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

On the first day of the trials, I was shocked to see the youngest princess in attendance. Since then she’s been a fixture there, stoic in her little throne. She never acknowledges anyone, not even with a glance. She only listens and watches her brother, never daring to show emotion, not even while her mother is crying. Not even when the king’s jaw is set so tight I fear he might crack his teeth. She’s suffered so much through it all and remained so strong, but Margy has always seemed somehow wiser than her twelve years.

I pull the wax away and open the note, but my hands are shaking so hard I can’t focus on the words written there. Aside from the trials, the last time I saw the princess I was sitting in her father’s treaty room, fighting my newly-acquired Mentalism skills to keep from delving into the king’s mind. Margy knew that somehow. She saw what I could do and she forbade me silently. Since then I’ve wondered about that night. I’ve agonized over it. I never wanted to lose her trust. I never meant to put her father in danger. Rian covers my hand with his to steady it.

“Her Highness Princess Margary,” he reads aloud over my shoulder, “requests the grace of your company tomorrow noon, for High Lunch. Sir Azaeli Hammerfel and one guest. Please present this invitation at the gate, et cetera…” he murmurs the last.

“Don’t joke, Rian,” I say, dubious that the princess would invite me to lunch after all of my testimony against her brother. Long gone are the days when these invitations were a regular event I would roll my eyes at and begrudgingly attend. Now that I’ve fallen out of favor of the younger princess, I’m both thrilled and intrigued by her summons. I read it over myself and shake my head in disbelief.

“I got one, too,” Saesa says as the three of us make our way down the path toward the city together. “By your leave, Lady Knight, I thought I’d bring Tib if I can pin him down long enough.”

“I saw him near the shipyard yesterday on my way to the Academy,” Rian says as I look over the identical invitation and hand it back to her. “He was watching the lifts again.”

“Of course, Saesa, if you can lure him away from that invention of his. He’s really determined, isn’t he?” I laugh and shake my head as I tuck my note away.

“He says he’s almost finished,” Saesa shrugs. “Though with what, I have no idea. He’s tried to explain it to me before, but it’s over my head. I believe he can do it, though.”

“If he can he’ll be a rich man,” Rian takes my hand as we step out onto the cobbles and head toward the guild hall. The familiar sound of Da’s hammer at the forge rings out to welcome us as we near.

“Go on and change,” I say to Saesa. “I’ll meet you in the sparring square.”

She gives me a quick bow and rushes off, leaving me and Rian alone at my doorstep. I pull him to me.

“I should get back,” he says. “That tome isn’t going to scribe itself. Well, it could, actually, but that would fall under Unnecessary and Frivolous Use of Magic.” His voice takes on a mocking tone and he grins at me.

“We can’t have that,” I hold him closer and tip my head back for another kiss. He doesn’t deny me and we linger for a long while on the doorstep together.

“See, this is the sort of thing that makes leaving that much harder, Azi,” he says. He kisses the top of my head and tries to extract himself.

“How many pages do you have left?” I squeeze him tighter as he tries to pull away. It’s no use. I’m stronger than he is, and he knows it.

“Three hundred and seventy-two. Then I move on to the Dorane Tomes,” he wiggles one arm out of my grip and then the other before he gives up with an exaggerated sigh. “Shipment leaves in two days. The longer you keep me in your clutches, the longer it’ll take me to finish.”

“All right, all right.” I pout and give him one last squeeze and a reluctant kiss farewell, and we part ways.

The clanging at my father’s forge fills our otherwise quiet house. I follow the sound through the kitchen and out back to find Da busy with his back to me, working a strangely shaped strip of iron. Tib is perched on the wall nearby, stroking the fur of a thickly-tufted orange and black cat while he oversees Da’s work.

“Hey, Azi,” he says, and hops down to land lightly beside me. The cat stays on the wall.

“Good to see you, Tib,” I give him a squeeze around the shoulder and he quickly pats my back and pulls away. “Saesa’s looking for you. She’ll be back to train soon.”

“All right,” he says, already distracted. He leans toward Da, examining the iron strip. “Narrower there, please,” he says, pointing to the end. “Then flaring out this way.”

He draws a shape in the soot with his finger. Da nods to Tib and then winks at me and taps his cheek. I give him a quick peck and he turns away to plunge the iron into the coals.

If Cerion has favored any one of us these past two years, it’s Tib. No longer the tortured, skinny slave-boy he was when first we met, Tib has grown from a timid, angry boy to a confident young man. His fringe of straight black hair still hangs to cover his slanted eyes, and he’s never without his dagger. With my fighter’s eye I can pick out at least three others hidden on him, which is impressive considering his summer short-pants don’t leave him many places to stash them.

Since our return to Cerion, Tib has earned himself an impressive reputation for lurking. Throughout the city, many are wary to speak openly about their enemies in public for fear that Tib has been hired to follow them and spy. Apparently he makes quite a stack of coin at the dangerous profession. He keeps it honest, though. He’s settled happily into Nessa Ganvent’s crew of orphans, and whisperings of his mysterious project follow quickly behind nearly every mention of his name.

“Zeze looks better,” I point to the cat.

“Yeah. She just needed some scraps, didn’t you, Ze?” Tib smiles. He pats her affectionately, and she meows in reply. “No, stay up there or Mouli will have your hide. You remember last time?” The cat mews and curls up near the warmth of the forge vent. “Good girl,” he says, and turns back to me.

“Are you traveling any time soon?” he asks secretly under the cover of Da’s hammer clangs. I know he’s referring to Kythshire, the land of fairies where his sister guards the North border with the Spirit of the Shadow Crag, Iren.

“Maybe,” I say, and the familiar pang of guilt over Flitt’s absence strikes me again. Perhaps another trip is in order after all. I could go now, quickly, while everyone else is busy. No, I can’t bear to go without Rian. We could go tonight when he gets back from scribing, but no, I don’t want to go and possibly get caught up in something that will make me miss the Princess’s invitation. And then, of course, tomorrow I must see the Princess. I sigh. No wonder Flitt is angry with me, the way I prioritize her.

“Day after tomorrow, I think,” I say, pushing away the guilt. “Will you join me?”

“I think so. Thanks,” he leans toward Da, already distracted again by the iron. “Sharper there, please, sir,” he wiggles his finger, “and then a curve.”

I leave the two of them to their work and head up to my room to change into my training leathers. Saesa will be here soon, and the weight of my sword in my hands always makes me feel better, even if it’s only practice.

In the quiet of my room, my thoughts wander. With no orders from the king since the trials have started, most of the Elite have gone off on their own to keep busy. This has left the guild hall feeling empty and lonesome. A certain melancholy has settled in. None of us likes being idle. We all have a taste for adventure, and as long as the trial continues there’ll be no hint of a quest on the horizon. The glory of His Majesty’s Elite along with the glory of Cerion itself, is fading.

A glint of light reflecting off of my armor catches my eye. The helm has recently been polished, perhaps just this morning. I think of Saesa, my eager squire, and smile as I pick up the glossy, shimmering piece. A gift from the fairies, my armor is unlike anything made by man. The material is smooth like polished stone. Its color is deep blue flecked with tiny golden crystals. It shimmers as it catches the light, and holding it quickens my heart and makes me feel braver and more daring. Wearing it makes me feel safe. Bolstered. I cross to the mirror, pull the helm on, and slide down the face guard.

The young woman looking back at me is startling. She’s strong, confident, and determined. She has the look of a true Knight, complete with that distant hint of mystery in her eyes. Something that says she’s seen tragedy and risen above it. A stirring that makes me want to follow her, to rally behind her.

“Eh, it looks wrong,” a squeaky voice pipes up outside my helm. At my shoulder, rainbow-colored light twinkles and splashes off of the armor to dance across the low eaves of my ceiling.

“Flitt?” I whisper. She responds with a sharp tug of my hair.

“Azi! What were you thinking?” the fairy cries.

“Ow!” I exclaim. My scalp starts to tingle. I pull my helm off and a long blonde braid tumbles down over my shoulder.

“That’s better,” Flitt emerges from the light and grins at me. “Hello!”

“Oh, Flitt!” I reach out to her.

In a flash she’s my size. She throws her arms around me, and I can’t help but squeeze her to make sure she’s real. I’m so happy to see her that I really have to keep myself in check to avoid crushing her with my embrace.

“Wings, wings,” she warns.

“Sorry!” I sniffle. I had forgotten how she smells like dew and sunshine, how bright her hair is with its multi-colored ponytails, how brilliantly her light sparkles from every pore of her skin. “Where have you been?” I ask as she pops back to fairy-size again.

“Ugh, I don’t know how you stand being so enormous,” she says, wrinkling her nose. She brushes at her ribbon skirt with disgust. “I’ve always said it. Humans are simply too ridiculously large. Don’t you consider those around you? I mean, you could very easily step on something and kill it, and you wouldn’t even know. A beetle, or an ant. Or a small chicken. You should really consider, as a race, smalling yourselves down a little. For the sake of those around you.”

“Flitt,” I laugh. “Honestly, where have you been? I’ve been so worried.”

“Oh, wait ‘til you hear,” she says with a grin as she settles on the handle of my hairbrush. “I know, let’s play!”

Tib

A brush of cobwebs against my skin. I step into the unseen. Into the shadows. Mevyn’s gift. Valenor’s lesson. A gift is not a trick. They taught me that. Sometimes, a gift is necessary. Sometimes it’s the last hope for something better. This time, it’s for something nobody else has dreamed up yet. I adjust the blade strapped to my back. It’s longer. It stretches up over my head farther than I can reach. Flatter, too. Twisted. Perfectly worked by Sir Benen.

Zeze walks in front. Gets people to jump away or risk tripping over her. Some of them kick at her. I make a mental note of them for later. We travel this way for a while. Slinking on foot. Sticking to shadows. Out of the tucked-away street where Azi’s guild keeps their hall, past the castle, through the market. Past the lifts to the docks. I pause here. Watch the Mage at the wall as he raises his arms. Bulky muscled men crank the cranks. The lift creaks and squeals and bumps along the cliff face. Crates jostle and threaten to fall, but the Mage keeps them safe. His spell is a powerful one. It makes the load lighter. It keeps it protected. It’s necessary. Even the Princess thinks so.

This goes on all day into the dusk. Mage spells. Crates. Boxes. People. Animals. Up and down, never stopping. Workers working. Ships loaded and unloaded. Cargo in. Cargo out. In the summer, the Mages keep things light and safe. They protect from wind and rain and sea salt. In the winter, they melt the ice. Every spell drains a drop from Kythshire’s Wellspring. A drop, a stream, it doesn’t matter to them. The port gets busier. Their work needs to be done. Nobody thinks of the fairies. Why should they? To them, the fae don’t exist. Legends. Stories. Mention them and they call you a simpleton. A liar. A tall tale-teller.

I slip away from the port. When I’m done, they won’t need magic anymore for that task. My way will be better. My way will preserve the Wellsprings. Kythshire’s and Sunteri’s, too. I’ll sell my machine to them, then I’ll find another need to fill. Rian says we’ll always have a need for magic. He says the arts are getting more popular by the season. It’s harder to get into the school now. The Academy. They’re very careful about who’s allowed to learn its secrets. I’m glad. Magic is selfish and dangerous. It ruins people. It destroys things too easily. They shouldn’t trust just anyone with it.

Zeze knows the way to Redstone. I follow her without thinking past the bright white walls of the Academy. Past the dorms and the stables and the rows of merchants in the main square. Through to the poorer places. The places you don’t really notice when you first come to Cerion. The places you walk by without looking too hard. The places you try to avoid. When I first came to Cerion, I didn’t think anyone here was poor. In Zhaghen, they’re everywhere. Spread out through the city, right in the open. Begging. Coughing. Crying.

It’s different here. They have their place, neatly tucked away. Dark, stinking rows of red-brick houses. Houses so old and ignored that they might crumble to dust with one careless bump of a cart. Redstone Row. It used to be a small part of the city, but now it’s growing. The king is too distracted to pay his people the attention they need right now. Everyone’s talking about it. They say he doesn’t care. He doesn’t see them like he used to. The people aren’t important anymore. He’s too focused on his son. On the trials.

Whispers that Cerion’s age of peace is coming to an end echo from the shadows here. through the filth of these forgotten streets I understand why. I slip from the shadows. Stop in the usual places. Unload my pockets slowly into outstretched hands. Coins. Rolls. Fruit. Trade them for smiles, for thanks. For information. Dreiya talks to me with a baby on each hip. Her husband is at a meeting. A secret rally. He’s a master stone carver. Worked for the Royal builders. They stopped working last year. Nothing left to build, they said. No orders from His Majesty for new construction.

Lots on this row are in the same boat. No work because Cerion is fading. It’s happening slowly, just like it did in Zhaghen. Just like there, the poor are the first to see it. Just like there, powerful men sit in their towers, too caught up in their own problems to care. While things are getting worse in Cerion, in Sunteri things are getting better. The new princess is helping her prince. They’re working to rebuild the kingdom. Their first step was to make strong rules against magic. Guiding the royal treasury away from the Mage scholars and into the hands of the poor.

Maybe Princess Sarabel should come back. Maybe she’d see what’s happening. Tell her father. Snap him out of his selfish misery. Show him how skinny everyone’s getting down here.

I turn the corner, straight into a gang of boys. Their backs are turned to me. Some older than I am, some younger. All dirty. Scrappy. Grouped around something. Their arms are linked together to keep whatever’s inside from getting out. I step closer and peer in. A fray. A fistfight. A girl dressed in tatters fighting a dark-skinned boy in fine clothes. He doesn’t know how to fight. He’s grabbing at her hair. Kicking. Thrashing a lot and missing. She’s better at it. She lands a punch to his gut. A kick to his hip.

“Give it back!” The rich boy huffs, grabbing at a bag slung across the girl’s chest. It doesn’t match the rest of her. It’s finer. Cleaner. Something’s inside that I can feel, but not see. Something magical. Powerful. Dangerous. Definitely not hers. The boy lunges at her and she swings up with bloodied knuckles. Uppercut to his jaw.  He’s thrown back. She laughs. The circle of boys cheers. To them it’s a game. To the boy, that bag is important. He wipes blood from his lip onto his yellow silk sleeve. Pushes himself up. The rest of the boys charge him. Push him down. Kick. The girl joins in.

He doesn’t give in. He keeps trying to get up, even when the flash of a blade catches the sun. That’s when I step in. Zeze goes first. Saunters up to them. The boys in the back of the pack freeze when they see her. They tug at the others. Point. The fight dies down as nudges travel through them into the center. One of the boys tugs the girl’s arm. She shoves him away but Zeze catches her eye. She turns. Lowers the knife.

Cowered against the wall, the rich boy peeks around his upraised arms. Glances at all of them, standing with their backs to him. Staring at me. Waiting.

“What’s the word, Celli?” I ask. Casual. Like I didn’t just interrupt her almost murdering someone. She shrugs. Rolls her eyes a little. She’s my age. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Cold eyes. Thin mouth. Broad shoulders. The look of someone who’s been fighting for a long time. The other boys step back a little. Watch between us.

“What’s that?” she points to the iron slung to my back.

“Later,” I say. “What’s that?” I point to the bag. She shrugs again.

“It’s my lord’s bag, and she stole it right out of his hands!” the rich boy cries. His accent is thick. He starts to get up, but Celli turns a fist to him and he cowers away.

“That true?” I ask her.

“Nope. This stupid clod left it lying on a stool,” Celli sneers. “So it walked. What’s in here that’s so important?” she asks. Folds open the flap. Reaches a hand inside. The rich boy jumps up. Grabs at it. She shoves him away.

“Give it back!” he shouts. “Don’t touch it!”

“Celli, no!” I try to warn her.

She doesn’t listen. She touches whatever is in there. When she does, she screams. Pulls her hand out. It’s red. Bright red, like the petals of the flowers I used to pick. The color creeps up along her arm, swirling and curling like Mage Mark. She scrambles with the bag. Yanks it from her shoulder. Throws it at the rich boy. The curls don’t stop. They stretch over the skin of her chest, sizzling. She screams. Claws at it.

The boy doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bag and runs. Fast. I’m caught. Do I chase him down? Find out what that was? Or help Celli? I glance at her. The other boys are already surrounding her. Lifting her. Arguing over whether to go to the Academy or the Conclave. I let them. I turn and chase. I’m fast in a footrace. Known for it now. Made a few silver off it, racing.

The rich boy is easy to spot. A streak of yellow silk against the dingy gray. He’s fast, too. I trail him through narrow alleys and past sagging shop stalls. Zeze darts ahead in a blur of orange and black fur. The boy ducks around a corner and I follow. I skid to a stop in the crowded sea market street. It’s midafternoon. The lifts have been emptied. New wares are on display. Silks of green and red and gold that billow out from their hangings. Banners that snap against the salty wind. People. Crowds of people so thick I can barely squeeze through them.

“Young Master Tib,” Averie, the apothecary merchant, calls out from his booth nearby. He’s always pestering me to buy from him ever since Saesa told him about my vials. I brush him off as I catch a glimpse of yellow ahead. The rich boy ducks into a tavern. I know that one well. It’s not a good place for a kid like him.

“Later,” I say. I tug my sleeve from Averie’s grip and he fumbles with the lavender vial he’d been holding up to me as I run off.

Seabird’s Swoop is the name of this place. It used to be nice when I first came to Cerion. Now it’s a little more run down on the outside and the inside smells like fish, sweat, and ale. That doesn’t matter much to its patrons, though. Thirsty sailors don’t care what it looks or smells like, as long as there’s cheap drink and pretty women. This place has both.

Zeze slinks around my ankles as my eyes adjust to the dark. The fire is just coals and the candles aren’t lit yet, but I still see him in the corner, bright like a beacon. I take a step. Feel the cobwebs brush my face just before he glances to the door. He’ll see it as empty, even though I’m still here. Watching. I creep forward, past a bunch of men gambling at a long table. Past a few other men occupied with the tavern’s ladies. The barkeep looks up. Winks at Zeze. He lets her stay. He knows I’m here. We have an agreement.

I sneak up to the boy, who’s hunched at a small table with his back to the wall. He doesn’t look like he just got in a fight. His yellow silks are spotless. The blood on his face is cleaned away. Even his bruises are fading as he sips from a cup and sets it down with a shaking hand. Mage. He’s got to be.

With his other hand he’s got the bag under the table where I can’t see it. He peers into it. I try to come around for a better angle, but I can’t get one. He’s too tucked into the corner. His lips are moving like he’s whispering, but as close as I am I can’t hear anything. Saesa is teaching me to read lips, but I can’t make anything out. It’s a different language. A Mage spell, or Islandic, considering his dark skin and stubbly shaved head. He’s definitely an islander from Stepstone. Or Vermina.

An ocean-blue glow splashes the front of his silks. He snaps the bag shut and looks hurriedly around to see if anyone’s noticed. Nobody has, though. They’re all half drunk. None of them cares about the rich boy in the corner. His leg bounces nervously. He glances at the door again. I follow his gaze to the man who’s just entered.

He’s broad-shouldered with a respectably trimmed beard, dressed in well-fitted plain clothes. A short sword is belted to his waist. It takes me some time to place him. I’m not used to seeing him out of his royal armor. He’s one of Princess Margy’s guards. His name is Finn. I lean back against the wall and watch. To my surprise, he crosses straight to the rich boy. Nods. Sits. Eyes the strap of the bag showing above the table.

“Loren,” he says in greeting.

“Sir Finn,” the boy nods.

“You have it, then?” Finn asks.

“Right here,” Loren pats the bag under the table carefully. “You’ll take it to the princess?”

Finn leans across the table. His lips press into a thin line. He drums his fingers. Leans back again. Never takes his eyes from the boy’s.

“You’re certain of this?” Finn asks. Turns his hand over and beckons.

“My master swears by it,” Loren pushes the bag across the table into Finn’s outstretched hand. Finn scowls. Peeks inside. The same splash of sea-blue light spills over his face.

“How does it work?” he murmurs and shakes his head slightly. His expression is wary. Reluctant. He presses the flap closed to shut out the light.

“By touch,” Loren says simply. I think of Celli’s arm, covered in the red Mark. How she screamed. The magic in that bag is strong and strange. I can’t figure it out, and that worries me.

“You will remain here until it is done,” Finn says sternly. The boy smiles. Bows his head.

“Of course,” he says. “That was my master’s agreement. We of Stepstone keep our word.”

“Very well, then. Our business is done for now.” Finn stands up with the bag. Glares at it. Tucks it under his arm.

“I have this, too” the boy stands. He hesitates and watches Finn warily. 

“Course you do. What is it?” The princess’s guard holds out his free hand and huffs impatiently.

“A letter for Her Highness,” Loren produces a fold of parchment sealed with an aqua ribbon and a red seal. Finn nods and tucks the parchment away.

“That’ll be all, then.” It’s a statement, not a question. Finn is done with this business.

Loren gives a humble nod. He watches Finn cross through the noisy, crowded tavern and out the door. Then he sinks back into his chair, closes his eyes, and lets out a long sigh of relief.

“It’s done,” he whispers. I stare out the door and into the street in disbelief. What business was that? Why would Finn come here to collect such an object from a strange island boy and bring it to the princess? “No, master,” Loren whispers. He rests his head in his hands. His lips are moving again. Whispering strange words. I watch, unsure what to do.