Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (19 page)

“Oh, indeed,” Shush whispers. “Thanks to the wisps.” He nods to an orb that drifts past.

They’re right. The fire at the hearth and the soft light of the orbs ensure there isn’t a single shadow cast in this place. Flitt seems to be grateful for this reprieve. She allows her own light to dim a little as she tucks in to her plate of berries.

“How much of this did you two know about? And for how long?” Rian asks as he tips back on the two feet of his chair. “You,” he points at Shush and narrows one accusing eye, “you said something way back at the battle of the keep at Kythshire.”

Shush shrugs. He lets out a guilty sigh of wind which swirls across the table, nearly tipping my goblet.

“A while,” he whispers.

“Well, we couldn’t be sure, really, could we? And we did have to make sure. The princess taking to Twig was the first real sign, and then your Mum just happened to stumble back to Kythshire, didn’t she, Azi? A while ago, they thought it might be her. But then she married that metal-pounding hothead and—”

“Hey!” I glare across at her. “Don’t talk about my Da that way. He’s a good man.” Flitt shrugs.

“I guess he could be both, couldn’t he?” Shush placates. “Hot-headed but a good man, too.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Flitt waves her hand dismissively. “I was saying, they thought it could be her, but then she ended up with him and that wouldn’t work. You know what the song says, Mage and Sword, Blade and Arcane, twixt the two, hmm, hmm….” She hums the rest, trailing off.

“Actually, no,” Rian interrupts.

“What do you mean, no?” Flitt scowls. “They’ve sung it forever. I’ve heard it a million times and sung it myself another million. It gets stuck in your head, doesn’t it? Can’t really get the words wrong.”

“I meant no, we don’t know what the song says.” Rian explains. “We haven’t heard it.”

Flitt’s jaw drops, her open mouth revealing a half-chewed bite of berry.

“But, your mum’s the most famous bard in Cerion. How could she not have sung that to you?” Flitt asks in disbelief.

“Why would my mum know a song sung by fairy muses?” Rian scowls, obviously annoyed by Flitt’s criticism of his mother’s knowledge of songs.

“Same way bards know most songs,” Shush whispers. “They pluck them from the aether. They absorb them from inspiration.”

“The aether?” I ask.

“Aether, Dreaming, inspiration, Source, Half-Realm…” Flitt shrugs. “Lots of names for the same general thing. Magic. You humans think of Magic as a thing that’s molded and wielded and bent to your will. Fairies know it’s more than that. It’s a thing, sure, but it’s also a place. It has lots of locations. Lots of ways to access it.”

We stay up talking late into the night until we can barely keep our heads from nodding and our eyes from drifting closed. Once we have our answer for the queen and our general plan mapped out, we retire to the welcoming clouds of our beds and drift into the most perfectly comfortable slumber any of us has ever had the luxury to enjoy.

In the morning when we’re ready, the room fades as easily as it had appeared the night before, and we find ourselves standing at the base of the long staircase to the throne.

The queen sits regal and commanding in a gown of butterflies and spider silk that twinkles in the morning light like drops of molten gold. Hundreds of fairies have come to listen to our declaration. They line the open spaces between the columns all the way up to the open ceiling where the fragile tips of the palace’s petal walls fall open to the soft pink sky above.

Rian is caught mid-yawn beside me through the transformation. He blinks sleepily and goes wide-eyed at the scene, then takes my hand as if to check and see if we’re still dreaming. Flitt and Shush don’t seem at all surprised. Rather, to my surprise and slight embarrassment, Flitt soars up the stairs and gives the queen a sweet, dainty kiss on the cheek.

“A bright morning to you, my little Sunbeam,” she says with a smile. Flitt grins and squeezes the queen’s hand before floating slowly to my side again. “And to all assembled here.”

“Bright morning!” The wish surges through the crowd. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but the light of dawn seems to shine stronger as their chorus echoes through the ivory pillars.

The queen nods to Zilliandin, and the elder fairy drifts forward to address the crowd.

“Today our champions stand before us,” he declares. “From Kythshire: Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity Teeming Elite Reformer.” He nods to Flitt, and she darts to the first step.

Her wings close and open slowly, catching the golden light and splashing it across the crowd in a dazzling, blinding display of rainbow prisms. The crowd erupts into applause and cheers.

“From Kythshire,” Zillandin’s call hushes the crowd, “Soren Hasten Udi Swiftish Haven Illustrious Noble General.”

Shush towers beside Rian. His iridescent green armor shimmers with flecks of blue and magenta. He raises his long spear as he stalks forward on mantis-like legs to take the step beside Flitt. Turning to the crowd, he lowers his bug-like goggles over his eyes and draws in a deep breath. All around us, the crowd pauses. The smart ones cling to pillars. Rian steps closer to me and takes me in his arms.

Shush blows out and his wind rushes through the palace, rattling the pillars, shaking the fragile petals, and sending tiny dervishes to dance across the white stone. The assembled fairies giggle as they cling to anything they can, even each other. Those who weren’t prepared tumble away through the wind, whooping and laughing. Rian’s robes and my cloak lash around us like whips, and my feet slip on the polished stone as we’re pushed back by the force of it. When the windstorm finally dies down, Shush grins and bows, and the crowd erupts into applause the same as they had for Flitt.

“From Cerion,” Zilliandin announces, and the crowd hushes once more. “Rian Eldinae, Mentor of the Academy of Cerion, Mage of His Majesty’s Elite, Windsaver, Oathkeeper, Arcane Guardian, Steward of the Wellspring.” Rian’s arms tighten around me nervously and then drop away. He stands silent as the hushed whispers of the crowd echo around us.

“
Do something impressive
,” Shush pushes to him.

At his sides, Rian’s hands flex and relax. He takes a calming breath and steps to the stairs. My heart races nervously as he gazes out over the mass of fairies. I’m not sure if my anxiety is sympathy for him or my own apprehension about what I’ll do when it’s my turn. His eyes scan the hall thoughtfully, and he raises his hands in an elegant gesture.

He starts to speak the incantation of a spell and the magic in the air around him is tangible. It gathers on his fingertips like clusters of pollen, white-hot and bright. It seeps into the pores of his skin and radiates outward. His fingers curl with the intensity of the power that flows through him. His eyes go wild and vacant. All around us, fairies cower behind the shelter of the pillars. Even I take a step back, surprised by my own fear of the devastating arcane power he’s about to wield.

All of the light in the hall gathers around him, poised to unleash itself by his command. His eyes flash with terrible might. He raises his hands straight up as though he’ll thrust them forward. Then slowly, with measured restraint, he closes his fists, lowers his hands, and closes his eyes. The gathered magic dissipates. Rian bows his head, and I understand. His power, his talent, is restraint.

The fairies break into cheers twice as loud as their show of appreciation for Flitt and Shush. In time, they finally quiet down and my stomach twists into knots. It’s my turn, now.

“From Cerion,” Zilliandin’s voice seems louder to me this time, “Azaeli Hammerfel, Knight of His Majesty’s Elite, The Temperate, Pure at Heart, Reviver of Iren, The Great Protector, Cerion’s Ambassador to Kythshire, Vanquisher of the Prince, The Mentalist, The Paladin.”

I stand rooted to the spot as the fairies stare at me with and whisper amongst each other with great anticipation. My heart pounds. I can’t think of what to do. My new titles ring over and over in my head. I try to push them away and think of something to do, but I have no idea what it could be. My sword was given up. That’s my only true talent. That’s what I’m known for. Without it, what proof can I give of my worthiness for this quest?

Their eyes are steady on me. It seems like Rian has only just noticed my weapon is gone. I will my feet to move. I hope when I reach the step and take it, I’ll be able to prove myself somehow. My feet are heavy as I trudge forward to stand beside my companions.

I turn to face the hundreds staring at me, waiting for my demonstration. The pull of their thoughts entrances me. Tendrils of gold hang thick in the air between us. So many minds, so much power to behold. Still, my heart aches for my sword. If I hadn’t given it up, I could show them. I could impress them with skills honed over years of training. Instead I stand before them feeling foolish and unprepared.

“
Do something
,” Flitt pushes to me desperately, and my desire for my sword fills me up. My hands raise as though curled around a sword’s hilt. I don’t know what comes over me, but I imagine the most impressive weapon I can. With the tendrils of thoughts that reach out from the fairy crowd, I begin to weave my vision.

I imagine a shining, heavy broadsword with a serrated blade as sharp as a surgeon’s knife. The tendrils of fairy minds collaborate with my own memories of my father and the sword he honed perfectly for me out of love. The sword I lost. The intertwined thoughts curl into place like the Mark, floating in gold filigree in midair before me. They form solidly in my hands, forging a sword of the perfect weight and balance. Its hilt and hand guard are spirals and curls. Elegant script bears the name Hammerfel, glinting and pulsing with magic. Its blade glows with shimmering light as it shifts from imagined to real.

I venture a swing that feels as though it could slice away at the very shadows, and a streak of light follows in the wake of it. The entranced crowd breaks into thunderous applause and wild dancing.

“
Whoa
,” Flitt pushes to me, staring at my new sword, “
how did you do that? I’ve seen a lot of things, but I’ve never seen anything like
that
!
”

Grinning, I glance at Rian. His reaction is the complete opposite of the rest of them. His face is pale and flushed. He looks at me in a way he never has before. Not with admiration as always, or with pride and impressed, like the others. Beyond the blade of my raised golden sword, he regards me with uneasy awe, tinged with fear.

Celli
 

I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here on the unforgiving stone floor, feeling like I’ll die. My thoughts are jumbled and scattered. My mind races sometimes, and other times it’s completely empty. Those times are the worst, when I remember the Sorcerer raising his hands toward me. The crackle of hot blue light. The pain. Pain so strong it swallows me up. Pain to the breaking point.

Once, Da and I sat under an awning at the sea market during a lightning storm. We saw a gull get struck in midair.

“Cooks you from the inside out, lightning does,” he had said to me. It certainly feels like it. I’ve gotten used to the stench of my burnt flesh. I don’t smell it anymore. But then thinking about it, about that gull lying on the cobbles smoking, puts me in a panic again.

I can’t move my left leg at all. My arms don’t hear my commands. I start to pant in fear. My breath comes in short gasps. When the attack is at its worst, I stop breathing altogether. My lips go numb first, and my vision closes in. I’m going to die here. I want to die. Just please, let me die. Let it be over.

Of course, my body wins out over my panicked mind. My lungs burn. I gasp for breath. I sob. My tears tickle the side of my nose as they roll down. I want to swipe them away, but my arms refuse to move. The panic starts again but I hold it back this time. I think over how everything went so terribly wrong.

I vaguely remember them taking Tib out and parading him away. Leaving me here, alone. Of course it was his fault. His stupid, selfish fault. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I was supposed to be part of it. I was going to make something of myself. I was going to impress Quenson.

Even now, thinking about Quenson quickens my heart. Does he know what the other one did to me? Why hasn’t he come for me yet? And Dub. As much as I hate him, where is he? How could they just leave me here?

The answer feels like a stone in my stomach.
Stupid Celli. They have Tib. They don’t need you anymore. You’re worthless. Unimportant.

The pain of that thought is worse than the feeling of my cooked insides. I let out a sob that echoes through the cell.

“Unlock it at once,” a muffled voice blends with my cries. I work to quiet myself. At first I think it’s my scrambled brain making things up, but when the door creaks open, my breath catches.

His soft boots come into view first, gray and graceful. Perfect. The red lining of his black robes flicks in and out of view as he walks toward me. Quenson. I try desperately to look up into his beautiful face, but the pain in my neck is too much. I start to cry again. I need to see him. I ache for him.
Don’t be a baby,
I scold myself
.

“My, my,” Quenson clicks his tongue, “Osven, it seems, was a little heavy-handed with you, my dear.”

His whisper of a spell strips the stone floor of filth and liquid. When it’s suitably dry and clean, Quenson kneels by my head. Relief washes over me. I can finally see his face. I’m filled with a sense of peace, like looking at him is essential to my survival. He called me
my dear
. He’s my air and my pulse. He’s all that matters. His lips curl into a smirk and I’m sure I’ll die happy in this moment, his smile the last thing I see.

“You amuse me so, girl,” he laughs softly. “It is not your time to die.” He produces a corked vial of shockingly pink liquid from his robes and pulls out the stopper. “Drink,” he says, and presses it to my lips.

The acrid potion tastes like blood and fire. It burns my tongue and throat and creeps into my stomach like molten lead, and it doesn’t stop there.

“Hold her,” Quenson’s voice is drowned out by the ringing in my ears. Someone holds me down. The touch of their hands sears my flesh. I writhe in pain as the potion works its way through me, down my arms into my fingertips, down my legs into my feet and toes until every fiber is swathed in burning pain. I feel myself convulsing. My legs kick out, my arms thrash. My mouth fills with foam. More men come. More pin me. Their hands are red-hot clamps of iron.

My screams echo through the cell, but they’re distant. Not really mine. I’m separate from the girl on the floor, pinned and burning. I’m outside. Quenson is even more handsome from this point of view. I drift toward him. I want to be him, not her. I ache to be close to him. He looks from the writhing girl to me. Something shifts, and I understand.

I’m his. Fully his, now. His blood in the potion links us. The pain is necessary. It strengthens the bond. He flicks his eyes toward the girl, whose convulsing is starting to calm. He commands me with a single look. Return.

I sink back into her without a second thought. The burning is welcome. It means we’ll be together. I slow my breath. I wear the pain. I drift to sleep.

I wake in luxury. Silks and satins. Clouds of pillows. Sweet incense. It feels like a dream. I don’t want to open my eyes.

“Dress,” Quenson’s command is velvety smooth and thrilling.

My eyes fly open. I slide from the bed in sheer excitement. My clothes are laid out for me, the ones that were gifted by Sybel. The ones Dub made me change out of. I put them on in a rush and spin to search the room for Quenson. He was here. I felt him. I heard him. But I’m alone.

“Come outside,” Quenson orders. It’s his voice, I’m sure. But I don’t hear it. Not outside or in my head. It’s more of a feeling. A compelling. Something I want to do, even though it wasn’t my own idea.

It puzzles me, but when I reach the door and pull it open, it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s there, waiting. Smiling again. Looking me over with appreciation. He’s everything. Everything.

I follow him not knowing or caring why or where. It doesn’t matter. We’re together. We pass others, other Sorcerers. Some of them greet him, some don’t. I want to punch those who ignore him. Kick them. Make them hurt. Make them see how amazing he is.

“All in good time, my dear,” he murmurs, and his words placate me.

He brings me to a room that’s small and cluttered. The walls are stacked with books and scrolls and shelves lined with bottles of herbs and solutions floating with bits of flesh or preserved animals. A small desk is stuffed to the side. Scraps of parchment are tacked to the wall above it, with scratchy reminders I can’t read scrawled all over them. Torn pages of books, showing drawings of men with their skin pulled back to show their muscles and bones.

He takes the chair there and gestures for me to sit in the only other one, a ruby velvet footrest. The door closes as I sit, and he whispers a spell over it. As always, his voice thrills me like I can feel his whisper on my bare skin.

“You have proven your loyalty,” he leans toward me in his chair and presses his fingertips together. “I will entertain your questions.”

I stare at him blankly. I should have questions. Lots of them. The truth is, none of them matter. I’m here with him. We’re together. As long as that’s so, I don’t care. My past life is a distant memory. Another girl. A child who died in that cell. My new life is here, with him.

“Can I stay with you?” I ask. “Always?”

His laugh is more of a scoff. A perfect, wonderful scoff that warms me. I lean forward, too. I need to be closer to him. His eyes glint with amusement and power.

“If you behave,” he says. “Have you no other questions? No pondering about this Order or this place?”

“Who were those who ignored you in the corridor?” I ask. I want their names. I want to be able to track them down later. Quenson grins again. I’m drunk with the beauty of his white teeth against the blue-black Mark.

“Sorcerers like me, my dear,” he starts to elaborate, but my scowl interrupts him. He raises a questioning brow.

“Not like you,” I say. “There’s no one like you.”

“Truly,” he laughs softly, “you delight me. Perhaps so. Not exactly like me. We all have our talents here, but work toward the same end, you see. Domination of the Sources. Still, though our goal is the same, we spend much time watching our own backs. As you would imagine, our ilk does not value loyalty highly, nor are we adept at maintaining our alliances. We work together because we must.”

“But,” he leans in even closer. I watch his lips as he speaks. I barely hear what he’s saying. “The fewer of us there are in the end, the more powerful the ones who remain. Do you see, my lovely? We make our alliances on false pretenses, each of us knowing the other will most likely try to kill us in the end. It is not, as you would imagine, a hospitable environment. Still, it is necessary. And so you see why your loyal companionship is such an amusement.”

I grin stupidly. He called me a companion. I amuse him.

“I must ask you to do something for me,” he reaches for my hand, and his touch jolts me with warmth.

“Anything,” I say.

An insistent pounding on the door interrupts us.

“What?” Quenson’s irritated shout makes me jump. His anger becomes my anger. He curses under his breath and waves a hand. The silence ward on the door fades. “What?” he yells louder this time.

“I got it,” Dub’s quiet reply is muffled by the thick wood.

“Open the door, Celli,” Quenson commands, and I’m on my feet and opening it before I can even think.

Dub glowers at me with his one good eye. His face is covered in scratches. He looks past me at Quenson and scowls, and that’s enough for me. I lunge at him, swinging my fists.

“How dare you?” I scream in rage. To come here, to scowl at my master? I swing hard and my fist cracks his jaw. Dub curses and grabs me by the throat. Behind us, Quenson laughs heartily.

“What in the black shadow?” Dub growls and shoves me back.

“Enough, Celli. Close the door,” Quenson says, and I do. Dub takes my seat. That’s fine with me. I stand next to Quenson. Close enough that my arm brushes his shoulder. That’s when I notice the squirming black sack in Dub’s grip. It’s covered in shed fur: black, white, orange. White claws poke out from the fibers as whatever’s inside struggles. Dub holds it away from himself, still scowling.

Without any command from Quenson, I think of what to do. I turn around and fetch a small iron cage that’s stuffed among some old scroll cases. I open the door and hold it out to Dub, and he shoves the sack inside. It squirms and fights and yowls as I close the door and hand it to Quenson.

“Now we’ll see what’s so special about you, won’t we?” Quenson murmurs. The creature inside frees itself from the sack with a great, yowling thrash.

“You got Zeze,” I whisper, and the cat in the cage turns to me and hisses.