders, adjusting
it into place.

  Finally, she risked a glance. Had he watched or looked away? He stood in the same position, his eyes locked on her and his shirt clenched in a white-knuckled grip. His bottom lip had dropped ever so slightly.

  She smiled, smugness filling her. He’d watched.

  Emery turned away, almost bumping into the closet door. He grabbed the rest of his clothes and stepped behind the privacy screen. She brushed her hair, pleased. He may refuse to touch her, but she’d make certain he knew what he was missing.

  A light knock sounded at the door, and Megan answered this time. The same young soldier stood, his awkwardness returning. “Your Majesty. Please tell King Emery they have him in the throne room.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  The young man left, practically fleeing. Megan carefully shut the door.

  As she turned, Emery approached, fastening the last of the gold buttons on his doublet. He looked good, but he was always handsome. His trimmed beard. The sharp angle of his jaw. Her heart quickened.

  His eyes flicked to hers, flaring slightly with his Empathy. He sensed her emotions often, and it sent flutters of pleasure through her when he did. Such a personal touch of his mind. He knew how she felt about him. He always knew. A lump formed in her throat.

  He brought a hand to her cheek. Hesitating, his fingertip traced her jaw and then dropped to his side. “I’m sorry, Meg. We’ll talk more about things later, okay?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. The spot where he’d touched her burned.

  They left the room, and she fell in behind Emery, her heart still fluttering from his brief touch. At least he wanted to talk.

  As they approached the throne room, Strength Rol’dan swung open the doors, allowing them to pass through without slowing their pace. A dozen or more soldiers lined the chamber, the air in the room volatile. All here were supporters of Emery. Most of the troublemakers had fled with Ekon, who now knelt in the center, arms and legs chained. Maska pressed him down with one hand on his shoulder while the red light of Strength blazed from his eyes. General Trividar held a sword to Ekon’s throat, his eyes golden. Ekon would not be escaping.