Shield of Sparrows, page 14
I fought the urge to stick out my tongue. “I’m not used to wearing shoes with thick soles.”
“Should I send for your slippers?”
“No,” I gritted out, backing away again as he advanced, this time a full step.
His eyes narrowed, his features hardening. And when he moved again, it was a blur.
The knife flew out of my hand before I even registered the sting in my wrist. Then I was falling, landing on my ass with a hard thump.
Ow. “You tripped me? Really?”
“All I did was take back my knife. You tripped yourself.” The corners of his mouth quirked.
“If you laugh at me, I swear to Izzac I will find a way to stab you in the eye.” I’d never prayed to the God of Death before, but there was always a first.
The Guardian dropped to a crouch, the knife dangling from his fingertips. “It is unwise to threaten me.”
“Surprise, surprise. I’m not scared of you.”
Even after hearing rumors of the Guardian, after listening to Banner’s story about his brother, I wasn’t scared. Why was that? I’d attempt to dissect why later. For now, I wanted that knife back.
I growled, forcing myself up off the deck. Then I held out my hand, waiting as he stood. “I want to try again.”
“At this point, I think Zavier was right. Either you’ll hurt yourself, or someone is going to kill you with your own blade.”
It was entirely possible. But I snapped my fingers and opened my palm. “Again.”
He shook his head but handed over the dagger. “Don’t stand square to your opponent. Get into a fighting stance. Your weapons master must have at least taught you that.”
It sounded vaguely familiar.
I shifted slightly to the side, mirroring his feet with my left ahead of my right. “Okay. I’m ready.”
“Praise the gods,” he muttered.
When he lunged, I really was ready. I shuffled backward, careful to pick up my feet so I didn’t trip. “Ha!”
The gleam in his eyes made my stomach knot.
Shit. I was in so much trouble.
This time, he did trip me. One quick sweep of his front leg to mine, and my balance faltered. He took the knife straight from my grip as I dropped to my hands and knees.
Well, at least I hadn’t fallen on my ass. This was slightly less embarrassing.
I pushed to my feet and held out my hand for the knife.
Except before he could pass it over again, one of the crew called his name. “Guardian.”
He held up a finger. “That’s enough for today.”
“That’s it? You’re quitting already?”
“Walk around. Break in your boots.”
So we really were starting my training at walking. Wow. How pathetic did that make me?
I wasn’t going to think about the answer to that one.
“Fine. Guardian,” I drawled. “Is that really what everyone calls you? You must have a name.”
“I do.”
I waited. And waited. And waited. “Well, what is it?”
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping low. “Maybe I’ll tell you. If you earn it.”
There was always a test when it came to this man. “Earn it, like your trust?”
His laugh was humorless. “You might earn my name one day. But make no mistake, Cross. I will never trust you.”
Yeah, well, get in line.
He walked away without another word. Before he could see just how much his parting comment hurt.
Was it me? Was there something I did, I said, that made people inherently not trust me?
I didn’t gossip. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shared someone else’s secret. I did draw people sometimes without their knowledge. Maybe that was an invasion. Except very few saw my sketches.
After showing Father and Margot when I was younger and being met with scowls, I’d mostly kept my art to myself.
So what was so wrong with me that no one trusted me? Or was it really a lack of trust? Maybe the heart of the issue was faith.
No one believed in me. No one had trust that I was capable.
I couldn’t fight. I had more than my fair share of clumsy moments. I wasn’t cunning and sneaky like Mae. Had Father kept the whole truth about the crux and Allesaria from me because he feared I’d get caught and spill his secrets?
Well, he didn’t need to worry. I’d never tell the Guardian the truth. My priority was my father’s errand. To earn his trust. To prove to him I wasn’t his worthless wallflower of a daughter. And in doing so, I hoped I’d help him find a way to save our people.
It might seem like an impossible task, but damn it, I wasn’t giving up yet.
I looked at my boots, wiggling my toes. It was humiliating, walking laps around the deck, but I did it anyway, around and around.
Each time I made it to the stern, I paused to stare across the water. Somewhere in the distance was a golden city. My golden city.
Did Father worry about how I was faring on this journey? Did Margot stare at my empty seat at the breakfast table and wish I were there so she could scold me for running late? Had Mae already moved into my rooms? How was Arthy? He’d been learning his numbers when I left. How high could he count now? Was Banner still angry that his bride had been claimed by another?
A throat cleared behind me a moment before Zavier came to a stop at my side. His eyes were tired and his jaw covered in stubble. He needed a shave, too. And a long night’s sleep. “We’ll arrive in Turah soon.”
“All right.” I nodded. “Is the crew allowed to talk to me?”
“Yes.” His eyebrows knitted together. “Why?”
“They don’t.”
“Ah.”
Was that supposed to be an answer? Who cared if they ignored me? Why did that bother me so much? I’d likely never see this crew again.
Maybe the reason it bothered me was because they had good cause to be wary. Like Zavier had said, Turans were loyal to Turans.
No matter how I dressed, how I pretended, I was not a Turan.
But was I still a Quentin? Did anyone really claim me as theirs? Or was I like this boat, adrift between kingdoms?
“How did the training session go?” Zavier asked.
I shrugged. “Was it your idea for him to train me? Or his?”
“Mine. He is the best warrior in Turah.”
I stared up at him, taking in the straight line of his nose and the band of silver above his brow. Did he always wear it? It seemed nearly set into his skin, like he’d grown into that crown.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem…sad.”
I shrugged. “Just homesick.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the truth, either.
“Zavier.”
We both turned as the mustached man I’d spoken to earlier approached. “You’re needed on the Cannon,” he said.
Zavier nodded, glancing off the port side to see the other ship sailing closer. Then, without a word, he followed the mustached man off the quarterdeck while I took one last look at the sea that stretched toward Roslo.
If I wasn’t homesick, did that mean everyone back home had moved on without me, too? Was Mae hugging Arthy like she’d promised? Did my brother even realize I was gone?
The answers would probably break my heart. So I abandoned the deck, leaving the men to make their final preparations while I went below to tell Brielle and Jocelyn it was time to pack.
Both girls came alive at the announcement.
Then, a few hours after midday, with anchors dropped and the crew preparing the rowboats that would ferry us to shore, I returned to the stern, staring across the open ocean one last time.
Did anyone miss me? Did I miss them?
Yes.
But not as much as I’d thought.
“Highness,” Jocelyn called from the base of the quarterdeck’s stairs. “It’s time.”
I turned my back to the life I’d once lived. I turned toward the future.
Toward Turah.
Zavier’s kingdom loomed beyond the ship, past shallow waters and sandy beaches.
I fell in line with Brielle and Jocelyn for the next rowboat, surveying the ship as we waited.
The Guardian stood at the bow of the Cutter, where we’d been earlier this morning. His arms were crossed and his jaw set. He seemed to be monitoring the rowboats, making sure they made it safely to shore.
Except his eyes didn’t track the boats. He was staring at the land itself, his expression hard and unblinking.
Like Turah was an enemy.
Or a battlefield.
A chill crept down my spine like ice-cold water snaking along my skin. For the first time since I’d set foot on the Cutter, I felt like I might be sick.
“Highness, would you like to go first?” Brielle asked, gesturing to where a crewman was waiting, his hand outstretched to help us down the ladder to the rowboat below.
“Go ahead,” I told her.
She nodded, stepping past me. When she was safely below, I sent Jocelyn next.
Maybe I wasn’t quite ready to leave the Cutter after all.
I was shuffling forward, nerves fluttering in my stomach, when I felt him at my side. “Any chance that this is where we’ll part ways?”
“Not yet.” The Guardian’s smile was wolfish. Menacing. And not attractive, not in the slightest. “Welcome to Turah, my queen.”
Fourteen
Jocelyn gripped my hand so hard my knuckles cracked. The bench seat on the rowboat was wide enough for three, but she was sitting so close she was practically on my lap. Brielle was seated on my other side, her back stiff as she watched the shoreline.
“If I never set foot on a boat again, I’ll die a happy woman,” Jocelyn said.
“Don’t say that. You need to sail home.”
Sadness filled her brown eyes.
“You’ll go home,” I said. “You promised your mother, remember?”
“Yeah.” She looked behind us, past the Cutter, the Cleaver, and the Cannon, all anchored in the deeper waters along the shoreline.
Zavier sat in the front of our rowboat, his posture rigid and his shoulders tense.
He hadn’t spoken a word as we loaded onto the rowboat to go to shore. He was back to the silent, brooding prince. Was that because my lady’s maids were around to hear?
Probably. I hadn’t told either of them that he could speak. I wasn’t going to fail that test of his confidence.
If he stayed quiet, so would I.
The man rowing had gold hoops in both of his ears. A winding tattoo decorated the side of his neck. He wore leather cuffs around his wrists and a red scarf around his head. His arms flexed with every plunge and pull of the oars into the water.
I had a feeling that he’d return to the Cutter once we were on shore.
Where would the ships go from here? There had to be a port for ships their size. Why hadn’t we gone to a city? Why drop us here, in the middle of nowhere?
The beach where we were headed was only a short stretch of smooth, gray sand. Rowboats from the Cleaver and the Cannon had already made land.
The four warriors who’d accompanied Zavier to our wedding were unloading, wading through the shallows to the beach. They had no trunks or cases. All they had were their clothes, weapons, and satchels strapped across their chests.
There were five trunks on shore. Mine. One for Brielle. Another for Jocelyn. Not even Zavier had much. Like his warriors, only a satchel.
Maybe they should have told us to pack light.
I scanned the beach, searching for the Guardian. After his ominous welcome to Turah, I’d lost him in my climb down to the rowboat. I’d expected him to follow, but when I’d looked up, he’d been gone.
Given his tendency to pop up like an itchy rash, I was certain he was lingering around somewhere.
“Do you think there’s a city nearby?” Brielle asked, her voice low.
Our tattooed rower scowled, annoyed that she’d break the silence with a perfectly reasonable question.
“I don’t know. I don’t see anything.”
If there was a town, it was camouflaged in the landscape. There was no sign of a road or trail through that forest.
Beyond the sand were reed grasses, their tips swaying in the breeze. And then came looming hills covered in dense pine trees and thick underbrush. A veil of mist cloaked the tallest peaks, and the air was cool, the wind sharp.
This beach looked lonely and out of place, like the gray rocks at both sides were slowly taking over, forcing it into the water to drown. It was so different from the Quentin beaches I wasn’t even sure it could be called a beach. There weren’t miles and miles of white, sun-kissed sand. It wasn’t warm and welcoming.
Though it was beautiful. Rugged. Intimidating. But beautiful.
As we reached the shallow waters, Zavier stood and jumped over the boat’s edge, his boots splashing with every step as he hauled us up on shore.
I didn’t wait for his hand and stepped over the side, my booted heels digging into the sand. It wasn’t soft and warm like the beaches in Quentis. It was stiff and unyielding, protesting against my heels with every step.
A stray tendril of hair caught the breeze and flew into my mouth, the taste of my dye bitter on my lips before I yanked it away.
Once Brielle and Jocelyn were on shore, Zavier motioned for us to follow him toward the grasses where the line of his stone-faced rangers waited.
“Our things?” I asked.
His gaze darted over my shoulder in silent answer.
Five men carried our trunks a few paces behind, following our tracks in the sand.
It was on that backward glance I spotted him.
The Guardian stood on the shore, just out of the ocean’s reach. His clothes were wet, his hair dripping on his shoulders. And he wasn’t alone.
He was speaking to the High Priest.
My breath caught in my throat.
I couldn’t feel the Voster magic. Was he too far away? Was that why I hadn’t felt him on the ships?
Oh, gods. Did this mean he’d be traveling with us to Allesaria? My insides knotted at the idea of his magic being constant and close. I wasn’t sure I could deal with its sting day after day.
The High Priest and the Guardian kept their heads together as they spoke. There was a familiarity between them I hadn’t noticed before. It was almost affectionate, like brothers.
Had the Voster given the Guardian his powers? Was that how he could swim so fast? Move so quickly?
It seemed too obvious. Too easy. But could it be that simple? Could they give their magic to humans?
The Voster were as secretive about their magic and their origins as they were about where they lived and how many priests made up the brotherhood. That book I’d read about them had been mostly speculation. Reports of witness accounts.
Father had asked me to discover the source of the Guardian’s abilities. Maybe instead of asking me, he should have consulted Brother Dime.
The Guardian nodded at whatever the priest said, then took a step back and pressed both hands over his heart, giving a slight bow.
The High Priest made the same gesture. Then he put one hand on the Guardian’s shoulder.
That touch would have sent me out of my skin, but the Guardian didn’t so much as flinch.
There was a familiar black case strapped to the High Priest’s back.
The Shield of Sparrows.
He kept that treaty with him. I’d never wondered where those documents were kept, but it made sense that the Voster would be responsible for their protection. What other treaties and accords did they control? Were there records of the Chain of Sevens stashed away for safekeeping?
What happened if those documents were lost?
Or destroyed?
Would the treaty be broken if there was nothing left? Was that Father’s plan—to break the Shield of Sparrows? To hunt down the brotherhood’s stores, then burn the treaties to nothing but ash?
The priest let the Guardian go, then walked down the sandy beach toward the rocks. He climbed them with deft ease in bare feet, his hand gripping the hem of his burgundy robes. Then he was swallowed up by the forest, disappearing from sight.
To where? Did the Voster live in Turah? Or was he on his way to Ozarth’s border? Maybe the High Priest called Allesaria home.
Except he seemed to be going in the opposite direction. If he was traveling to Allesaria, too, it wasn’t with us.
I faced forward, mind whirling with too many questions. The warriors ahead of Zavier broke from their line, each cutting a different path through the reed grass.
Brielle and Jocelyn stayed behind Zavier. And I came up behind them all, slowing only to take one final look at the place where the High Priest had vanished.
My problems had started the day I’d run into Brother Dime in the castle’s gallery. The day the High Priest had floated into my father’s throne room.
Dread pitted in my gut. This wasn’t the last I’d see of the High Priest, was it? There was no way for me to be certain, but I knew, in my bones, he wasn’t done ruining my life quite yet.
The Guardian began walking across the sand, dragging a hand through his wet hair and pushing it away from his face. His large hand pulled the water from his beard. His tunic, the same cream fabric as my own, was nearly transparent. It molded to the strength of his chest, to the contours of his rippled stomach.
A warmth spread through my belly, pooling lower. Oh, gods, no. I forced my eyes forward, clenching my fists and molars.
Yes, he was attractive, but I could not—would not—let a handsome face and body carved from stone distract me from my task. That man was a murderer. I refused to allow a spontaneous physical reaction to cloud my judgment.
I blocked out all thoughts of the Guardian, listening to the men behind me carrying our trunks.
