Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (26 page)

“Errie,” Rian says to me. I snap back to my senses.

Celli’s revealed now, her cloak forgotten. She stumbles forward and swings a fist hard at Rian. It bounces off his wards. She kicks, she punches. Her wound doesn’t seem to weaken her. Her eyes flash red and cruel as she dives to claw at him.

I run to the cradle and reach through the wards for Errie.

“Mumumum!” he screams when I pick him up. The wards break. He’s exposed. The cobwebs brush away from me. I can’t take anyone into hiding with me, so I’m exposed now, too.

“Errie!” Maisie cries downstairs.

In the doorway, Celli finally gets through Rian’s wards. She’s got him pinned by the throat. She fumbles for the dagger at her belt. His fingertips spark with a spell. He thrusts his hand to her face and chokes over the words. The spell fails.

“You!” Celli sneers at me. Lets go of Rian. Her eyes light up when she sees my prize: Errie, squirming in my arms.

“Stop wiggling,” I whisper to the boy. Try hard to calm him, but he’s too scared. “Remember me? Tib?”

“Mumumum!” he screams again.

Celli dives at us and grabs for him, but I dodge her easily. Rian coughs and tries his spell again. This time it works. It hits Celli square between the shoulder blades. She’s flung forward into the wall. She tumbles to the floor and rolls over to face us. Her eyes are open. At first I think he’s killed her, but she looks around in a panic and breathes with quick gasps.

“Stun,” Rian says. “It won’t last long. Get him out of here.”

“That’s right,” a familiar voice calls up from downstairs. Dub. “Bring him down here, and nobody gets hurt.”

Rian reaches for me. Grabs my arm. At the bottom of the stairs, Dub peers up at us. He’s cut Maisie free and he’s holding her up. He’s got a knife to her throat. When she sees Errie, she sobs and calls his name.

“Mum!” Errie screams. He squirms and wriggles and fights to get to her.

“We have no choice, Tib,” Rian glances at me. He’s right. There’s no way we can rescue them both. It’s one or the other.

“Come on, Nullen. Be smart,” Dub presses the knife harder. Maisie sobs and pleads.

“Go,” I say to Rian. I can’t help but fix my sights on Dub.

I’m filled with rage. I don’t think straight. I just want to see him bleed. I want to watch his life leave him.

When I feel Rian start to shift, I pull away from his grasp and shove Errie into his arms. I charge down the stairs. Reach for my knives. Hit Dub so hard that he’s knocked prone and the knives in my hands clatter away. His blade leaves a trail of red across Maisie’s throat. She falls to the floor.

I realize in that moment what a horrible mistake I made by giving into my rage. It would have worked if Errie had cooperated. He didn’t, though. At the last moment, he squirmed out of Rian’s grasp. Now Rian’s gone, and Errie’s there, scrambling down the stairs, trying to get to his mum. Before I can react, Celli appears in the upstairs doorway. It won’t last long, Rian had said, but I didn’t realize how short the span of the spell would actually be.

Celli’s eyes light up at the sight of the retreating boy. She runs down the stairs and grabs him roughly by the arm.

I fight to get to her, but Dub is on me. He yanks me up by the collar and throws me hard against the steps. I fumble for my knives, any of them, but they’re in unfamiliar places. My instinct is thrown off.

“Get out,” he bellows at Celli. She runs past us with Errie screaming and kicking at her hip.

“Sparrow and fox,” I hear her say downstairs.

Above me on the steps, Rian reappears. Dub doesn’t notice. He’s crazed, hovering over me. His knife flashes in my vision and then my left eye goes dark with searing pain.

“Eye for an eye,” he hisses as I scream. Above me, Rian’s hands crackle with energy.

“Induct, destroy,” I hear Celli say in between Errie’s screams. I feel the change. Something is shifting. A way is opening.

“Downstairs!” I holler at Rian. “She’s getting away!”

The blast of magic Rian releases throws Dub back hard. The knife he was holding slides from its mark and I scream at the pain of it and clap my hands over my eye. At the base of the stairs, Dub shudders and convulses as the spell’s energy crackles around him. Maisie lies beneath him, completely still.

I try to scramble to my feet but the pain is too much. The room spins and I stumble to my knees as Rian races past me.

“Asio,” Celli announces. Instantly, Errie’s screaming stops.

“No!” Rian’s defeated cry breaks the silence. I crawl to look with my limited vision and see him kneeling on the floor staring at his hands in disbelief. “No,” he whispers.

The edges of the steps press into my spine as I drop onto them. I let my head fall back. I press my eye to stop the bleeding. My stomach churns and I try hard to keep Mouli’s sweet rolls down.

“Tib,” Rian’s voice is distant. It moves in and out. “Hold on.”

“We failed,” I whisper. It’s my fault. They knew I’d come looking. They were waiting for me to get Errie free of the wards. I can’t hold it back. I roll to the side and get sick all over Maisie’s stairs. Maisie. Did she survive? Someone scoops me up. Rian, I’d guess.

“Hold on,” he says again. “Take my hand,” his voice echoes in the distance. Maisie sobs. The ground beneath us falls away and we spin, back to the Half-Realm. Back to the meeting hall. I close my good eye. I let myself pass out.

Celli
 

The wood beneath my knees shifts and I close my eyes and cling to the wriggling boy with one arm. With my other hand I fumble the coin from the hasty carving and snatch it up just before the floor swallows us. Tib’s screams are the last thing I hear as we start to plummet. Then the floor goes solid above, shutting out what little light there was. My side throbs as the boy screams and struggles against the spot where Tib stabbed me. I curse at him and clamp my arm around his neck.

The pumping of my blood pulses loudly in my ears. With every pulse I feel my need for Quenson. I did it. I got the boy. He’ll be so proud. I’ll be the most important to him. I need to see him. I need to show him.

We hit the stone floor hard. The pain in my side spikes. I push it away.
Quenson
.
Where is he?
The boy has stopped struggling. I shift my hold on him so he can breathe again now that he’s out. I don’t move him, though. He’s good where he is. Keeping me from bleeding.

I know this room where we appear. It’s the circular one they brought me to that first day. The day Dub attacked me and Quenson watched. That day, the six alcoves were empty. Now, two of them hold a decorative glass bottle. Inside of each bottle is a glowing liquid. I’m drawn to their light right away. It mesmerizes me. I almost forget the boy. My wound. Quenson.

“You were told to bring him alive.” His anger jolts me. Spikes through my heart. I spin and face him, my everything. My lord. My master.

“He’s alive,” I rush to Quenson, ignoring my dizziness. I hold the boy out like an offering to him. His eyes light up. I could survive on his smile alone.

“Well done, Celli,” he says, velvety smooth. His elation is my elation.

He takes the limp child from my arms and looks him over. I didn’t realize until now how it must look, but the smears of red all over him are mine, not his. From how I was carrying him.

Quenson holds him up like he’s trying to figure out where it’s coming from. Then he looks at me.

“Dar,” he says, and a hulking guard clomps forward. He passes the boy to him.

With the rush of my triumph fading, it’s hard to stand. I stumble to the side. Quenson catches me. His arms slide around me. Hold me up. I could die happy this way.

“He did this to you,” he says to me. His breath is soft on my face. “Nullen.”

His mention of Tib sets my insides on fire. He did this to me.

“And Dub?” Quenson asks.

“I left them fighting. He told me to get out,” I explain. My vision is closing in. Darkening. I focus on his face. His beautiful, perfect white teeth. The pulse of the Mark that slithers across the surface of his skin.

“You did well, Celli,” he purrs. “The healers are coming. Rest.”

I close my eyes, and smile.

Azi

“Is it even possible that Outland Stronghold was breached again?” Mya asks as she flattens a large, worn strategy map across the table. The holdings and territories of Cerion’s armies are marked upon it with blue ink.

“It’s unlikely,” Mum says. Da nods from over her shoulder.

“Since the battle at Kythshire,” he explains, “watches have been set in place. New towers with signal fires on the outlying roads here.” He points to several places along the road leading to Outland Stronghold.

“But they could have been taken,” Cort leans over the table. “Or circumvented.”

“Nah, not easily. It’s all mountain around there,” Bryse argues. “Rocks and cliffs.”

“Anything is possible,” Uncle says. “Do not forget, we are dealing with Sorcery, not armies of men on foot.”

Across the room, Elliot slides from his chair and yawns. He trots to the table and nudges in between me and Mum. With him he carries the scent of sea air and elm trees. If I closed my eyes, I might feel a rush of wind in the leaves. I don’t, though. Instead I watch him as he slides his finger across the worn surface of the map. His eyes flash beneath his fringe of red-orange hair. His nose twitches slightly.

“There,” he says, and his finger rests on an inlet across the Outlands from the border keep, right on the edge of the coastline.

I breathe a sigh of relief along with everyone else. Mya marks the spot with a stick of charcoal, and Elliot shake his head.

“No, not on land. It’s an island.” He smudges her mark away and makes another one beside it in the water.

“Outside of the borders of the Outlands?” she asks.

“Mm hmm,” Elliot affirms as he takes a seat beside me. “I didn’t actually see it. It’s too well protected. They’ve got it covered in dozens of wards. I couldn’t get close. I could sense it, though, just like Tib described.”

“Indeed,” Uncle agrees. “But if it can be so hidden from you, my friend, with your keen senses, then this is no small foe. Such wards require time and numbers.”

“How much time?” Mya asks. “How many numbers are we talking, Gaethon?”

“It’s difficult to say for certain without having seen it for myself,” Uncle replies. “But, to give you an example, a single one of the palace wards would take a month to set, and at least three master Mages.”

“Wouldn’t the patrols have noticed activity like that?” Da asks. “They travel the coastline regularly. They take their duties seriously.”

“We heard rumors,” Bryse says darkly, “of goings-on in Outlands. Remember, Cort? When we were out in the mists?”

“Aye,” Cort scratches the thin line of his beard that traces his chin. “We put it in our report, but didn’t think much of it. Just peasant talk, it seemed. Now I wonder if there was some truth to it.”

“What sort of rumors?” I ask with a shiver.

“Uprisings,” Cort replies. “Talk of revolution among the banished.”

“It’s not saying much, is it?” Bryse grunts. “You banish a bunch of criminals and put ‘em in the same place, of course there’s going to be rebellions and threats.”

“That’s why the stronghold and its battalions are so important—” Da starts, but he’s interrupted by a loud curse from across the room. Everyone is on their feet before we can think. Swords flash. We start to charge. Rian’s form shimmers in space and before he even comes into focus, he’s gone again.

“Rian!” Mya and I shout in unison. We exchange a worried glance.

“Why was he alone?” Saesa, who has remained quietly in the background since Tib left, whispers.

“I’ll go,” I say, and close my eyes.
Rian
, I think clearly, and feel myself being pulled away from the hall.

The first thing I notice as my feet meet the floor is the darkness. The second is the metallic smell of blood that hangs heavy in the air. Rian vanishes again before he even notices me. Two others go with him.

The journey through the Half-Realm sends a rush of magic through me. At my shoulder, my sword glows and the shadows retreat. I’m just about to follow Rian through again when something on the landing of the stairs shifts. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I make out the figure of a man.

He groans and holds his head as he struggles to his knees. Slowly, quietly, I move to draw my sword. Normally, this means unclasping the scabbard from my back and sliding the great blade free, but before I can even reach back the hilt is in my hands, as though the very thought of it has summoned it to me.

I gasp at the sight of it. The blade shines with a light so brilliant that I have to look away for a moment. The man on the landing scrambles backward and shields his eyes, too. I blink rapidly and squint past the angle of my sword at my cowering opponent. The handles of countless knives glint in their sheathes across his chest. They glow a golden warning that I understand is meant for my eyes only.

He reaches to draw one and I take a step closer.

“I wouldn’t,” I say, and the power in my voice surprises me.

“You’re too late,” he says with a simpering tone that holds none of the confidence I’d expect from such a heavily armed assassin. “They have what they sent us for. Your men failed.”

“Who?” I demand. “Who has him?”

He scrambles backwards as I take another step toward him. The light from my sword is so searingly bright it washes out the black of his leather armor completely. I try not to let myself be distracted by it as he scrambles back against the wall and gasps for breath. His mouth opens and closes like a suffocating fish plucked from the sea. I recognize the struggle in him. He wants to tell me, but he can’t.

I move closer and his one good eye goes wild with panic.

“Please,” he whispers, “mercy. Please.”

“Calm down,” I say softly. His terror of me is confusing and disconcerting. He slides along the wall in an attempt to escape, but I put my shoulder to it to block him. “You don’t need to say anything.” I try to keep my voice from sounding overwhelming or powerful. The light of my sword dims slightly. “Just look.”

The words are more of a command than I intended. My scalp tingles as the excitement of magic surges through me. Golden tendrils stretch between us, catching his one good eye, holding it so I can see. More stretch around him, lulling him into a sense of safety.

This is unfamiliar territory for me. I don’t trust his mind, so I don’t allow myself fall into it as I usually do. Instead I pull his memories away from him to play between us, like Iren did at the Northern Border all that time ago. I keep myself alert to our surroundings as the moments of his recent memories rise and fade. I watch the fight between him and Tib. I watch the girl race away with a boy who looks so much like Eron.

I look deeper. Past tonight, into an earlier moment. A Sorcerer on an ill-tempered rampage, pacing across the floor of a round room. Alcoves line the walls. Two of them hold bottles of glowing liquid. The assassin’s gaze lingers on them. They’re a surprise to him. A small triumph.

“Quenson,” he says to the Sorcerer, “we can get him back. We’ll use the boy.”

I’m so drawn into the scene that I’m unaware at first of the subtle shift around me. The light of my sword has dimmed further. Its glow is nearly snuffed out by shadows. I pull away from the one-eyed man and raise my weapon. A cloaked figure steps out of the shadows of the living room. He raises his hand toward me and whispers.

At the end of his incantation I reach out with the threads of my thoughts and wind them around his wrists. With a nod of my head I give them a tug and his hand flings to the side. He looses his spell and it hits the assassin full on.

Amid a string of curses, the Sorcerer summons his shadows. They creep through the room and stretch into the light like bent henchmen to stalk me. A dozen or more of them attack, and I raise my sword to face them.

I swing at one close to me and a beam of light trails behind my blade, slicing the shadow into oblivion effortlessly. The room fills with earsplitting screams as the shadows are painfully slashed by the light of my sword. Again and again I fight away the approaching darkness. My arms never tire; my resolve never fades. They descend on me, clawing at my arms and face with slender, pointed fingers and gnashing fangs at me that seem to drip with shadowy poison.

Beyond the crowd of darkness, I hear strange words strung together. They’re oddly familiar, though I can’t seem to place them. Sparrow. Perch.

My arms are strong and capable, but my mind is slowing. I’m exhausted from using magic. The absence of it drains me from the inside. I move on reflexes, but there is no strategy to my attacks. My capacity to think has been spent.

The shadows thin gradually. I swing a dozen times or more, and each time I do their screams shatter my eardrums. When the last one finally falls I find myself standing by myself in the dark, empty living room. The Sorcerer and the assassin have escaped somehow. I trudge to a nearby sofa and sink into it, exhausted. I lay my sword across my knees. My gaze rests on the shimmering blade with wonder. It’s like it knew. It knew exactly what needed to be done and it acted like an extension of me. Like my arm, or my finger.

“Thank you,” I whisper, and right away I feel foolish. After all, it’s a weapon of my own making, not something to be spoken to. Still, Saesa’s sword has a name. Perhaps mine should, too. I pick it up again and think of the time I’ve had with it so far. How it eluded my father’s grasp and inspired fear and awe in the assassin. How it garnered his respect so I wasn’t forced to fight him. I close my eyes and let its peaceful light tingle on my fingertips.

“Mercy,” I whisper, and the sword pulses softly in acceptance.

Our strange conversation is interrupted by a sudden rumbling and quaking coming from a room deeper within the house. I get to my feet and creep toward it with the light of my sword guiding the way.

I’m greeted in what I expect is the kitchen by a sharp cracking sound as the stone wall splits and crumbles apart. Just when I’m about to charge, Rian pokes his head through the opening.

“You’re here,” he says with a sigh of relief. He clambers unsteadily through the wall and we crash into each other’s arms.

“What happened?” he asks. “Are you all right? I tried to get back but I was blocked somehow. I couldn’t get to you.”

I cling to him and nod into his chest. In the sudden, complete quiet, I tell him everything that happened.

“The floor,” he says when I’m through, and takes my hand to guide me back. For a moment he looks confused as we stand together in the living room.

“What is it?” I ask him.

“When we arrived there was a man here. Maisie’s husband. He didn’t make it. Did you see him?”

I think back and shake my head. When I arrived, there was definitely no one in this room aside from myself and the assassin.

“He must have been drawn into the portal,” Rian says thoughtfully. He sinks to his knees and finds the carving on the floor.

“This is how they get in and out,” he whispers. “Sigils.”

“Sigils?” I ask. “Like teleportation?”

“A little, but these are less complicated, and they’re only meant to travel to a fixed point that’s already been prepared.” He brushes his fingers over the carving. “You put a marker in here. That’s what holds the spell. It activates the runes.” He points to the black swirls of charcoal. “This one’s temporary.”

“A marker?” I think back. “Like a coin?”

“Sure. A coin would do nicely.” He taps the carving again. “If only we had one.”

“Tib does,” I whisper, suddenly remembering. “He showed it to me before the attack on the High Court.”

Rian raises a brow curiously. He flicks his wrist and the sofa and rug slide across the floor and skid to a stop to hide the markings.

“That’ll have to do for now,” he says and takes my hand again. “We have to get back. Tib’s in bad shape, but he refuses healing until he’s sure Maisie and the boy are safe. Maisie’s getting healing. She’ll be fine, but Errie is another story. We can’t recover him. Not yet. Master Gaethon estimates there are at least a dozen master Sorcerers barricaded in that keep. Probably more. The Dusk is an ancient order, just like the Dawn is. We have to be cautious.”

I nod. “Let’s go home. It’s probably not safe to talk about it here.”

He folds his arms around me and I bury my face in his chest. I breathe in the warmth of his embrace and the smoky scent of incense on his robes as the ground falls away beneath us and we spin into the Half-Realm.

When we arrive at the guild hall again, we’re greeted by a strange sight.

At the center of the meeting room, seated on a tufted footrest, is a young woman dressed in a shimmering white cloak emblazoned with the crest of Kythshire. Her hood is pulled low to cover her face. The Elite stand in a semi-circle around her, their expressions a mix of curiosity, awe, and confusion.

“She says she’s here for you, Azi,” Mya whispers. “She says you know her.”

At Mya’s words, the figure stands gracefully. She reaches to her hood and carefully pushes it back. Multi-colored locks tumble over her shoulders and she reaches up to smooth her rainbow bangs with a slender, pale hand that shimmers in the firelight. Her pink lips curve into a smile as she turns to face me. At first I’m confused. I know those eyes, that hair, but it can’t be. As she turns her attention to me, I’m overcome by a powerful feeling of awe and honor. It’s as though I’m in the presence of something legendary. Something to be revered.