Tower of Trials: Book One of Guardian Spirit

by Jodi Ralston

Lydia did not make it as far, too weak. She ended up on her side, arm outstretched toward the door. With a moan, she drew up one leg. Guard swooped down, grabbed her, but it was hard to find a hold on her flesh, as his smoke form fell apart. He collapsed next to her.

  But the opening was there. Right there. Inches away.

  And the last retriever, not weak in the least, had gained, rolling over the hem of her green skirt. It stopped, reached down, and reached for her nearest ankle. Guard was faster. Bow not ready at hand, he pulled his knife and threw it instead.

  It hit true, embedding itself in a bronze palm.

  When the retriever reached to remove the now milky white and quivering blade, Guard grabbed Lydia under her arms and hauled her to the door. The trapped edge of her skirt ripped easily, freeing her.

  They made it through the opening just at the blade was removed . . .

  . . . and exploded in the retriever’s hand.

  Guard threw them both down on the cold, white stone-wood landing outside the doorway as bits of tomb-wood shrapnel sailed through the air.

  They were through.

  They had made it.

  Won the first Trial.

  Except, as Guard looked up from the cracked, white flagstones, where was the male? The male’s breathy, scared sound caught his ear.

  That was when Lydia looked up, too, and began screaming. The male, Guard realized, had never stopped screaming.

  The male had never stopped.

  And when Guard spotted Shalott, he understood why.

  CHAPTER 7

  The landing and stairs outside of the Tower had no railing. This Guard had forgotten, and so he had nearly flung Shalott off the edge. Currently, Shalott lay on his chest, the edge of the landing cutting into his ribs. His arms stretched before him, fingers stuck in one of the fortunately ubiquitous cracks in the flagstone, feet slipping on the ice on the side of the Tower, unable to gain purchase, screaming weakly. Lydia dove for him, grabbing at one arm, and in her panic, she almost dislodged her man’s hold.

  Guard pulled himself upright, caught the slipping hand, hauled the male charge up, and plunked him down far from the edge. Shalott fell to his hands and knees, panting. Lydia flung her arms around her male’s neck and hugged him close.

  A moment later, Guard’s right hand was seized by Lydia. From where her cheek was pressed against Shalott’s bare head (the knit hat must have been lost during his struggles, Guard guessed), she gasped, “Thank you, thank you.” Tears glistened in her dark eyes, and her fingers squeezed.

  Guard nodded and stood and stepped away, leaving them to their moment.

  While he gloried in his own.

  Success. He straightened his back and ignored the twinges of strain and lingering numbness from too many close calls. Who wasn’t strengthened by victory?

  He tilted his head back and inhaled deeply the still, cold air of the starless, black void. He had never seen it before. It existed because this area was magic bound, like the entire city. A special space carved out for just them, set apart from the rest of the world. Out here, nothing else existed but them: their mission and this success, the first of many. It was all that mattered. Guard inhaled again, this clean, pure, scentless air, holding it in his lungs. Invigorating.

  “What the Baran Pit was that?”

  Guard coughed and turned around.

  The male was standing and glaring at him. He was also shivering.

  “So you still need to recover.”

  That only made the male human’s trembles worse. Which meant he was not ready to descend the stairs and move onto the next Trial. Purgatory’s ghosts needed a little pushing from time to time, but nowhere as much as these humans did. Then again, ghost trials weren’t separated like this. Or so condensed. Humans need a bigger push, then. But unlike with Victoria, they were strangers. Guard looked to Lydia, who held onto her male’s arm, and he wondered what she would do to speed things along. Then he remembered. He unwound the borrowed scarf and held it out.

  Shalott looked at it as if he were offered a viper. But Shalott was the one who was spitting and hissing his words, “What!—in gods’ names!—do I want with that?!”

  “Lydia tried to encourage my recuperation with it before.” Guard gestured with the green, knit material to Shalott’s bare head. “But my debility came not from a normal chill. Humans do not deal with cold as well as spirits, so it may help you.”

  “No! I don’t need a damn scarf. I’m not cold.” The male swiped at it, sending it to the flagstones. “I’m angry! Or are you too spirit to tell?”

  Guard cocked his head. “You are often angry, Shalott. Perhaps you should reveal the cause of your emotion this time.” He looked over his shoulder at the edge. “You did not fall. I—”

  “What, I have to pick just one reason? Fine! You cheated!”

  Lydia glanced at Guard now and then looked quickly away. “I’m sure Guard had a reason.”

  “There were no rules as how to run the maze, and you were too slow even if you had the correct route.” Guard turned to Lydia. “Your love must be a very complicated and tangled thing, but the Trials will correct that weakness.”

  Lydia winced. “I don’t know what you are talking about. I love Raven—Roland. I love Roland.”

  “I did not say you do not, but the maze reflects your heart and what would weaken it.” Guard felt he should add something encouraging here. “You did well to obey me. We won the Trial.”

  “That is . . . that is true, Perce. It seems it was the best way. None of those dreadful monsters were inside the walls.” Lydia rubbed at her arms through her layers as she spoke. “So there is no need to get upset over it. There are worse things to get our backs up, and we are done with those monsters and that monstrous maze. You are not—you’re safe. We’re safe.”

  “And we succeeded,” Guard added.

  Perce turned to her, grasping her forearms, not noticing her wince at the tenderness. “He was wrong to use us so, Lydia. Wrong! Don’t you get it? We should’ve stayed together the entire time. There was no reason why we couldn’t have.”

  “My reasoning was sound. I needed focus, not distractions.” Their cries for comfort and their demands about other needs might have tugged on his human emotions. If he had given in to that, he would have failed. He needed to be like a spirit—strong—and he had been. Why couldn’t they see that? Guard shook his head. Because they are human. “I had planned the wall tunnel after the first attempt, but I needed the second run to make certain, to be sure of the nature of the tunnels, and to see the change in pattern of the retrievers, if any. And it was well I did, for they grew more effective after each reset.”

  “Oh, yes,” Lydia said, rubbing her arms once more. “Faster and stronger.”

  But her companion would have none of it. “The paths shared walls, didn’t they? You could have darted us from one to another, with little risk out in the open, thanks to your trick. Eventually, we would have found the exit. If you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t have made her go through it three times. Once was enough. That second time we could have traveled the inner route, safely, to the exit.”

  “But I think that would have been cheating, Percy,” Lydia said softly, looking down.

  “I am not a gentleman, Shalott. I solved the maze the way a spirit would, by studying the make of the weapons, observing the behavior of the adversary, making sure of my goal—”

  “Without a thought to her and her fears. Dammit, she told you she was afraid—she could have gone with you!”

  “A very human way of thinking.”

  “And you are one.” The angry gray-eyed gaze raked him up and down. Then stopped. The male scoffed. “Partly. Cambion.”

  “To my regret, but fortunately, my regret is destined to be short-lived.” Guard turned to Lydia, who was looking away from them, huddled over with cold. “And so will the weaknesses that now hinder you, Seeker.” So it was with Purgatory’s ghosts, too. Their shortcomings had held them back from the straight path
to the Garden, which was why it was essential to push past weaknesses and failures now, to focus on the successes and the goals. “The first step is already done, Seeker. Two more and you will be with your shade.”

  “And now he wants us to move on to the next ordeal! We are human. We nearly died. Give us a moment, if you please! Humans need time to catch their breath.” The male went to Lydia, cooed something emotional at her, and discovered by touch her bruises. “Blasted monsters! Forgive my language, dearest.”

  Lydia nodded but stepped back until her back touched a somewhat smooth area to the Tower wall. Her companion followed and fussed.

  Good thing it was not the male tested. He would learn nothing; he was just along for the Trial, part of it anyway. Lydia, Guard suspected, has already learned something valuable about herself. So he hoped, but her face was downturned; he could not see her expression.

  But she was . . . quieter.

  Too quiet.

  Maybe it was the cold.

  Maybe it was something worse.

  “Is your moment over? It would be best not to linger between The Crypts. Doubt can enter your hearts then.”

  “But not yours, eh?” But the male sighed and pulled Lydia against his side with a “Dearest, we should go now. Get it over with.”

  Lydia hadn’t said a word during this argument nor as Shalott turned them toward the stairs. She obeyed, not looking up, not wondering at the sight.

  She was just quiet.

  As they moved to stairs, Guard remembered his ward’s discarded possession. Because there was no breeze, the scarf had not been lost as was Shalott’s cap. Guard secured it in his expandable pouch. He’d return it to her once she emerged from The Vault. She seemed to find such loss of clothes worrisome and found such bestowal useful and calming. The scarf might soothe her need for clothing possessions then.

  Before Shalott could complain thrice about his slowness, Guard caught up, taking the outside edge of the stairs. That way, between the two of them, they completely blocked Lydia’s view of the void.

  She noticed and gave him a wan smile. Shalott frowned and edged her closer to the uneven, curving wall of the Tower.

  Guard ignored that, removing his bow and gripping it firmly in his left hand. He did not mourn the knife. It was a worthy sacrifice. Fortunately, he did not have to say the same about his bow. He tried the string, pulling it to full tension. He reached back and removed an arrow. It was intact and gray. Good. Father’s gift had not been permanently damaged by the tomb-wood encounters. I should have checked immediately, but that is the problem with distractions, he thought as he turned his attention to the sword on his hip. Guard caressed the familiar handle. His father’s blade, safe. And although the chance of it receiving damage had been small, he relaxed. Distractions lead you astray.

  Guard returned the arrow to the quiver but kept out the bow. The seekers stared. “It is wise to prepare yourself for the next Trial.”

  That earned him a nod from one, a new scowl from the other, and no obedience from either. But soon it didn’t matter. They had completed one circuit of the Tower. A smooth patch in the wall waited by the landing.

  Lydia pulled away. “I know what to do now.” She placed her hand and announced her intent.

  CHAPTER 8

  This wall did not possess a separate guardian, so Hasp relocated to tend it. Although, he could have appeared taller, he chose only to manifest as nine feet tall. And just his face this time.

  This startled Lydia back a step. Shalott grabbed but did not level his gun.

  Perhaps he had learned better.

  More likely he was out of bullets.

  Before Hasp could speak, Lydia stepped forward and squinted. “Aren’t you the guardian from . . . ” She pointed at the void. “Below?”

  “No, Seekers, I am the threshold guardian from above. The Crypts reside belowground.” That announcement begat several comments (“Oh, my, all this is under The City?” “That’s impossible; he lies, just like his friend.” “Oh, Perce.”). But Hasp had learned from their first encounter and swiftly carried on. “Seekers, it is my duty to open the ways to all Trials.” Hasp parted vertically, so a large space gaped open between the halves of his face. The lips on both sides moved as he continued, “Enter to begin the Trial of Labor.”

  Over Shalott’s dark mutterings, Lydia spoke up, “Good Threshold Spirit, what do I need to know about this Trial?”

  “Know that, same as before, if you fail here, you fail all Trials. Your guide possesses adequate knowledge of the Trial of Labor.”

  “How enlightening . . . ” Shalott spat. “And reassuring. Thanks a bunch.”

  “Oh, Perce,” Lydia said. “Thank you, Good Spirit. Sincerely.” She reached out, hesitated, then patted his nearest chin before dragging Shalott in with her through the gap.

  Once they were alone, Hasp asked him, “Did your foster-mother give you the map?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you are prepared. Good luck, Future Guardian of the City.” He disappeared.

  After Guard passed through, the opening followed Hasp’s suit, sealing shut behind him, becoming just stretch of smooth, white wall.

  His wards were only a step inside the door, illuminated by the string lights along the walls.

  “Foster-mother?”

  “Map?”

  Lydia’s question bothered him more than Shalott’s, and that fact bothered him even more. Guard leant his bow against the wall, regarded the expandable pouch on his belt, and slowly removed the map. “Yes.” He opened it, and for it a moment, it was just old, creamy-white paper, made of some special material no doubt. He sniffed at the faint vanilla-like aroma. Bone-wood, definitely. Definitely well-matured, but there was something else too. Then like a spreading inkblot, the map painted in, from center out, showing this hall-like anteroom. Ah, ink—the source of the other amarant smell. Though, he still couldn’t put a name to it. Guard answered Shalott at last, “She gave me a map of this Trial.”

  “How nice of her. What is she? A guardian like you?”

  But the map lacked details. One in particular: Labor’s final destination, the exit. Just this room was shown, filling the entire parchment. It made the small, square anteroom, with its one doorless opening, seem much larger and more important than it was.

  “He’s not going to—”

  “A reaper,” Guard answered.

  “Oh,” Lydia said. Shalott said nothing. Not surprising; humans feared reapers above all spirits. They didn’t even like saying the name.

  “And have you no foster-father?”

  “He was . . . ” Guard frowned despite himself, for the words did not come easily. “He died, and I am honored to take his place.”

  “Oh, how that must hurt. I’m so sorry. Was it recent?”

  “By Bara, can we hurry?” Shalott stomped off a bit, his back to them, and then stomped back. “Time is wasting, Oh Glorious Guide.”

  “Not here, Shalott,” Guard corrected. “Time was the last Trial. This one is—”

  “Labor, yes. What does that mean, Guide? Let me see that.” He snatched the map. “How is this helpful?” He tossed it back.

  “Oh, be careful!”

  Guard caught it.

  Shalott snorted.

  Guard smoothed out a wrinkle. “It is very old, Shalott.”

  “And very useless.”

  “My mother would not lead me wrong.” He gritted his teeth. He had not intended to say that, but he could not stand for the callous disregard of his mother’s gift. “This map will lead us safely through, but speed and efficiency are not the points of Labor. The journey and how one handles the journey are what matters in this one.”

  Shalott snorted and stomped off again, heading for the other end of the room.

  “May I see?” Lydia asked.

  Guard handed it to her, and she carefully took it. “In a way, it is yours, Lydia. As the upper level of The Crypt was customized for you and your path, so is this level.”

&n
bsp; That made her perk up. “How fast you spirits act! So what did The Crypt look like before? It changed for me? How did your mother know my heart?”

  “Mother is a reaper. Sylphs would have created the map and the Trials, same as they created every part of The City. But they would have followed the goddess’s design.”

  That made Lydia’s mouth drop, and her voice followed. “A goddess . . . ? Oh, my.” She shook her head and then shook it harder, before she managed to speak again. “‘Well-a-day and anyways,’ as my aunt and mother always say. Especially when we get distracted.” She held out the map with one hand and linked her arm around his elbow with the other. “This might not be a timed Trial, but still let’s catch up, shall we? Before Perce blows his top.”

  So Guard put away his map and picked up his bow, and they followed in Shalott’s wake.

  * * *

  Shalott had not made it far, for he had come to a stop at the exit of the anteroom, and beyond was a space that could easily hold the prior Trial’s maze. Most of it was filled by a huge, round chasm. But that black void was wrapped around by a spiral of wall lights and white stone-wood: a narrow ledge that turned into railless but well-lit staircase of large steps.

  “Bara’s Balls,” Shalott whispered.

  That echoed. Loudly.

  Lydia tittered. But turned it with a cough when Shalott blushed. “How is this room possible? This Crypt seems so much larger than your Tower.”

  “The Tower operates on a similar basis as my pouch. Its rooms expand to fit their purpose.” Guard turned to her companion. “And that would be impossible, Shalott.”

  “What would?”

  “Bara or Baran is Barathrum. She is a goddess.”

  Blushing anew, he said, “Barathrum is the Pit, the abode of the damned. Everyone knows that.”

  “Not the spirits. Barathrum, the goddess, created and rules over the abode of the damned, the Slough of Despond, not a Pit. Just as her sister the goddess Pleasance created and rules over the Garden of Plenty and their sister the goddess Purgatory created and rules over the Cities of the Dead.”

  “Rubbish,” spat Shalott, and he stomped off. Then stomped off even further before again spitting, “Just like your map.” But he stopped at the first stair and held out his hand. “Lydia, dear, let’s be getting on now.”