Blood of the Guardian (28 page)

“When was this?” Megan asked.

“Last night. I came back first thing this morning.”

Emery motioned to a servant. “Fetch me General Trividar.”

The manservant bowed and scurried away.

He was … caged? How is that possible? He can break out of anything.
Megan’s mind swam.
Unless he pretended to be caged. But why would he take up with a band of gypsies?

Emery paced, his hands clasped behind his back. “What town did you say?”

“Grell, Your Grace. They are supposed to perform tonight as well.”

In a blur of golden colors, Kael appeared, his cape fluttering into position once he stopped. He gave a curt bow. “Your Majesty?”

The soldier repeated her story, and as she did, Kael’s fist gripped tighter on the hilt of his blade. The lines around Kael’s mouth flattened, and his eyes narrowed to slits.

“General,” Emery said. “You will
not
go alone.”

Kael’s head jerked in Emery’s direction. “I can move quickly—”

“We aren’t dealing with normal people; they are Shay users. And the gypsies aren’t known for their kindness and goodwill.”

Kael opened his mouth to object, but Emery’s expression sealed his mouth closed.

Emery’s scowl softened. “General, he’s my friend too.”

Kael nodded, his hand still gripping his blade.

“Get a team of Speed Rol’dan, a dozen at least,” Emery said.

Kat stepped forward. “I would like to volunteer, General.”

“Accepted,” Kael said.

“And bring Greer with you,” Emery added. “If Nolan is in need of Healing … ”

“Greer returned?” Megan asked.

“Just this morning,” Emery said. “Our friends from the village are well.”

Megan exhaled. Her brother was doing okay. “Did they … give Flann the letter?”

Emery’s mouth quirked. “Yes. He knows.”

Crows. She wondered how that went. But she’d have plenty of time to worry about her brother. For now, they needed to help Nolan.

Kael bowed. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Permission to leave immediately?”

“Permission granted. Go to the Guardians’ quarters before you leave; inform them of our plans.”

Kael disappeared.

Kat turned to Megan, her brows furrowed over her glowing eyes. “We’ll find him. We’ll bring him home.”

Megan could only nod as her voice choked in worry. This last week, she’d been mad at Nolan for running away. How long had he been held captive and tortured by a power-hungry group of gypsies? Had he run away at all? Or had they taken him somehow? Her stomach churned.

She stared at the door where Kat and the general had disappeared. It was times like these when she wished she could do more than simply heal.

A hand touched her arm. She turned, and Emery’s worry-filled face mirrored her own. “They’ll find him.” It sounded like he was trying to convince himself instead of her.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her, comforting her. As long as he played the role of the father, the brother, the friend, he could touch her. She pressed into him, taking what contact he gave, feeling his thrumming heart against her cheek.

He gently pulled her from him, his eyes glinting with violet light. He inhaled and released it slowly, the moment between them gone.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I find out anything.” He gave her a reassuring smile and strode toward the meeting room. A trio of Empathy Rol’dan joined him inside.

There was always business. Always something needing to be done. Emery worried over every detail, as long as it didn’t focus on
them
.

She turned, burying her frustration and anger.
He’s king, you idiot. Of course he has business.
He told you he’d talk to you later. By Brim, he better once Nolan is home and well.
Inhaling a slow breath, she strengthened her resolve to be useful. If Nolan was hurt, missing, or in trouble, Alec would want to know.

Chapter Twenty-Six

RIKAR HADN’T COME.

The night had passed slowly, ever so slowly. The spears had jabbed sharper and deeper since the gypsies had come into their powers. They were crueler with their torment now, using their Shays behind their blows. Nolan fought consciousness, forcing his body to heal as the wounds bled his life onto the floor of his prison cell.

Rikar had kept Nolan alive this last week, but tonight he had never appeared. Darkness became Nolan’s company as he shivered with cold and exhaustion. Moment by moment, the night crawled on.

The previous night, Rikar had nearly depleted his light. He’d crawled back to his cage and lay motionless the entire day. Nolan had watched, trying to speak to him, but the Guardian remained limp and still. When evening came, he only shifted slightly, and then another performance began.

When the sun finally broke through the trees, Nolan lifted his head, feeling as weak as when the performance had ended. He held his breath. Rikar would’ve come if he could; he always did. Guilt and dread crept over his heart.
Brim, don’t let him be dead.

A slight movement came from Rikar, a stirring of his leg. Relief sunk into Nolan’s bones. He shifted on the drying blood coating the floor and stared out the bars, first at Rikar, then the gypsies as they started their day.

A group with the power of Strength tossed a large stone in a game of catch. Another group—with orange light blazing from their eyes—started a scavenger hunt. Still another with Accuracy threw spears. A tree resembled a porcupine it was so littered with wooden stakes. Even without the Rol’dan colors, they segregated. Those who were friends previously gravitated toward those who shared their powers.

Nolan’s head throbbed. He held a hand over his eyes, blocking the morning rays. He’d never felt so weak, never so completely drained.

What would Brim say to him when he entered the hereafter? How would he react after Nolan had failed so miserably in his task? He had spread the light, he supposed, but not in the way he had meant. The gypsies had gained the powers instead of the normal citizens of Adamah.

The jarring of metal drew him from his exhaustion. A pair of gypsies stood next to Rikar’s cage, poking the Guardian with a branch.

“Look. It moved.”

“It gets sick too often. We should get rid of it.”

The gypsies glanced around, making sure nobody was listening—except for Nolan; he wasn’t a real person to them.

“Jezebelle wouldn’t take too kindly to that sort of talk. Lately, she’s found him interesting.”

The other nodded.

When Nolan had first gained his powers, many things had become glaringly clear. The Guardians, who’d hidden behind disguises, could no longer do so to Nolan. He always saw their true forms, just like when he’d arrived in this camp; Rikar couldn’t hide from him, until now.

Nolan stared at the cage and the lizard man who slept, slumped on the ground of his cell. Fatigue and weakness had taken such a hold of Nolan, he could no longer break through Rikar’s disguise. He was hideous, as they had said, with green, scaly skin. The only resemblance to a man was his two arms and legs. Slits took the place of his nose, and a slimy tail stretched out next to him. Nolan focused, trying to see the Guardian’s natural form, but all he could see was the lizard.

Jezebelle, however, could now see the Guardian’s true form.

After she received the power of Strength—and took several days to recover—she hungered to try more. Day after day, she continued with the onslaught of Shay powers. Nolan gawked, wondering how she could take so much on at one time. But, of course, she wasn’t hiding her new powers; Nolan had gained his strategically. Jezebelle attacked them with as much stubborn determination as she did with all things; she continued until she’d captured them all.

But how could she? No one else could gain all the Shays—that is, no one except himself.

The other gypsies tried, each taking a turn in every light. But no matter how many times they stood there, or how many headaches they received from the extra lights, they failed. Only Jezebelle had gained additional powers.

Since then, she’d gawked at Rikar, yelling at the silent Guardian through his bars, demanding he speak. Unfortunately for her, Rikar wouldn’t cooperate.

Nolan raised his head, finding Jezebelle striding around his cage as she dragged a stick across the metal beams. Since she’d changed, she’d taunted him daily. Physically, she looked the same—if you didn’t count the prism of colored eyes. Still normal. Still beautiful. But now, she was deadly.

She stopped near his face, staring with violet, glowing eyes. Her Empathy prodded, analyzing him. “I thought you’d been pretending. But you’re not pretending, are you? You’ve lost your powers.”

He didn’t have enough strength to even argue.

“What is he?” she asked, motioning toward Rikar.

Nolan glanced at the Guardian and snorted. “Looks like a lizard man.”

Her hand darted inside, grabbing Nolan’s arm. She squeezed, flaring Strength.

Nolan cried out, laughing through the pain. It wouldn’t make him talk.

She hissed and let go, gripping his cage bars instead. “You
will
answer me.”

“What will you do? Kill me?”

“I
can
kill you.”

Nolan forced a weak smile. “You’re doing that already.”

She squeezed the metal of his cage, and it moaned but didn’t glow. Why
didn’t
it glow?

“I want answers,” she said. “I
need
answers.”

His hatred for her paused, seeing the vulnerability in her intense stare. She was always so cocky, so confident. And now, she was confused and unsure. Those in the camp sidestepped her, fear pulsing through them as thick as a foggy morning. They treated her like one of the freaks in their cages.

Her face pressed close to the bars, her eyes pleading. “What happened to me?”

A soothing balm of pity covered his hate. “I only wish I knew.”

Whatever vulnerability she held snapped closed. With a final glare, she pushed off, flinging her braids over one shoulder and stomping away.

Nolan released a prolonged breath. He couldn’t answer her questions if he wanted to. He’d struggled with the same ones since the moment he’d changed. At least she had the opportunity to blend in—as much as a gypsy could. Nolan didn’t fit in anywhere, except his cage.

Afternoon dragged on, and Nolan’s weakness remained. To his relief, Rikar steadily improved. By mid-morning, he could sit. After the sun reached its peak, someone slid a plate under Nolan’s bars. He ignored the food.

“
Master Nolan,”
Rikar’s voice said in his mind.
“Please forgive me. I was unable to tend to you last night. I believe I will be able to tonight, at least a little.”

Nolan didn’t answer. Tonight might be too late. He closed his eyes, sleep finally claiming him. Rikar’s worried voice droned in his head.

***

Nolan awoke as a chorus of laughter erupted from the center of camp. The musicians played; the man sang; another tossed twenty balls into the air.

Two voices spoke at the side of Nolan’s enclosure, the ones who’d taunted him in his sleep.

“Get up, freak,” the one with Strength said.

Nolan was about to tell him where he could go, when the loop of a rope went around his wrist. With a yank, they hoisted him, wrenching his shoulder.

“Here. Grab the other one.”

A second rope tightened on his other wrist, and they hauled him to his feet, his arms stretched wide. Nolan’s head lolled, but he forced his chin up, wanting to meet the eyes of his tormentors.

The one had short hair for a gypsy. His colorful tunic—with beads sewn into strips hanging down around his waist—jingled when he moved. His smile faded, his lips pursed. “Mikal. He doesn’t look so good.”

The one with Strength snorted. “Jezebelle said she didn’t care. He’s not doing us any good now that we have the powers too.”

The first gypsy met Nolan’s eyes, and pity lingered there. He gripped his blood-coated spear and pulled his gaze away.

Laughter exploded from the trail as the first group of customers emerged—a family. Nolan’s stomach turned. He braced himself, determined not to die in front of the children.

Several more groups tromped in. Nobles. Merchant workers. Drunken slobs who’d love to see blood. The family watched the musician first, and then they squealed with laughter as the juggler tossed flaming torches. The boy pointed toward Nolan, and Nolan’s heart stood still.

They strolled over, but turned from Nolan and approached Rikar’s cage. The gypsy in charge of Rikar went into his speech, and the children groaned at the appropriate times.

The man holding the spear turned to Nolan, apprehension on his face. “Mikal,” he whispered to the other, “are you sure—”

“Shut your face, Tibel. Do your job.”

Mikal and Tibel. Nolan hadn’t known their names before. At least one of them had finally developed a conscience. Their eyes met again, apology lingering in his expression. He’d stabbed Nolan more times than he could count. This time, his countenance had changed; the gypsy knew the desperation of Nolan’s situation. If this man, Tibel, realized it, just by looking at him, then Nolan didn’t have a chance.