The Guildmaster: Book Three of the Vanguards of Viridor

By T.S. Cleveland

Having helped foil the attempt to kill Viridor’s queen, Merric’s return to the Guardians’ Guild should have been celebrated. Instead, his support of elementals has earned him nothing but scorn. With the man he loves presumed dead, and fearing his injuries may prevent him from ever becoming a full guardian, Merric believes his life may as well be over. But when a series of mysterious attacks puts the fate of all Viridor in jeopardy, Quinn, a handsome and dangerous pirate, may be just the man to help save the kingdom - and Merric.

Book Three of the Vanguards of Viridor

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.S. Cleveland
• Release date: Apr 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463834749

T.S. Cleveland

T. S. Cleveland is a writer and artist. She specializes in oil paintings, eBook cover art/design, and illustrations. She operates an art studio just outside of Atlanta, Georgia. Her work may be viewed/purchased at www.etsy.com/shop/ArtbyVictoriaSkye.

Book preview

1 - Heartsick

All his life, Merric had walked the grounds with pride. From the brew house to the bathhouse, the dining hall to the training grounds, he’d always held his head high, sure of himself and his life’s purpose. For not only was he an apprentice of the Guardians’ Guild, in training to become a warrior protector of the people and kingdom of Viridor, he was also the guildmaster’s son. And his father—he had been so sure—was proud of him, in his own way.

But now, everything had changed.

Nothing had been the same since Scorch, a fellow apprentice at the guild and a constant annoyance to Merric, had been sent on a guardianship by his father. McClintock had claimed the top-secret, unofficial mission was to prevent the assassination of Viridor’s High Priestess, and that he’d selected Scorch—despite his being a young apprentice—because he was special, and the only one he could trust with such an important task. But it had all been a ruse, a trick to remove Scorch from the guild and, hopefully, see him killed. When Merric learned of what his father had planned, it had been hard to stomach. But once convinced it was the truth, he’d joined Scorch in a dangerous quest to save the queen. And they had succeeded, with the help of two arrogant assassins and a flautist.

Merric had hoped, had known, his father would be proud of the part he’d played in saving Queen Bellamy.

He’d been wrong.

Limping through the brutal throbbing of his twice-injured leg, uncontrollable tears streaking down his face—as they had been for days, ever since Felix had been strangled before his eyes—Merric had, upon finally reaching home, reported to his father the news of all that had happened. After telling of their battle, and their victory, and his terrible loss, he’d hoped to be swept up in a hug, or, at the very least, he’d anticipated a hand on his shoulder and kind words. He had done well. He had done a good thing and won, even when the odds were against him. He deserved praise, his tragedy deserved sympathy, and his injury deserved tending. That was what Merric had thought, and what he had expected, foolishly.

What he’d received was a tired, unfeeling response as his father re-packed his pipe and assessed him with glazed eyes. He frowned at Merric’s cane and coughed through his report of the bandit attack, a sneer of disgust on his face when Felix’s death was approached. You expect to be rewarded the full title of guardian when you couldn’t even protect one boy against a few bandits? he had asked, and Merric had stared at the ground in shame. His father had sent him away, in no mood to deal with childish tears, and Merric had hobbled straight to his quarters, ignoring the inquiries of his fellow apprentices as he passed them in a miserable blur.

Because his father was right. He should have been able to protect Felix that day. In his head, he replayed the scene repeatedly, changing his actions, his reactions, the outcome. Had he not been injured in the courtyard battle, thrown against that tree, he would have been able to move faster when their carriage was attacked. He would have been able to fight the men who had taken Felix. He would have been able to block the arrow that had pierced his thigh. He would not have had to lie in the snow and watch as the bandit’s arm tightened around Felix’s neck, nor hear the whisper in his ear that his companion was dead. If he had been more, been the guardian his father had trained him to be, the guardian Scorch was, Felix would still be alive and at his side.

But Merric had failed every test that day, and Felix had paid the price. The punishment of Merric’s leg wasn’t nearly enough; he should have died along with Felix. It would have been preferable to the half-life he was living now, in constant pain, weighed down by dishonor. The other apprentices snickered at his cane and the way he stumbled without it. Gossip floated around him constantly, everyone talking about the guildmaster’s crippled son, whose lack of action had gotten the pretty flautist killed.

No, he didn’t walk the grounds with pride anymore; he staggered along them with his head bowed. And currently, he was staggering to the herbalist’s tent. Etheridge had been one of the few souls within the guild openly happy to see him return safely, and had ordered him to pay her a visit once a day so she could fuss over his leg.

The fat grey cat that lived on the grounds walked ahead of him as he made his way clumsily over the stone path. When he stepped onto the grass, his cane sank slightly into the earth. He cursed, his already precarious balance suffering. He loathed the cane, but loathed more the pain of walking without its aid.

The white tent that housed the herbalist stood before him, its entrance flaps billowing in the breeze. Beside it, the wide river was a sparkling, calming presence, and Merric was drawn to its bank. He’d met Felix in this precise spot, the young, curly-haired flautist running up to where he stood with Scorch, breathless, his eyes shining and bright. The attraction had been instant, and Merric had been filled with excitement over finding someone to whom he could give his affection. He’d thought, naively, that they would have all the time in the world to bring their amorous feelings into the realm of the physical. And they almost had, the night they’d saved the queen, but between Merric’s injury and his desire to take things slow, they had not. Not completely.

And now, Felix was dead.

Merric stared into the water, despising himself and his hesitance. He should have loved Felix properly when he’d had the chance. He should have drowned himself in the river the day he’d returned to the guild. He should have done so many things.

Merric? came a voice so soft and pleasant that, for a fleeting moment, he thought it might be Felix, miraculously returned to him through sheer want.

But when he looked up from the ripples of water, it was only Mazzy, her sandy blonde hair swept up in a high ponytail, her eyes squinted into thin slats from the sun reflecting off the river. She was lovely, he’d always thought so, but when he looked at her, her features were rendered down to pale imitations of Felix’s. He experienced an unsettling thought that perhaps all other faces were ruined for him now, that he would always see the ghost of the flautist staring back at him from every pair of beautiful eyes.

What are you doing? she asked, concern creasing her brow as she glanced between Merric and the river.

He took a step away from the lip of the bank and smoothed his hair, an unnecessary gesture, as it was already meticulously trained off his forehead. Wear it out of your face, the guildmaster had told him when he’d been a young boy. No one will take you seriously if your hair is a mess. Merric had argued that Scorch’s hair was always in disarray, and his father had returned, Scorch has natural charisma. He doesn’t have to worry about his hair to command respect. Smooth it back. There, good lad, just like that.

Are you going to see Etheridge? Mazzy asked, her voice echoing through his dark thoughts.

Yes, he answered, avoiding her eyes and opting instead to look over his shoulder at the herbalist’s tent.

For your leg, Mazzy supplied.

Merric felt his face heat. Yes, for my leg, he said, fingers gripping his cane fiercely. He braced himself for laughter and cruelty, knowing it would hurt twice as much coming from Mazzy. Before everything, he’d tried so hard to garner her attention, which was always impossible when Scorch was around. And then he’d met Felix, and it hadn’t mattered anymore.

Is it any better? she asked, without a trace of humor in her tone. He deigned to look at her then, scanning her face for mockery, of which he found none. I mean, she continued, a bit flustered, are you feeling better?

I’m fine, he lied.

Okay. Good. I’m glad. She paused. Can I ask you something?

His knuckles whitened around his cane from the strength of his grip. A few months ago, their conversation would have elated him. Now, he was counting the seconds until it was over. Yes, go on.

Is it true, what everyone has been saying? That Scorch is an elemental?

He sighed. Of course, she was only after details about Scorch. It’s true, he admitted, for what harm could come from the truth now? Scorch is a Fire.

She nodded solemnly, but didn’t look surprised. If anyone thought twice about it, Scorch’s true nature had been obvious from the beginning. I think it was brave of you to go with him, she said, knowing what he was. I would have been afraid.

Scorch isn’t dangerous, Merric replied. Being an elemental doesn’t make someone evil. He thought of Audrey and Vivid, the assassins he’d journeyed with on their mission to save the queen. He was not a fan of either, but both had proven reliable and well in control of their powers. Queen Bellamy agrees, he continued, or didn’t you attend the guildmaster’s assembly? It’s no longer a punishable offense. They’re opening a school for elemental training in the Royal Quarter. Things are changing.

I know that. It’s just hard to believe. I hear the word elemental and it gives me the shivers.

Well, it’s the law now, Merric stressed, losing the patience he’d lacked to begin with. His leg was aching and all he wanted was to limp to Etheridge’s tent and get off his feet. Whether you like it or not, elementals are here to stay, and they should be treated with respect, not slaughtered because they’re different.

Felix had been so excited to befriend Scorch and the others, had loved to watch them use their elemental powers. The other apprentices didn’t understand, though. The new decrees had rendered all of Viridor confused. Mazzy was staring at him now like he’d grown a tail, which, coincidentally, was something else Scorch could do that Merric couldn’t.

Merric McClintock, what are you shouting about? Etheridge called from behind him.

He winced. Had he been shouting? He turned around and the herbalist was standing outside her tent, her arms folded across her chest and her foot tapping in irritation. Feeling properly scolded, he returned his gaze to Mazzy, his neck bent in apology. Sorry. I didn’t realize I’d raised my voice.

Don’t worry yourself about it, she said, the tension easing from her face a fraction as she smiled. I’ll see you later. Feel better.

He nodded his goodbye, afraid of his voice breaking if he attempted speech. She flounced away, her hourglass figure headed across the yard towards the training rings. He watched her jealously. He’d not yet been able to return to his training, even knowing the others were judging him because of his absence, probably calling him a coward and a weakling. But if he tried to fight without his cane, he would humiliate himself, he was positive. And if he tried to fight with it, the humiliation would cut even deeper.

As Mazzy vaulted into the training ring with unencumbered ease, Merric pivoted on his good leg, the left one, and went to join the herbalist, who stood before her tent looking cross.

Aren’t we the scowly one today, Etheridge said at his approach. Her braids were hanging loosely over slim shoulders, and her tunic was stained with this and that, as it always was. She had been working in her garden; there was dirt smudged across her clothes and beneath her nails.

The grey cat, who’d followed him from the Guild House, nuzzled against Merric’s injured leg as she passed him to enter the tent. Even she was used to the routine by now. He hobbled in behind her and sat heavily upon the table where Etheridge usually tended him. The cat jumped up and cozied beside him, tucking her paws beneath her body so she resembled a grey, rather fluffy loaf of bread.

How is the pain today? Etheridge asked after washing her hands in a basin and patting both Merric and the cat on the head.

Merric set his cane aside and rubbed at his thigh. Pain radiated from his hip to his knee, and it hurt. Badly. Just like every other day. He shrugged his shoulders, because the only way to explain his pain was to break down in tears, and he’d already done that to Etheridge once, the first time he’d gone to her. But she was a smart woman, and she’d known Merric most of his life, so when he shrugged, she turned to her shelf and brought down a charcoal grey salve and a vial filled with purple liquid, same as she’d done during all his visits.

Give me that leg, she ordered, gingerly hoisting Merric’s bad leg across her lap.

He grimaced—not because her movements hurt him, but because, these days, everything hurt—and watched her untie the side laces of his trousers so she could get to his bare skin. After the first visit, she’d made him a pair of trousers with an accessible side lacing, so he wouldn’t have to take them off every time. It was still embarrassing though, when she unlaced him and pushed the fabric back from his gnarled thigh. He looked away, not wanting to see. He knew by now exactly how it looked.

The bandit’s arrow had pierced the center of his right thigh and remained for hours before Merric, and the guards that had been accompanying him and Felix, had been discovered and taken back to the Royal Quarter for medical attention. Now, the wound was surrounded by a persistent bruising of deep purples, yellows, and mottled greys, even after several weeks. The scar was gruesome, raised and ugly, but his hip injury, obtained during the battle to save the queen, though invisible, was often more painful, and a constant source of uncomfortable throbbing.

Etheridge was quick, rubbing the charcoal salve over his thigh and up his hip with a clinical, precise touch. It was nothing like the way Felix had worked the soothing balm into his leg when they’d spent the night together in the queen’s country residence. His touch had been so gentle, his fingers warm and reassuring, and Merric had melted beneath the heady attention.

It was impossible to melt beneath Etheridge. Her fingers were cold, and they didn’t linger. She swiped over the necessary spots, then laced him back up before going again to wash her hands. Merric squirmed uncomfortably when she set his leg back down, feeling the salve smoosh between his skin and the fabric of his trousers. His leg was already tingling as the numbing solution took to its job, but he knew from weeks of experience that it wouldn’t last long. The relief would be sparse, and come nightfall, he would collapse into his bed, clenching his teeth and fisting his sheets.

Returning to his side, she took the vial from her pocket and gave it a little shake, the potion lapping up the sides of the glass, a lavender foam cresting its surface before she handed it over. He swallowed the pain potion, used to the bitter taste, and handed the empty vial back. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane and hating himself for it. He was an apprentice of the Guardians’ Guild, he should have been capable of walking, fighting, and making it through the day without contemplating throwing himself in the river.

You raised your voice to Mazzy. That’s not like you, Etheridge said as she rummaged through various items on her shelf. Did she say something that bothered you?

Merric held his hand out for the cat and she nuzzled at his fingers, purring loudly. She asked about Scorch, he confessed, hesitant to engage Etheridge in any conversation that could lead back to Felix.

She turned from the shelf, but didn’t look at him. She kept her eyes glued to the bundle of herbs in her hands as she went to her worktable and brought out a clean mortar and pestle. That boy, she sighed, shaking her head. I suppose she wanted to know whether he was coming back. She was one of his smittens, wasn’t she? She began to pull the blossoms off the herb, crushing them in the mortar. But then, I suppose all of you were.

I wasn’t, Merric declared adamantly and with a flare of anger. He had always been an unconquerable presence in Scorch’s life, and liked to believe he was a frustrating one, as well. It hadn’t been like that once Vivid entered the picture, however. Merric had finally been able to see past Scorch’s obnoxious persona to the person he really was: not just the cocky apprentice his father had always seemed to favor over his own son, but an elemental, an orphan, a young man struggling to do right by everyone, despite his hardships. It was never surprising to Merric that people were curious about Scorch, and now that the rumors of his being an elemental had thoroughly infiltrated the guild, it wasn’t surprising that their curiosity had grown, so much so that Mazzy was willing to talk to Merric in order to get answers.

Etheridge plucked a plant from her pocket, sunshine yellow and leafy, and added it to the mortar to crush. No, I suppose you weren’t, she conceded, glancing up at him. Too serious to get involved in all of that mess. Too smart.

He nodded sharply. He was not frigid, nor was he blind. Scorch was attractive, and he’d always been shamelessly flirtatious with Merric. But the playful advances had been easy to ignore, because Merric wasn’t an idiot. If he’d become one of his many conquests, Scorch would have been even more insufferable than he already was. And his father would have killed him, for surely he would have found out, whether through gossip or Scorch’s own bragging. The fear of his father’s disappointment, mixed with a lack of desire to be someone’s flavor of the hour, had dampened any lingering attraction Merric might have felt for his fellow apprentice, despite how handsome he was.

"How is Scorch? Etheridge asked, working the pestle. Have you still heard nothing from him?"

The inquiry bothered him less coming from the herbalist. I’ve neither seen nor spoken with him since the Royal Quarter, since he disappeared with that assassin and shirked his responsibilities to the guild.

Careful. You’re starting to sound like you miss him.

Ridiculous, he scoffed, smoothing back his hair once again, unnecessarily. But it would be nice to have someone else within these walls who shared my opinion on the queen’s new decrees. The mere mention of an elemental has everyone quaking in their boots. Must I remind them constantly that Scorch lived here for years as an elemental and never once hurt anyone?

You’re raising your voice again.

He slammed his cane to the ground and lowered his head. Am I?

The herbalist must have finished mashing what she wanted mashed, because she crossed to him with the mortar in her hands and, stopping at a table, scooped out the yellowish gunk and finagled it into a clay mug. Have you been sleeping? she asked, tipping water into the mug and beginning to stir.

I sleep, he answered, eyeing the concoction with suspicion. But it’s not the sort of rest to crow about.

I thought not. She lifted the mug in offering. You’re fussy and fuming on your best days, dear. But without proper sleep, I can hardly stand you.

Thanks. He frowned down at the yellow liquid, which was now bubbling. I take it this will lull me into pleasant dreams?

Do you think I’d give you a sleeping remedy in the middle of the day? It’s for your ill mood. Drink it all. I beg you.

He pushed it away with a grimace. I don’t need it. Why don’t you keep it for yourself? If his mood was unpleasant, he felt it had more to do with outside sources, like nosy apprentices, pushy herbalists, and bandits who used legs as target practice. Etheridge was keeping him full of enough medicinals; he didn’t need another, whose benefit was only to make everyone else more comfortable.

I’m only trying to help, she said. You walk with a rain cloud over your head everywhere you go.

Then perhaps I shall go where no one will get wet but me. If you’ll excuse me. He turned away from her worried face, only to be confronted by one far less caring. Aloysius was standing at the entrance of the tent, his huge shoulders blocking not only the sunlight, but Merric’s escape.

The guildmaster’s sent for you, he snarled. If you’re done being babied, come with me. You don’t want to keep daddy waiting.

Aloysius was an apprentice, and though he was younger than Merric, he was several paces taller. He was also crudely made, nothing but bulking muscles and a face constantly bruised from starting fights both inside and outside the sparring rings. And he had, in Merric’s absence, replaced him as the guildmaster’s messenger. He took to the role with great, greedy enthusiasm, relishing every opportunity to embarrass Merric with summons from his father. Merric strongly disliked him, and the feeling was overwhelmingly reciprocated.

Get out of my tent before I kick you out, Etheridge snapped, striding up to him with her chest puffed. This is a place of healing.

Is that so? Aloysius’ eyes raked over Merric. She hasn’t healed your bum leg, has she? I bet she’ll never be able to. I bet you’ll be a useless limper forever, until your daddy decides to put you out of your misery. It’d be a blessing, you know. For all of us.

Merric tried to step around him, but the brute blocked his way, smiling callously. He was enjoying this, and Merric’s patience was bubbling over like one of Etheridge’s concoctions. As Aloysius moved forward, with the apparent intention of chest bumping him, Merric twisted out of the way, ducking under his arm, and escaping into the fresh air. It was a smooth movement, and a regrettable one, as his quickness of foot had been joined by too much pressure on his bad leg, and instead of congratulating his own finesse, Merric’s face whitened from the searing pain. Distantly, he could heard Aloysius laughing at him and Etheridge scolding him for his carelessness, but in the forefront of his eardrums was the pounding of his blood as he tried not to be sick.

Deep breaths helped a bit, and he closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to fade. It never faded completely, but there was a level more tolerable than this one, and it was that level he needed before he could do anything else. He rode out the shockwaves until they were dull throbs, and then he opened his eyes. He could feel the moisture clinging to his lashes.

Gods! You’re crying? Aloysius accused.

Etheridge smacked him. Go away! she yelled, kicking at his heels. Your message has been received. Stop sniffing around him.

Aloysius rolled his eyes, but paid Merric one last sneer before he whipped around and bounded off, this time towards the training rings. Merric could feel Etheridge behind him, could sense her brewing up something to say, so he bit his lip and staggered off before she could speak. He gripped the cane with one hand, while his other wiped at his eyes. Every step hurt as he made the long trek inside to the last place on earth he wished to be. Outside the guildmaster’s door.

He lingered there for some time, smoothing down his hair and pinching color into his cheeks, making sure his eyes were utterly dry. When he finally knocked, it was with severe hesitance. None of the meetings with his father had gone well since he’d been back, and he didn’t anticipate this one going any better.

He could already smell the smoke seeping under the door, and when it opened, it drifted into the hall in a thick, predictable plume. Merric fought the urge to wave it from his face. His father’s pipe habit had grown exponentially in the past month, and his eyes were glassy because of it.

Guildmaster, Merric greeted stiffly. Aloysius says you sent for me. I came as soon as I was able.

His father sighed before turning away and walking to his desk. He sucked another pull from his pipe, then set it down. His shoulders were turned in, his posture tired. His beard, the same deep auburn as Merric’s hair, was uncharacteristically unkempt, and his thinning hair had an oily shine.

Come sit, Merric, he said, waving at a chair as he leaned against his desk. You must be tired. He eyed the cane. You’ll always be tired if you don’t learn to walk without that blasted thing.

Merric sat, leaning his cane against the armrest and crossing his hands in his lap. The queen’s physician instructed me to use it until my leg was healed, Guildmaster, he said carefully. Etheridge shares that sentiment.

I see, McClintock grumbled, fingers twitching where they splayed across his hips. And are they apprentices of the Guardians’ Guild? Do they have an image of strength and ability to uphold? At Merric’s silence, he shook his head and went on. "First, you run off with a known elemental, against guild orders, against my orders, and then you come back like this. He gestured to Merric’s leg with a twisted mouth. The least you could do is not shove your disobedience in my face with that damned walking stick. You’ll never become a guardian if you can’t walk on your own two feet. How will you manage your sword? You’ve not even been able to participate in training. Don’t think I haven’t taken notice."

But I can barely walk without it.

"And you will never be able to walk without it if you grow dependent on its use. He pinched the bridge of his nose. How could I possibly justify sending you out on a guardianship in this condition?"

Merric had held the same opinion as his father in the first few days after his injury. He’d been bullheaded about the cane, pretended he hadn’t needed it. But he had. When he’d thrown it down to unsheathe his sword during the bandit ambush, he’d failed in both balance and his ability to protect Felix. Going forward, I will try not to lean so heavily upon its aid.

That’s all I ask, said McClintock, almost gently. Though it’s not my sole purpose for summoning you today.

What can I do for you, Guildmaster? asked Merric, feeling a spark of hope. Maybe there was a guardianship that required use of a crippled apprentice after all.

McClintock reached behind him blindly, his fingers grasping around the handle of his pipe, which he brought eagerly to his mouth. The purple herb within its bowl glowed orange as he inhaled. Your sympathies for elementals has been making the other apprentices uncomfortable.

Merric frowned, shifting in his chair. He couldn’t mean Mazzy; they had only just spoken. If I may ask, who has claimed discomfort? I’ve said nothing inappropriate.

Do not feign ignorance with me, McClintock said, breathing out the words alongside a spiraling trail of smoke. I’ve had several reports of your ongoing attitude towards the matter. Do you deny it?

Feeling his father’s gaze like a finely sharpened blade at his throat, he searched his behavior for crimes of offense. When he’d first returned home, he’d carried with him news of Queen Bellamy’s decrees, which, in turn, the guildmaster had announced to all within the guild. In the aftermath of such drastic news, had Merric spoken up for elementals in the face of his fellow apprentices’ snide remarks? Yes. Were the few occasions he spoke with anyone these days usually spurred by the desire to correct someone’s ignorance? Perhaps. Were these punishable offenses? Judging by the expression on the guildmaster’s face, apparently so.

Well? McClintock urged. Is your tongue as inadequate as your leg?

Merric corrected his posture, realizing he’d been slouching in his father’s presence. I don’t deny it. Nor will I apologize for it. Elementals are a welcome part of society now, according to Queen Bellamy, and the other apprentices would do well to remember it.

His father shook his head, disappointed. The allowance of elementals is new. You cannot fault your peers for taking time to adjust.

I agree. But there is a difference between adjustment and blatant bigotry. Was I to remain silent when Aloysius spoke rudely of Scorch at dinner the other day? When he expressed his regret of not hurting him when he had the chance? I will not ignore open expressions of hatred and savagery towards one of our own.

Scorch is no longer one of us, McClintock argued. Even he knows it. That’s why he hasn’t returned.

He will return, Merric insisted. I know he will.

I hope he doesn’t. McClintock pushed his thumb into the bowl of his pipe to stir the burnt herbs. Decrees or no, the guild is no place for an elemental.

Surely you don’t still feel that way? Merric’s instinct was to stand, to meet his father eye to eye, but to do so, he would have to reach for his cane, and so he remained unhappily seated, his hands clenching the armrests.

Why shouldn’t I feel that way? Nothing has changed but the queen’s lenience, and who knows the real reason why she’s passed such impossible decrees? They are still dangerous creatures that have no business within these walls, or anywhere else.

How can you say that, when Scorch is one of the most capable guardians we’ve ever had? Merric asked, his heartbeat accelerating. It was unwise to engage the guildmaster in an argument. It wasn’t appropriate.

You know I cared for Scorch, McClintock said, putting down his pipe. But he was a disaster waiting to happen. Despite what the queen has ruled, elementals cannot be trusted.

We’ll never trust them if we continue to treat them like monsters. Merric did grab his cane then, just so he could slam it against the floor in protest. We should welcome elemental apprentices into the guild. If we trained alongside them, the others would learn they’re not to be feared.

The guildmaster looked at him, eyeing the hand wrapped around his cane. It is bad enough to have an apprentice with a ruined body and spoiled mind, he said as he turned to walk behind his desk. But when that apprentice is also my son, it is a twofold shame.

Merric stood. He couldn’t be there any longer. Is that all you wished to discuss?

His father sank wearily into his desk chair, opening his drawer and pulling out the small tin box where he kept his herbs. Yes. For now. He waved his son away, but stopped him when he reached the door. You should leave that here.

But—

I would be very pleased if you put more effort into walking without it.

Merric nodded and leaned the cane against the wall.

That’s a good lad. Now you can go. Perhaps to the training ring, hmm? I think we’ve had enough of moping around the grounds, don’t you agree? It’s time we put a full effort into recovery.

Yes, Guildmaster. Merric took a tentative step forward, his gait humiliatingly uneven in his attempt to spend as little time on his right foot as possible. Pain shot up his leg, but he kept going, taking one step after another until he was clear of his father’s door. Only once he’d closed it behind him did he collapse against the wall, panting through the strain. The idea of walking the rest of the way to the training ring made his stomach roll. But the idea of going back inside to retrieve his cane was unfathomable.

He breathed deep, filling his lungs and bracing himself. He wasn’t completely lame; he could walk the distance from the Guild House to the training rings, it just wouldn’t be pleasant. Since it was midday, the halls within the Guild House were busy, filled with plenty of passing apprentices, nearly all of whom gawked at Merric’s glacial hobble. By the time he reached the stone steps outside, he was sweating, and his hip and thigh were thrumming with pain. He glanced down the path to where the training rings were located and made out Mazzy’s figure moving swiftly in the sparring circle. Aloysius had joined her, and a dozen others were watching and awaiting their turns.

Then he looked straight ahead, across the grounds to where the river ran, waiting for him, beckoning him to return. With a grunt, he began to walk towards it, practically dragging his leg behind him as he went. When he finally arrived, the grey cat was there, stretched out in the sun along the riverbank and greeting Merric with a flick of her tail as he joined her. He didn’t dare sit, as exhausted as he was, for fear he would not be able to stand again unaided. So he just stood with his weight on his good leg and stared into the sparkling water.

He missed Felix, ached for him. He wanted to apologize to him, to save him. But if Felix was in front of him right now, in some inexplicable danger, Merric still wouldn’t be able to save him, would he? He hadn’t even carried his sword in nearly a month. What use would he be?

How naïve he had been, to believe his father would be proud, or grant him a full guardian’s title upon his return. All he’d truly succeeded in doing was handicapping himself, perhaps permanently. It was his inability to act, after all, that had gotten Felix killed. And it was Scorch who’d done the most to save the queen and help the elementals. It was Scorch who’d really saved the day and gotten to be with the one he loved. It was Scorch, not Merric, who deserved all the glory. Merric deserved nothing.

He took a step towards the fast flowing water. The cat looked up at him and meowed, then blinked a few times before closing her eyes and drifting to sleep. Maybe in his next life, Merric would be a cat lazing contentedly in the sun. He shuffled closer to the water.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a surprising sound, one he’d heard so rarely it took a moment to remember its meaning. It was the familiar guild bell, to be sure, only it was being rung in such a way as to alert the guild of an approaching party. But not just any party. Merric turned towards the main gate of the perimeter wall. The other apprentices were already running towards it, crowding about in anticipation of it opening. Merric staggered forward to join them, despite his aching leg, despite everything, because one did not ignore that bell. Not ever.

It sounded the arrival of the queen.

The gate was open by the time he arrived, and Merric pushed boldly through the reticent onlookers so he could find Queen Bellamy. Perhaps she’d brought word of Scorch, or had captured the bandits who’d killed Felix. Maybe she had come precisely to give him that news. And Audrey, the surly assassin who’d helped in their efforts to save the queen, would surely be with her, and it would be good to see her again, though he would never say that out loud.

He brushed shoulders with Mazzy, who smiled at him, her eyes dazzling with excitement. Then he looked to the carriages on the road beyond. The procession had stopped, and the royal carriage was surrounded by a large number of armed guards. Aloysius rammed into his shoulder intentionally and Merric stumbled forward, barely regaining his balance before falling. He closed his eyes until the rush of pain ebbed, and when he reopened them, someone was exiting the carriage. It wasn’t Queen Bellamy, but a finely dressed, handsome man he didn’t recognize. The man moved, turning to face his way, and a gleam of gold flashed from his brow.

Is that— Merric sputtered, staring at what appeared to be a circlet crown sitting atop the stranger’s head. But that was impossible.

He’d not thought anyone but the queen was allowed the prestige of a crown, but there the man stood with a gilded forehead. Merric squinted at it in confusion, even as all the other apprentices quickly dropped to their knees. He was still standing there, unsure of what to do, when something else caught his eye. Movement from the carriage. Queen Bellamy must have been about to present herself. Perhaps the man with the crown was her new husband? It was feasible, since news from the Royal Quarter had been eerily lacking in the weeks since Merric’s return. He prepared to kneel for his queen.

But it was not the queen who stepped from the carriage.

Merric gasped. All thought of his leg vanished from his mind and he ran forward, but the pain brought him down within two steps. He fell to the ground, road dust and whispers rising up around him. He lifted his head, uncaring of the stares, uncaring of the terrible throb in his hip. He pushed up to his knees, eyes wide and disbelieving.

Because standing beside the carriage, dressed in velvet, curls drifting in the breeze, was Felix.

2 - The King’s Command

"Felix!"

Merric’s scream was one of hope and anguish as his heart pounded and his mind reeled. In a daze of shock and disbelief, he pushed to his feet, bounding forward. He was stopped in seconds, two of the royal guards grabbing him as others encircled, the rasp of a dozen swords being unsheathed filling the air. One guard held a bow, its arrow nocked taut and aimed directly at his head, and Merric thrashed in panic at the sight of it, remembering all too well the bandit’s attack, and the pain of a loosed arrow plunging deep into his flesh.

Felix! he screamed again, twisting and rising up on his toes in an effort to see past his captors, to see if what he believed he’d seen was real.

"Stop! an anxious voice yelled in the wake of his own. Don’t you dare hurt him! Let him go!"

Instantly, the hands gripping him fell away, and he was left balancing unsteadily, his head as wobbly as his legs, his heart beating fast enough to quicken his breath as swords were sheathed and the threatening arrow was lowered. It was Felix he’d seen and whose voice he now heard, and who was pushing through the circle of guards towards him. But it must have been a dream; it wasn’t possible.

Felix? Merric whispered uncertainly. None of this was real. It couldn’t be real. Yet, when the vision his mournful mind and shattered heart had surely conjured came to stand a few paces before him, he reached for it with trembling fingers, laying them lightly on its lovely cheek to find it was warm and smooth and firm. If this was a dream, he wished with all his heart to never wake from it.

Am I dreaming? he whispered in a trembling voice, and his fingers moved along the curve of Felix’s jaw.

No, Felix returned, reaching for Merric’s hand to lower it and pressing it warmly into his own.

But I saw that bandit kill you. I watched you die.

The face he remembered was softer than the one before him now. Felix seemed somehow sharper, more defined than he was in Merric’s memory. It was in the way he stood, in the depth of his eyes, even in his voice. He sounded confident. He sounded powerful.

So much happened so quickly that hour, Felix began. I believed you were dead, as well. He turned his head to a rustle of movement behind him. The man with the crown was moving towards them through the circle of guards. He turned back to Merric. We will speak of it privately later, he said quickly, releasing his hand.

Yes, please, Merric agreed, desperate to get him alone, to steal him away from his entourage. He moved to embrace him, wanting nothing more than to bury his face in the crook of Felix’s neck and run his fingers through his curls, to kiss his sweet mouth and apologize a thousand times for what had happened. But as soon as he raised his arms, the guard who’d been holding the bow grabbed him, scowling.

Step away, he growled.

Merric dropped his arms and stepped back in renewed confusion, even as Felix began scolding. Peter, quit it, he said, pointing a finger in the guard’s face. Isn’t it obvious this is my friend? Touch him again and there will be trouble. The guard released him and stepped back.

Merric stood very still as his brain began to navigate what he had just witnessed and heard. Friend? He saw Felix was watching him carefully, his eyebrows knitted with concern. Then the stranger in the crown was standing beside him, and Merric watched as his fingers softly brushed Felix’s wrist.

I don’t understand, Merric said, moving his gaze from their hands to Felix’s eyes. Who is this?

In answer, Felix nodded his head slightly. The guard, Peter, whose bow was now blessedly stowed upon his back, crossed an arm proudly across his chest, pivoted on his heel, and addressed the still-kneeling crowd in a loud, resonant voice, The Queen is dead! Long live King Torsten, ruler of all Viridor!

Merric heard the astonished gasps and cries sweep through the crowd, watching peripherally as some attempted to bow even lower. After a moment standing frozen in place, his eyes fixed on Felix’s deeply blushing face, he fell clumsily to his knees, settling his gaze on Torsten’s fine, leather-clad feet. Forgive me, Your Highness, he began, gasping through the pain that radiated from his hip and along the length of his thigh. "I mean no disrespect. It’s just that all of this is a shock. Queen Bellamy dead? The guild hasn’t had word of any of this."

No need to apologize, King Torsten answered gruffly. Your surprise was by design, and for good reason. Please get up. Everyone, he said, raising his voice as he looked around, please rise.

But you’re in pain, Felix said nervously, bending to address Merric. Your leg isn’t better yet? It’s been weeks.

Merric felt his anger rise, and kept his eyes studiously on the ground as Felix helped him to his feet. It’s nothing, he said, trying—and failing—to keep his tone nonchalant. You’ve no need to be concerned.

As you wish. Felix released his arm and stepped back with a shrug and an apologetic smile. As I said, we will speak in private.

Why do I hear the royal summons, see the royal entourage, and yet not see the queen? came a loud, demanding voice as Guildmaster McClintock strode importantly through the crowd. Apprentices scattered to make way for him as he moved towards the carriage, the strong scent of herbal smoke evident in his wake. Well? he asked impatiently of no one in particular. "Where is she?"

The guard moved on him at once, encircling the guildmaster just as they’d done with Merric, only this time, neither Felix nor anyone else spoke to stop them.

What is the meaning of this? McClintock thundered in outrage as they took hold of him. Unhand me at once!

The apprentices stiffened with shock upon seeing this surprising turn of events, and Aloysius, fists balled, stepped towards the ring of guards as if he meant to fight. Many of the other apprentices gathered around him, their expressions torn between anger, disbelief, and ingrained reverence for the man who surely had ordered the arrest and was supposedly their new king. Merric, who’d somehow managed to find himself standing beside King Torsten, stood in silence, his shoulders tightly drawn.

Guildmaster McClintock, Torsten began, stepping forward. You stand accused of colluding with nefarious bandits, embezzlement, theft, and numerous other unsavory crimes that I will not name in the presence of this young company. The guard moved so he might pass, and he came to a stop directly before McClintock. By order of the crown, you are under arrest, and your tenure as guildmaster is terminated.

McClintock’s face was contorted with rage. "What crown? Yours? he commanded incredulously. Who in blazes are you to make these allegations? Where is Bellamy?"

I am your king, Torsten said, staring unflinchingly into the guildmaster’s eyes. As for the details of my ascension, you may ask my father, as I’ve no doubt Malcolm will be glad to have his years long partner in crime keeping him company in the royal dungeons. He does love to talk. He nodded to the guard, and raising his voice, said, Take him away.

McClintock, whose expression had changed from one of rage to fear as Torsten spoke, was silent for once, hanging his head as he was led down the line to a utilitarian carriage with steel-barred windows. After checking him for weapons, he was placed within, and the retinue of guards took up places surrounding him.

The crowd of apprentices had stood transfixed, watching and listening, and now Torsten turned to them, his eyes on Aloysius. Know this, he said. "The Guardians’ Guild will always be stalwart protectors of the good people of Viridor, and nothing that has happened here will change that. I am depending on you—all of you—to attend to your training and studies as always, and I ask that you return to them now."

As the other students dispersed, with Aloysius kicking a clod of dirt as a signal of his displeasure, Merric stood in a daze. So much had happened so quickly, with everything he believed he knew to be true changing so dramatically, that he was having a hard time making sense of it. And then Felix was there, taking his hand and squeezing it gently.

Did that really happen? Merric asked. Was my father just arrested?

Yes, and I’m sorry. I know it must be a terrible shock. But you need to come now, Felix said, releasing his hand. There is much to talk about.

With a sad smile, Felix turned and walked away. Merric stumbled after him, aware of little more than the confusion in his mind as he hobbled through the open gates and back onto the grounds. The Royal Guard walked ahead of him, as did the king beside Felix, and he could hear the low rumblings of their conversation, though not their words. Were they talking about him? A useless cripple who’d not voiced a single word of protest at his father’s arrest? Probably. And the king was likely asking Felix how he’d ever gotten involved with such a useless excuse for a guardian in the first place, providing, of course, that Felix had even told him of their involvement. Probably not. Merric’s mind was so filled with these questions and musings that he didn’t realize they were in the hall of the Guild House until they’d stopped outside the door of his father’s quarters, where Felix once again took his hand and led him into the room.

The king entered, as well, striding directly to the large, stained glass window and leaving the room’s best chair, the one behind the guildmaster’s desk, for Merric, which became obvious only when he jerked his head in its direction and Felix led him to sit.

Merric accepted the seat warily, and only because his leg felt near to giving out. It felt wrong to sit in his father’s chair. He had never been allowed to when he was younger, and when he was older, he’d never dared ask. Felix sat on the edge of the desk, facing Merric, and the guards that had entered with them filed out, shutting the door securely behind them. When it was only the three of them, and the room was filled with unbearable silence, Felix sighed, and, with a shake of his curls from his eyes, began to speak.

There’s a lot to say, and I apologize for not being able to let you know sooner, he began, his voice and manner so much stronger than Merric remembered. We’ve had numerous patrols keeping news from reaching the guild. Correspondence and travelers were kept away, apparently with great success.

But why would you do that? Merric asked.

We couldn’t risk your father catching on to what we had planned. If he’d known about Bellamy’s death and Malcolm’s arrest, he might have guessed we’d come for him next, and we couldn’t let him run.

Merric nodded, wondering who Malcolm was and trying to keep up, but it was a difficult task when Felix was sitting only inches away. He wanted to touch him, and though there were no guards present to keep him from doing so, the man by the window had a look on his face that warned him against it. He settled for taking his hand again, which Felix accepted.

But you couldn’t send word to me that you were alive? I saw you killed by bandits, Merric whispered. Whatever else that’s happened can wait. I need to know how it is you lived to return to me.

The man—the king—coughed by the window, but Merric had no time for him. He leaned forward in his father’s chair and waited, eager to hear what miracle had spared Felix that terrible day.

The bandits wanted it to look like I was dead, Felix explained, because they didn’t want anyone to follow and try to rescue me. They shouldn’t have done it—any of it. It was a mistake, really. They thought I was someone else. But until things were sorted out, I was their prisoner for a time. His eyes went to the man at the window. Torsten was their leader, and I became his flautist.

Merric’s head snapped to Torsten, feeling a fire rage in his chest. He wondered if Scorch felt similarly when he was on the verge of changing into his purest elemental form, that of a fire-breathing beast. "This man you call king is a bandit? he demanded, pushing out of his chair and grinding his teeth through the pain. This man was your captor?" He made as if to rush forward, but Felix jumped from his perch on the desk and stopped him, pressing his hands to Merric’s chest.

As I said, it was all a mistake, Felix soothed. "I was captive only a short time before Torsten freed me, and it took an even shorter time to realize he and his bandits were good people, not criminals. Sit down, please. Annoyance passed fleetingly across his face. What have you done with your cane? Do you still have it?"

Merric gestured to where it leaned

Reviews for The Guildmaster

[Amber Estilos · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Merric was my favorite character since the first book. So, of course, I enjoy this.
I like how we learn more about this magical world where there aren't only elementals but shapeshifting and more magical creatures.

The book starts with Merric hurt and desolate because of his lost of Felix and for his leg injury, he feels weak and not worthy, especially for the welcoming his father and other appendices give him.

And when he learns the truth about what happens to felix and his new relationship, he is devasting. I think Felix should have talked to him, about all the things that happen and everything, this part of their reunion was passed very fast, it made me dislike Felix a lot.

And here is where Quinn enters, a water elemental sent to the guild to make better relations with the appendices. I love this character and the patience that he shows for Merric (who is been dealing not only with his injuries but with the news of Felix, his father and everything he was rise beliving)

I was glad to see the character from the frist book.