Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (30 page)

Waves scoop up the sandy seaweed bottom and push it down again. It’s like a field. A drifting, rhythmic meadow. Colorful fish swim past in schools of red, orange, and yellow. Creatures like I’ve never seen cling to bright pink and green stones. They wave long tendrils with the motion of the sea. Shells of every color catch the light of the spiral staircase which shines through the glass.

I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s simple. Pure. Beautiful. I had no idea there was a world like this under the ocean. I can’t tear my eyes away. I press my hand to the glass as a dolphin races past us, chasing a group of purple fish with long, flowing fins. It’s not just the sight of it that interests me. It’s the simplicity of it. There’s no magic out there. Not in the sense I’ve known it. It’s perfect all on its own.

“Rian! Tib! He’s coming!” Loren’s shouts echo from below.

Rian pulls at my elbow as he rushes downward, but I’m still entranced by the scene. In the distance, a creature emerges from the depths. It’s fast, huge, and coming right for us. It doesn’t slow as it gets closer. Instead, it seems to speed up. I grab the edge of Rian’s vest to stop him. “Look,” I say and jab my finger to the glass.

“It’s fast,” Shush whispers. “Like the wind.”

“Come down,” Loren calls again.

“We should greet the Master,” Rian says. He doesn’t look away, though. He’s just as held by the sight as I am. I don’t even notice Loren until he’s standing right next to me.

“Stop gaping and come on,” he nudges me just enough to snap me out of it. We all jog down the rest of the stairs together.

The stairway opens up into a circular chamber. The walls here are glass, just like the stairway. There’s a wide walkway of pebbles arranged in mosaics of crabs and fish and mermaids with sharp teeth and flowing hair. It’s lined with high arches of pearls and shells, and it goes around the edge of a deep pool of water which takes up the whole center of the chamber.

In the pool, a dark-skinned man lounges with his eyes closed and his elbows propped on the side. He’s sleeping, or meditating. His curly white beard ripples down his chest like seafoam. Blue and turquoise and yellow silks drift around him in the water, covering his legs. His chest and arms are puckered in places with strange markings. Like the mosaic pebbles. Or fish scales. Aside from the scales, he looks a lot like Valenor.

Rian clears his throat, but the Mage doesn’t stir. Past the pool, past the glass, the creature from before is getting closer. Rian moves closer to me. Shush huddles near him.

“What is that?” Rian asks Loren. His voice is shaky. Nervous. “It looks like a…”

“Sea serpent,” Loren grins.

Beside me, Rian stiffens. He grabs my arm, like he’s ready to run. I’m with him. I didn’t sign up for dragons.

“It’s not slowing. It’s going to crash…” Rian trails off as the enormous creature bears down on us. Its markings somehow remind me of the man in the pool. Elegant, flowing fins of turquoise and yellow, like silk. Long, streaming wisps of tendrils streak from its face. Its mouth is open, gaping wide to show sharp, needle-like glistening white fangs.

It’s so close now I can see the reflection of the wall in its gleaming yellow eyes. I imagine it crashing into the glass, sending shards over us, making the tower crumble above us. I focus on the needle sharp teeth. What they could do. I don’t know whether to cower or run. I’m frozen to the spot. Terrified.

Then, something dawns on me. A feeling. A reminder. I think of Zeze and Margy, and the fox and Elliot. Just as the wall magically opens and the dragon plunges through it, I know. It’s him. The Mage in the pool is the sea dragon.

It sweeps gracefully through the opening like a dancing serpent, sending a spray of salty water over all of us. With a swirl of colorful trailing fins, it plunges straight into the Mage’s chest. The glass wall closes up. Kaso Viro sits up and opens his eyes, which are as bright and yellow as the dragon’s.

“Well, well,” he says with a curious glance at the four of us, “you certainly took your time getting back, Apprentice.”

“Yes, Master. Forgive me. I was held.”

As Kaso Viro leaves the water, his silks are already dry. No spell, no magic. It’s like the water wasn’t wet. Loren summons a robe and drapes it over his master’s shoulders.

The Mage grunts his thanks to the apprentice and draws the robe around himself. He looks at Shush first, and offers a cordial nod to the fae while Rian stands gaping.

“I have seen you, Soren Hasten Udi Swiftish Haven, and your unclaimed Ili’luvrie, Rian Eldinae,” he says with a glint in his eye and a half-smile to Rian. Then he turns to me. “And I have seen you, Tibreseli Ganvent. The Dreamstalker. The Untouched.”

“Nullen,” I cross my arms over my chest. Some muse. “Not Ganvent.”

“No?” he asks with a grin. “Are you certain?”

Behind him, Loren looks scandalized that I’d think to argue with his master. I don’t care. He’s just a man.

“Well,” I mumble, “not officially.”

“I see what is there, Tibreseli,” he points to my chest. “Come. I have much to show you. All of you.”

We follow him to the first level and the Mage stops and turns to his apprentice.

“Rather a lot of work you have, don’t you?” he asks, and gestures to the dusty shelves. “You’d best get to it.”

I’d have scowled. I’d have protested, if I was Loren. Or at least seemed disappointed to be dismissed so easily. He doesn’t do any of that. He just nods and gets to work. Magically, of course. Uses spells and magic on the lower shelves to clear away the dust, while Kaso Viro leads the rest of us into another stairway.

This one goes up. No glass walls here. Instead, they’re made of sandstone and carved with charts of stars and maps of places. Rian seems even more interested in these than he was in the sea. To me, they don’t make much sense. Kaso Viro is patient with him. He doesn’t rush him. He seems to understand why Rian would be so interested.

It takes us a while to get to the top, with Rian stopping every few steps to stare. When we finally do, the slit of the dome is perfectly angled to show the bright, full moon. It streams into a crystal in the center of the room, and the crystal casts its beams all around so there’s no shadow in sight.

Otherwise, the room is empty. No chairs, no tables or shelves or instruments. Kaso Viro beckons us close to the crystal.

“Forgive me for being so blunt and informal,” he says with urgency. “There is little time to lose. The son of the prince has been lost, as you both know, and this misstep affords our enemy a great advantage. In addition, they have Two of the Six. One more, and they shall be able to open the way. As you well know, we have none.” He gestures to the walls, and six empty pedestals appear against them.

“We can get one,” Shush whispers, “possibly two, if Sunteri is willing.”

“Three, if the elves will agree. Then,” Kaso Viro nods, “the Dawn shall have the upper hand.”

“Forgive me,” Rian says slowly. “Three what?”

“Offerings, Rian Eldinae.” Kaso Viro whispers. “You see, in order to seek the gates of Brindelier, in order to be granted entry, one must bear proof of the approval of three of the Six.”

“Six what?” I ask, not bothering to hide my annoyance at the cryptic manner of Mages.

“Six Keepers, Tibreseli,” the Mage replies. “Keepers of the Wellsprings.”

Azi

The sweet, distant sound of lutes and harps drifts in with the breeze of the late summer morning, its song so lovely that I lie in my bed for a long while simply listening. I feel more rested than I have in some time, and I revel in the pleasant sensation that everything is right with the world, and we are all at peace. I smile and hum off-tune to the melody. It’s familiar, somehow. A song I heard long ago. The drums join in slowly with their deep, steady rhythm. A heartbeat, strong and true.

“Up, up, up!” Mouli’s voice from my doorway jolts me. “Get up, dear! They’ll be coming through this way, Flitt said, to collect you.” I hear the clink of a tray on my bedside table, and I groan and burrow deeper into my bed. Mouli swats at me.

“Get up and eat something. It’s no wonder you fainted last night. No sleep and no food!” She clicks her tongue and tugs the covers away with surprising strength for an old woman

“Ahh!” I groan, “All right, all right—wait. Did you say Flitt?”

“Aye,” Mouli practically shoves a hot roll into my mouth. “She said last night when they brought you in to have you ready at Dawn for the procession. Eat! The others have already gone to the palace to receive them. Luca’s saddling your horse now.”

“Shadling mah…” I say around the enormous, hot mouthful. The events of the previous day come back to me slowly. No wonder why I’m so out of sorts. If it’s dawn, I must have only gotten a quarter night’s sleep.

“Don’t,” Mouli swats at me again, “talk with your mouth full. Honestly.”

I nod and swallow, and the hot bread burns my throat all the way down. “Why is Luca saddling my horse?”

“Aren’t you listening? You’re to ride in with the procession from Kythshire,” she explains as she makes another attempt to feed me. I grab the roll from her and bite it dramatically.

“I’m eating, all right?” I mumble. “Why do they want me to ride my horse two blocks? It seems a waste.” I take another bite and crane my neck toward her while I chew, and she rolls her eyes at me in a fluster.

“Appearances, I imagine. Knights ride horses, Azi.”

The fairy song grows louder as it nears.

“Oh,” Mouli whines and snatches the tray up. “No more time for that. I’ll get Saesa to help with your armor.”

She rushes out, and I pad across the floor in my bare feet and slide open the circle hatch. I nibble on the last bit of roll as I peer inside. Rian’s bed is still made.

“Rian?” I call, not at all surprised to be met with silence. I start to worry as I wipe my sticky fingers on my nightshift and begin working the straps of my hauberk to pull it from the stand. If he didn’t sleep here, did he rush of someplace foolish?

“Lady Knight,” Saesa bows in my doorway and I wave her inside. She gets to work right away getting me into my leggings and padding. While she works, she tells me in hushed tones about the goings-on at the Ganvent manse the night before. Her story blends oddly with the fairy song, and by the time I’m dressed, my skin prickles with chills.

“They didn’t come back?” I whisper to her. She shakes her head, looking just as worried as I feel.

“They’re nearing!” Mouli shouts, and Saesa and I rush out to the street where Luca is waiting with my horse. I mount up just in time to turn and see the start of the procession nearing on the main road. Saesa jogs alongside as I ride to meet them.

The first to appear are the banner bearers, carrying flags of green silk embroidered with golden threads in the pattern of tree branches. The three are triplets; female fae with flowing black hair and striking eyes of bright silver. Their high cheekbones sweep up to the line of their ears, which point elegantly at the crowns of their heads. Their limbs are long and slender, and they are dressed in billowing, airy silks the color of crisp blue sky. Colorful birds and butterflies soar behind them in the folds of the silk, diving in and out of it in an enchanting display. As they pass, the sound of rushing wind mixes with the fairy song.

The flag bearers offer me a low, respectful bow when they see me. All around, crowds of people crane and gawk and point at the procession and at me, too. I keep my horse steady and peer ahead for a glimpse of Flitt’s rainbow hair, but the entire spectacle is filled with so much color and life that I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to pick her out from it.

The flag bearers are followed by dancers dressed in a shade of pink that I’ve only ever seen in a sunrise. Their wings glitter and sway with their graceful movement, and their skirts release a sweet floral perfume as they twirl. The dancers are followed by jugglers who toss enormous flower buds up to the sky which bloom as they rise and close as they fall again. The jugglers are followed by a wave of winged fairies who rise and soar in a perfectly synchronized dance.

After the fairies comes a carriage of crystal and gold. A team of six white horses leads it and, I blink. They aren’t horses, and they aren’t leading the carriage. Each has a gleaming white horn on its head, and none of them wear reins or tack to pull the coach. It simply follows behind them magically. The coachman at the driver’s seat bobs his head to the beat of the drum and grins and waves to everyone as he passes as though they’re dear old friends. I have seen him many times before at the Ring, but never learned his name.

As the coach nears, I finally see the colorful head of hair I’ve been so eager to spot. Seated in the carriage, grinning from ear to ear, is Flitt. She waves excitedly to me, then points to herself as though she’s shocked she’s there. She’s wearing the same gown as last night, and her hair drifts out behind her like a banner as the carriage glides along.

Twig sits towering beside her. I can’t help but chuckle at the sight of him. He’s human-sized and has no wings, but otherwise he hasn’t changed. His tunic is of moss and dandelion petals, and his earth-crusted short pants are frayed at the hem. His bony knees are pressed to his chest in the small space. Even the fringe of black and green hair that covers his forehead is the same as always: matted with mud and sticks. He raises his skinny arm to wave to me, and leans to whisper to Flitt.

As they pass, she points at the empty spot behind her, and then to me, and I guide my horse into place behind them. Saesa walks beside me on foot.

The procession slows a little when I join, as if to show me off to the crowds. It works. Rows of sleepy-eyed men, women, and children have gathered in the streets to watch us pass. Some of the children laugh and rush in to dance with the fairies ahead of us. To my surprise the fairies encourage it, and our numbers grow as we pass through the streets. Behind us it sounds like a festival day. The music blends with cheers and sounds of revelry so merry that I can’t help but turn in my saddle to gape.

The line behind me seems to go on forever, with one spectacle after another lined up on display. There are spinning dervishes of pixies and enormous walking trees, and prancing doe-like fae with long spotted blonde hair who toss glittering gems into the crowds. There are fairies who play the locks of their beards with a bow like fiddles, and fairies of flame and light who are so breathtakingly beautiful that I have to tear my attention away to keep from being mesmerized by them.

Among all of this, brightly colored fairy orbs drift and bob in time to the music. At the end, far in the back, is one final coach. This one is covered in grass and soft white blooms which sway with the jostle of the cobbles. It resembles a hillock of earth. Standing at the very top of it is the most beautiful, pristine white crocus bud.

If this dazzling show wasn’t enough, a half-dozen Cygnets soar overhead on the sea breeze, announcing the arrival of the elves with their low, whistle-like calls. I strain to see the riders, but the mounts are so swift and so high that I can’t make out who’s driving.

The palace gates stand open in anticipation of our procession, guiding us onto the washed white sandstone of the promenade which sparkles brightly in the emerging light of morning. The way is lined with palace guards in highly burnished armor, standing straight and proud. Each bears a flag of blue and purple marked with the crest of Cerion’s Plethore dynasty. It’s such an impressive and rare display that I find myself grinning with pride. I had nearly forgotten the might of Cerion’s battalions. It isn’t something we have much of an occasion to show off on normal days.

As we make our way deeper into the palace grounds, the fairies’ song grows louder, wilder and more joyous. A few ahead of us try to entice the guards to join them, but they won’t be moved.

We reach the inner courtyard to the sound of Cerion’s trumpets. His Majesty stands on the steps, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he watches the procession. Beside him, Queen Naelle is magnificently dressed in fine brocade of lavender and blue. Princess Margary stands between the two of them, holding each of their hands and grinning. She, too, is in her finest gown of deep purple dripping with crystals which catch the pre-dawn light and toss it away again to dance playfully on the creamy white stone of the staircase.

A dozen palace guards flank the Royal Family on either side. His Majesty’s Elite, resplendent in their gold and blue, stand at perfect attention a few steps behind them. Everyone except for Rian is there in rank order: Mya, Uncle, Da, Brother Donal, Mum, Elliot, Cort, and even Bryse.

As the procession fills the courtyard with those from both Kythshire and Cerion, the cygnets circle overhead gracefully.

I watch in wonder at the marvel of allies of a century converging in one place, finally meeting without secrets or fear. It feels like a perfect, impossible dream.

With that thought, my heart sinks. I have had dreams like this before. Ones that felt as real as any other moment, like this one does. Terrifying dreams and wonderful dreams. The fairy music rises and echoes from the castle walls, and the dancing grows so infectious that even the king begins to tap his feet. My pulse quickens with the tempo of it.
What if it is just a dream?
I wonder, and I reach out carefully with my thoughts.

“
Valenor
?”

My mind is somewhat eased when he doesn’t reply. Had this been a dream, I’m sure he would have answered.

Saesa’s hand on my boot draws my attention. She moves closer to me and points into a shadowy alcove at the edge of the courtyard. A figure dressed in murky leathers stands in the cover of shadow. His bow is nocked with an arrow that drips inky black. I don’t need to check his aim to know it’s pointed directly at His Majesty.

I glance around in fear, but no guards seem to see him. Dancing fairies and silky banners swirl between us. My ears ring with the threat of sudden danger. There is no way, no time to warn the king. The archer’s fingers twitch on the string, prepared to let the poisoned arrow loose. I know what I must do. I summon my powers, let the magic fill me, imagine golden strings which weave around his arms. He lowers his bow. I make his arms heavier, and he tips to the ground with his arms splayed over his head.

“Fetch the guards,” I say calmly to Saesa without breaking my concentration on the golden threads. “Quietly.”

Her red head bobs away through the crowd, and moments later she appears with two guards at the alcove. I don’t look away until they drag him away, into the dungeons.

The threat weighs heavy on me as the spectacle of the procession finally begins to quiet. The carriage bearing Twig and Flitt and the second one, the hillock of earth, come to a halt at the steps. Twig is the first to stand, and Flitt hops to her feet beside him. I glance up at the crocus bud, but it remains closed. When the music finally fades away, Twig is the one to address the crowd. His strong, gentle voice carries with it the promise of friendship and light.

“Your Majesty, King Tirnon, Your Highness, Queen Naelle, Your Highness, Princess Margary,” he pauses at the last and gives Margary a reassuring nod. Margy beams up at him, her shining eyes filled with pride. “Royal subjects of Cerion, Riders of Ceras’lain, and commoners, the people of Kythshire greet you.”

This of course invites an eruption of cheers from fairies and humans alike. As exciting as it is, I’m still shaken by the archer. I find myself peering beyond the ceremony into all of the shadowy places within the courtyard, watching. Saesa returns to my side and I notice her doing the same. Thankfully, the threat has prompted a heavier presence of palace guards. They line the wall where they hadn’t been before. This comforts me enough to turn my attention back to Twig and the others.

Twig offers Flitt a hand down from the carriage. Even on the ground, he towers above most of those gathered. When they come to stand before the king, despite the fact that His Majesty is a half-dozen steps up, Twig meets him eye to eye. They all bow to each other, and when Twig straightens up he seems to realize his mistake. He’s made himself far too tall. To the collective gasps of the crowd he shrinks himself down, just a little bit.

“People of Kythshire,” His Majesty’s voice rings strong through the courtyard, “we are honored by your presence and delighted by the spectacle of your arrival. We offer a most heartfelt welcome to each of you.”

High above on the hillock of earth, the crocus bud giggles softly. The sweet, child-like sound echoes playfully through the courtyard. Everyone turns their attention toward the flower, and a hush falls over the crowd. The petals of the bud open one by one to reveal a dainty fairy inside. The flower becomes her skirt, and she stretches fragile arms toward the sky with a sweet, soft yawn.