The Guardian’s Echo

The Guardian’s Shadow: Soren

As we traveled into the Highlands, my heart hammered against my ribs, and it wasn’t from the climb. I watched Penny sway in her saddle, realizing she was far more vulnerable to the magic of this world than anyone had realized. I wanted to scoop her up out of the saddle, and carry her up the hills in my arms. I respected her too much to treat her like a fragile doll though, and I something told me she would definitely not be okay with it.

I rode alongside her when the path would allow, feeling deeply unsettled that she’d heard a voice calling Rosariel’s name. In my experience, when the land started talking to a specific person, it was either a grand destiny or a lethal trap. I kept my gaze fixed on the thicket ahead, my hand resting on the pommel of my blade.

The memory of the heat wave person back at the inn resurfaced in my mind. I wondered how similar it was to the ghost visions Penny was having. Hopefully the figure at the inn was just that, an echo of the past. The last thing we needed was someone following us, especially with Penny’s awakening magic. We had no way of knowing what it was capable of, and while I possessed some minor magic, I was certainly no teacher in that regard.

Eventually we reached the thicket. The silver-grey trunks of the iron-bark elms twisted together like braided rope, forming a dense grove. It was a natural fortress against the highland winds, and probably the last safe place to make a camp before the sun went down for the night.

As we crossed the tree line, the wind became muffled, not passing as easily through the leaves. The branches did move though, their low creaks sounding like old bones shifting. I hoped that to Penny, it would just sound like trees, and she wouldn’t sense the eerieness of this place.

We found a decent enough clearing to make our camp and dismounted. As Penny’s feet touched the ground, her legs gave way from the exhaustion. I was there in an instant, catching her around the waist. I held onto her, ensuring she had her footing again before I let go. I knew my hands had lingered a moment longer than was probably necessary, but she didn’t say anything about it.

“Thank you, Soren,” she murmured, her voice soft.

I thought for a moment that I saw a blush creeping up her neck. I didn’t even have a chance to think before the words left my mouth, “Of course, My Lady.”

I swallowed, waiting for the reprimand. Waiting for the reminder that she was ‘Just Penny.’ It never came though.

While she rested against a tree trunk, I set a silent alarm. It was a thin, nearly invisible thread of magic tied to the surrounding trees that would hum if anything with a heartbeat, or even a temporal signature, crossed it.

There was no bright glow-drift wood for our fire tonight. The iron-bark of the surrounding elms burned lower and slower, casting a smaller, paler light over our camp. I built the fire between the roots of a massive tree in an effort to keep us hidden.

We ate a quiet dinner of dried meat and fruit, the silence suddenly feeling heavy between us. I wasn’t sure if it was simply a result of her exhaustion, or if I was paranoid, convincing myself that she knew I was keeping something from her. I watched the lavender light swirl in her tired eyes, and I knew I needed to tell her about the figure. She looked small against the backdrop of the iron-wood elms, and I worried that I’d waited too long to confess what I had seen.

“You’re thinking too loud, Soren,” she murmured, her eyes half closed as she leaned against a root.

I shifted, the leather of my armor creaking. “I am thinking that you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met,” I told her, though there was a gentleness in my voice that didn’t normally exist. “You should’ve told me about the lightheadedness hours ago.”

“And you would’ve made me stop,” she countered with a tired smile. “I’m fifty, Soren, I don’t need a babysitter.”

I snorted, reacting before I could think about it. “And I am three hundred twenty-seven, Penny. Children in Aethelgard — what you call teenagers— are approaching fifty.”

Her eyes popped open wide with that confession. “How old is the king?” she asked.

“One hundred three, if I remember correctly.”

“My God,” she breathed, running a hand through her hair.

“I’m not a babysitter,” I told her, my voice dropping an octave as I redirected the conversation back to my concerns. “I’m the man responsible for making sure the mother of the queen returns home safely. And, more importantly…” I stopped, the words catching in my throat. More importantly, I’m a man who can’t bear the thought of you fading away into these echoes.

I looked toward the dark perimeter of our camp. The memory of what I’d seen at the inn felt like a cold finger tracing my spine. I reached out, stoking the fire with a stray branch. “There’s something I need to tell you about. Something I saw in Hillsong.”