The Wandering (The Lux Guardians, #2) (24 page)

We stop walking once
we reach the front where Dagné and her people are watching a
cluster of people at the base of a weather-worn statue of Queen
Victoria. Seeing the Queen of my home, impressive and regal even in
her carved form, sends a throb through my heart—yet at the same
time it gives me a trill of happiness to see my home and this
unfamiliar world tied together.

All emotion is
replaced by surprise when I spot who stands among those around the
statue—Honour. He’s with Saga, Timofei, and two others on the
council. This is a Guardian speech, then, not a Manchester one. I
frown.

I haven’t been as
engaging with Honour as I should have been. Since the horrid way I
spoke to him when we walked into this town, when I said our
friendship was non-existent, I’ve been staying clear of him.
Pretending the noxious combination of guilt and dread in my stomach
didn’t exist.

If I speak to Honour,
if I broach the subject of how badly I treated him when he was only
trying to be a friend to me, I stand to lose him.

But continuing like
this, an outsider in his life, may well kill me. He is my friend
and I will consider him so for the rest of my life. I was wrong to
say otherwise when it’s so plainly true. I can’t bear being
ignorant of why Honour is here, before this many people, when he
hates talking to strangers.

I feel a sudden
sickness.

The thought of Honour,
my closest friend, being caught up in yet more misery haunts me
throughout Dagné’s introduction, which I hear nothing of. Saga
replaces her after a while, the dirt colour of his robe scraping
the steps. He spins a tale of a rebel who fought for the people
during a dark time in Forgotten London, when the town was barely
formed. He finishes by telling us about the rebel’s children,
Honour and Horatia.

“These children
represent the Unnamed. They remain as evidence of what he stood for
when he was alive, when he incited our town into fierce
determination to take back our freedom.”

He doesn’t mention
what we all know—that the Unnamed’s campaign resulted in his death.
Neither does he mention the hesitation I know at least one of his
children possesses to take up the Unnamed’s mantel. I suppose he is
trying to keep the rebellion alive but the rebellion is of little
concern to me. I care more about the ‘children’ he is speaking
for.

I watch Honour
throughout Saga’s monologue, watch the dread play across his face.
I want to comfort him, to take this responsibility from his
shoulders, but I don’t know how.

Saga steps down from
the statue with a gesture to Honour to take his place. The
Guardians, I see, are watching closely, curious and expectant. I
wonder what they expect from Honour and if it matches up with my
own expectations. The Manchester residents are expressionless by
comparison. Talk of keeping the fire of Forgotten London alight is
meaningless to the free people of this town. I wish I could be as
disinterested as them, but I’m captivated.

My heart is in my
throat as Honour puts a hesitant foot forward. I want to know how
he got to this, what reason he has for conducting such a public
display to so many people. Did he choose this, or did someone make
him?

“Hi,” he says. I’m
close enough to see him swallow. He looks at a spot in front of him
and then bravely raises his head to look across the crowd of two
hundred or so people. “So some of you know who I am, and some of
you don’t, but I’m Honour Frie. What Saga said sets you up for
someone important and inspirational but I’m—” He stops abruptly,
shakes his head. “I’m here to ruin all your expectations. The
Unnamed was my father, and everyone says he did amazing things for
us but all I see is a guy that tried and failed.”

He shrugs, canvas
jacket moving stiffly with his shoulders. “I’m supposed to inspire
you, to make you remember why you fought in F.L. and why you’re
still fighting. But I think that’s pointless, to be honest.”

I smile at Honour’s
bluntness, admiring it in a way the Guardian council are not—their
dark expressions are incredibly disapproving. Perhaps they
shouldn’t expect Honour to be a replacement for Alba.

He says, “You already
know why you’re fighting. You had to live in Forgotten London like
the rest of us. You suffered through the same crap everyone else
did. People died, a lot of people, some of them your friends and
family, and I’m—I’m supposed to make you forget that, to make you
perfect Guardians again, but I can’t. Sorry.” He glances
apologetically at Timofei.

“You
don’t need me to tell you to fight the Officials. You haven’t
forgotten your reasons, even though some people think you have. The
problem is we
can’t
forget. Just—carry on doing what you’re doing. You don’t have
to forget the people you’ve lost and I won’t tell you to, even
though I’m meant to. As long as we remember the people that were
taken from us, States can never win.”

With his last word he
rushes down the steps of the cenotaph and disappears into the mouth
of the crowd. Without a conscious thought, I push my way after
him.

No doubt the others in
our little family have split up to search for him too but by luck
it’s me that finds him. I know to canvas the back streets and
alleyways, the quiet dirtiness of this shining, intact city that
must remind Honour of his home. It feels like we’re always finding
ourselves in alleyways.

The narrow path snakes
between two dilapidated buildings, a fifteen minute walk from
Piccadilly Gardens. Honour is folded into the grubby juncture
between wall and ground, his head in his hands and his fingers
pulling his hair. With his grey trousers and charcoal shirt, he
blends into the dirt without effort. I let out a great sigh,
sinking to the ground at his side, just barely resisting the heavy
urge to still his fingers.

“Honour?” When his
eyes open I catch his gaze and hold it. The guilt of the past few
days is forgotten in the face of my concern. “You spoke well. It
was a very engaging speech.”

“Thanks.” He looks
away, staring into the stripe of sky above brown walls. His hair is
a rumpled exhibition of distress. “Not to be rude but can we talk
later? I’m tired and—”

“I’m
sorry,” I say. I let all the words flood out before my courage can
recede. “I’m so very sorry for what I said before. I was wrong and
wretched and—you
are
my friend, Honour. Perhaps the best friend I have ever had,
save my sister, despite the short time since we met. I didn’t mean
to be so awful. I was missing my sister and my father, and I took
it out on you. It was wrong of me. Do you think you could ever
forgive me?” After a half second I add, “Also please tell me that
you’re alright. I’m quite worried about—”

Before I can even
finish speaking, Honour catches me in a strong embrace. “Have you
been worrying about that all this time?” he says, breath rustling
my hair.

“Maybe.”

He releases me with a
shake of his head. “Idiot. I’m not gonna hold a grudge against you
‘cause of something like that. I get it. Sometimes you end up
laying into your friends without really meaning it.”

I let out a breath of
relief. “Thank you. I appreciate your forgiveness, Honour, very
much.”

“You saved my life,
remember? With your cure thing? Even if I was pissed at you—which
I’m not—I’d have to forgive you.” He gives me a crooked smile. “I
couldn’t stay angry at my saviour, could I?”

“I suppose not,” I
reply, laughing. A heaviness has been removed from my heart, so
much that I’ve become practically weightless. A glint of light
works its way into the darkness that has come to be my constant
companion. “I am glad to be your friend,” I tell Honour. “I feel
lucky to have you.”

He gives me a
bewildered look. “You do know I’ve been like … biologically altered
to kill everyone, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“And that I wreck
every single thing I touch?”

“I disagree.”

“And that I left a guy
to die, just so I could save myself?”

I give him a sharp
look. It seems guilt isn’t only eating at me, but Honour too. “You
did that to save your sister. Do not try to convince me you are
selfish when I know you’re selfless. I was there, remember? I too
walked away from Marrin.”

He mutters a
complaint, glowering at the wall across the alley.

“If you’re so intent
on taking the blame for Marrin’s death—a death you weren’t
responsible for, since he chose his own fate—then I will share it.
I left him in that building as much as you did.”

“Don’t be stupid. It
wasn’t your fault.”

“Why not? I did the
same as you.”

“No, but—”

“Surely, if you’re to
blame then so am I.”

“You didn’t do
anything.”

“And neither did
you.”

Honour scowls at me
for a prolonged moment but gives up with a heavy sigh. I can see he
won’t stop faulting himself for Marrin’s death but maybe I’ve
impressed upon him how nonsensical the blame is. If nothing else, I
hope I’ve lessened the guilt’s vicious grip on him by a
fraction.

“Fine,” he says. He
runs a hand through the tangle of his hair, a smile beginning to
form. “Do you always have to be right?”

“Pretty much.”

His smile grows.

***

Miya

09:10. 26.10.2040. The
Free Lands, Northlands, Manchester.

Someone is pacing up
and down the aisles outside our tent, banging on metal and shouting
for everyone to get out of bed for training. Scrubbing sleep from
the corner of my eye, I check if Tom and Olive have woken up, but
they’re both out of it. I roll over with a groan and press my face
into Yosiah’s shoulder, his skin a flash of cold against my
forehead.

“Please tell me they
don’t expect us to get up,” I mutter.

“I hope not.” Yosiah’s
rasp is thick with sleep. He lifts a lock of hair from my head,
twisting it around a finger.

“What time is it?”

“Time for more sleep.”
He drops the strand of my hair, settling further into the old,
squeaky mattress. “You staying there?”

“Yeah,” I say
sleepily. If I were more awake I might feel edgy at being this
close to someone, but right now I don’t care about anything but
ignoring the world for a couple hours more.

Siah rests an arm
around my waist, just lightly, testing what I’m comfortable with.
When I don’t fight him off, he holds me tighter.

Just hovering on the
edge of consciousness I hear him sigh, “I’m glad you’re close.”

No more than ten
minutes can have passed before I’m thrown awake again, Timofei’s
disgruntled voice wafting through the cotton doors of our tent.
Cursing under my breath, I drag myself up and shake the sleep off.
I throw on a dark grey vest that hangs low on me, black jeans, and
the white Guardians jacket Siah gave me back in the London base. I
hide my assortment of weapons in the inside pockets of the leather,
tucking my favourite knife into the waistband of my jeans so the
cold steel sits flat against my back. Stuffing my feet into a new
pair of red canvas shoes, I nudge my brother and sister awake
before stomping out of the tent to glare up at Timofei.

“I’m not even a
Guardian,” I snarl. “Why do I have to be up?”

“Because you’re
training to be one.”

I narrow my eyes.
“Since when?”

“Since today.”

Yosiah bats the doors
of the tent apart, squinting at the flood of light.

“Did you know about
this?” I ask him, but I can tell by the furrow between his eyebrows
that he didn’t. He shakes his head, scratching the scruff on his
jaw.

“Will we have time to
train?” he asks. “What about all the meetings you’re planning with
the Manchester council?”

“Free time is over,”
Timofei says wearily. “The Guardians have to get back into
training. I suggested you all be brought in for a few sessions to
learn how to defend yourselves.”

“Not a bad idea,” Siah
concedes, completely awake now. His eyes are shining, a slice of
sun adding highlights over his shoulders, a halo around his black
hair. The unearthly appearance clashes with the tired sigh he lets
out when Timofei walks off.

“What?” I look up at
him, raise an eyebrow. “Scared I’ll beat you in training,
Merchant?”

“Remind me, Vanella,”
he says, tipping my chin up with a finger, “which one of us was
trained to fight as an Official.”

“You were a doctor.”
His cocky grin drags a smirk out of me. I step closer, cornering
him against the tent. I know the proximity will make him either
flustered or uncomfortable, so I use it to my advantage. “You
patched people up, Siah. You didn’t slay anyone, not like I’ll slay
you.”

He brings his face
closer to mine and suddenly my tactics are working against me. “How
much are you willing to bet on that?”

My heart is hammering,
my body wound so tight that when the tent door opens with a whip of
air, I jolt away from Siah.

“Can
you two
please
stop flirting?” Livy groans, pushing past Yosiah. “It’s early
and I’m tired.”

I can’t think of a
reply. She stomps off down the aisle to the main door.

Yosiah lets out a
sharp burst of laughter before smothering it with the back of his
hand. His eyes are dancing, molten gold, his cheeks flushed a
delicate pink. He bats a long strand of hair from his eye, watching
me.

“What?
”

“Nothing.” His thumb
skims my cheek, so quick I’m not sure it happened. “Nothing, Miya.”
He dips his head, looking at the scuffed boots he’s wearing. That
annoying strand of hair falls into his face again and he tries to
whip it away with a sharp movement of his head but it refuses to
budge.