Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (31 page)

Crocus, the leader of the Ring in Kythshire, has not bothered to grow herself larger. Instead she has chosen to remain her fairy size, a tiny, perfect figure high above everyone else. Barely covered by the rich green moss at her feet, I spy the shiny black stone known as Scree. I’m as surprised as everyone else is to see the two of them here.

“May I present Chantelle Rejune Cordelia Unphasei Seren,” Twig sweeps his hand toward her. “Crocus. And with her as always is Subter Crag Rever Enstil Evrest. Scree.”

At his introductions, the carriage beneath Crocus rumbles slightly, just enough to hint at Scree’s presence.

King Tirnon offers a respectful nod of his head.

“Welcome, friends,” he says. He invites them inside to break their fast, and Crocus giggles once more.

“We very much appreciate your kind hospitality, Your Majesty,” Crocus smiles dreamily. “I am afraid our time here is too short for such libations.” She gestures to the east, where the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. “You see, when the sun has risen completely we shall be gone, save for a chosen few. The Dawn is waning.”

“I see,” says the king. “Then please, tell me why you’ve honored us with this visit.”

“First, to bear a warning,” Crocus dips her head mournfully, and Scree rumbles beneath her as if to emphasize the point. “The Dusk, our enemy, is encroaching. You have seen evidence of this, Your Majesty, as have your people. Take heed. Be ever watchful of Shadow and Darkness. My stewards shall speak to you at length on this matter after we have gone.”

King Tirnon nods. “Very well,” he says.

“Second, to reveal a secret,” Crocus smiles sweetly. “But before we do, we shall praise you for your dedication to the promise your family made us generations ago, when Asio Plethore struck down Sorcerer King Diovicus, whose wicked and selfish actions nearly destroyed all of Kythshire. You remember the oath, Your Majesty. That no member of the Plethore line shall seek to wield the Arcane. No royal heir shall be schooled in the ways of the Mage.”

“I do,” he nods. “I have lived my life in chaste awareness of that oath, my dear Crocus, and have taught my children the same.”

Between the king and queen, Margy shifts nervously. She looks so small and helpless between them that I want to rush to her and protect her.

“Yet,” Crocus sighs, “sometimes it finds its way on its own, Sire. Sometimes, despite one’s fervent wish, despite one’s conviction and strength, despite one’s respect for the rules set in place, the Arcane chooses for itself. Sometimes, it finds the purest, most balanced heart, and seats itself firmly within such a welcoming home. A perfect host. A promise of things to come. A light that forever shines with truth, justice, compassion, and understanding.”

She offers a slow, deliberate nod of her head in the direction of the royal family, and Margy stands a little taller. On the horizon, the sun is half-obscured by the sea. The dawn is giving way to sunrise.

“We do not fault such occurrences, Your Majesty. Instead, we celebrate them. We nurture them. We infuse them with Light.”

“I do not understand,” the king says, his brow slightly furrowed. Crocus holds up a delicate, pale hand and smiles.

“Long has she lived with this secret, and long has it tormented her. When she reveals herself, I ask you, please do not feel scandalized or betrayed. Her secret was part of her trial, and she has earned our protections and our welcome with her earnest concern for our ways. And now I ask her to step forward and receive the Gift of Light, that she might let it guide her heart in moments to come, known and unknown.”

Crocus reaches to the crown of dew that rests on her hair and plucks a round, sparkling drop from it. She gives it a gentle kiss and pushes it off to drift over the crowd. As it makes its way toward the steps, other fairies send beams of their own light to join with it.

“Step forward,” Crocus whispers with gentle encouragement. The courtyard is so silent it feels like a spell has been cast over it. No one dares cough, we barely dare to breathe. I realize suddenly that many of the commoners’ eyes are on me. Even the king and queen seem to be expecting the shining dewdrop to be intended for me, so when it drifts past me and continues on toward the steps, a hushed whisper rustles through the crowd.

Finally, it reaches Twig, who plucks it carefully from the air and kneels before the princess.

“Your Highness,” he says with reverence.

Princess Margary looks up at her father and then her mother, as though asking for their approval. Queen Naelle, looking shocked, shakes her head in confusion and looks at the king. On her other side, His Majesty simply stares in disbelief. He looks up at Crocus.

“My daughter?” he asks. She nods slowly.

After a moment, His Majesty looks down at Margary again. He offers a hint of a nod. Instead of accepting the gift, Margy throws her arms around her father and he drops to one knee to hold her.

“I so wanted to tell you, Paba,” her muffled cry is clearly audible in the stunned silence. “I wished dearly to show you.”

The king whispers something to her that I can’t hear, and she nods and hugs him tighter. I glance at the sun, which is nearly fully risen. Only a flat sliver of it remains beneath the horizon.

Back on the steps, His Majesty stands and squeezes his daughter’s shoulder. Margy raises her hands. The crystals on her dress twinkle pink and gold in the brilliant sunrise with every movement. She looks at the dewdrop in Twig’s outstretched hand.

“If it pleases you, Crocus of Kythshire,” she says sweetly, “I wish to share this gift with my countrymen, should they accept it.”

“It is yours to do with as you choose, Princess,” Crocus replies. “We must say farewell now, until another Dawn, but we ask you to welcome the Elves to guide you. They have long fostered their own alliance with our kind.”

She turns toward the courtyard gate and nods, and six elves file in to a chorus of gasps from the human crowd. They stand tall, shoulders above even the tallest man in the gathering. All dressed in white armor and white cloaks, they march in unison to the front and bow to the king. Their white hair slides across their intricate leaf-etched armor as they do. If I hadn’t just witnessed a procession of fairies through Cerion, I’d say it was the most perfect display I’ve seen in this courtyard.

I recognize two of the group from our previous journeys to Ceras’lain: Julini and Shoel. The others are unknown to me. As they straighten from their bow and His Majesty offers them a hearty welcome, the gathered fairies begin to call out.

“Farewell! Farewell!” most of the entourage cheers and waves as the last sliver of sun is exposed. In a single burst of yellow-gold sunbeams, the majority of the figures fade away. Just like that, Crocus’ mound and Flitt’s carriage and unicorns vanish, and the dancers and performers disappear as though they never were. All that remains are Flitt and Twig flanked by the elves and Crocus’s dewdrop, which Margy guides to hover over the crowd.

“Share this with me, if you care to,” she says to the gathered crowd, and the dewdrop bursts into hundreds of specks of light which fall like a summer sun shower over the commoners.

I reach out for one and it drifts to me and settles in my palm. As soon as it touches me, I’m filled with a sense of peace and ease. All around me others do the same, until the golden drops have dissipated and we’re all left standing in bliss, watching the Princess and the others at the steps.

“My people,” King Tirnon’s voice is slightly shaken as he addresses the crowd. “This news comes as just as much of a surprise to me as it does to you. I would take this day to speak with my daughter and our newly made acquaintances from Kythshire,” he nods at Flitt and Twig. “As well as our allies from Ceras’lain. I ask your patience, please. As honesty fosters peace, I shall offer you a truthful address again before the setting of the sun tonight. Until then, be well.”

He raises a hand and waves to the crowd, and they erupt into a chant that brings tears to my eyes.

“Long live the king,” they cry, “long live Princess Margary!”

Their cheers stir a new fire in me; a need to make sure my king and his family remains safe. I catch myself grinding my teeth, seething at the thought of the archer in the shadows.

“Saesa,” I say, leaning down so only she can hear me. “Take Pearl back home, and come find me in the dungeons.”

“Lady Knight?” she asks wide-eyed as she takes my horse’s reins and helps me dismount.

“I’m going to get some answers,” I reply, surprised by the threat in my tone.

Tib

Sleep and dreaming. Rest. At first, I fight it. My thoughts are too scrambled. Too filled with new information. New, urgent things. Worries of home. Even with all of that, I guess I’m still tired, because I fall asleep quickly.

Valenor is waiting for me. I see him clearly, floating in the blue sky above. Drifting with the clouds. Nearby, sails snap and billow and catch the wind. Calming wind. Cool, refreshing wind. My palms press into rough wood worn smooth. A ship deck. My heart races.

“We’re here again, are we?” I call up to him. “My ship. My invention.”

“As ever, this is a dream of your making, Tibreseli. And as ever, I am delighted you would invite me to it,” he says. “You have gained knowledge since last we met.”

As I sit up, Valenor floats down to the deck of the ship and sits cross-legged in front of me. His eyes dance with amusement and kindness. After all I’ve been through, I’m surprised to feel comforted by his amusement rather than annoyed. He doesn’t say anything else. Just sits there, looking me over. Waiting for me to be ready to talk.

My thoughts are jumbled, though, and I’m distracted. Something about him is different. Or maybe he’s the same. I can’t place it. His dark skin, his white beard, the curly gray hair that brushes his shoulders.

“You look like him,” I say thoughtfully.

“Him?” Valenor quirks a brow.

“Kaso Viro,” I reply. “You look just like him.”

“Ah. Such is often the way with brothers, my friend,” Valenor winks.

“He’s your brother?” I scowl and think back. The harder I do, the more I see it. There’s no way they couldn’t be. “But how? I mean, why? If you’re brothers, why didn’t he help you when Jacek took over here? Why didn’t he stop him, or come rescue you in the caves?”

“He is bound to his realm, as I am bound to mine,” Valenor explains. “He cannot leave the sea. But this is a concept better left until later to discuss, friend. There are more urgent matters at hand.”

“Right…” I scratch my head and stand up to look over the side of the ship. It’s not like the last time, when we were simply floating along aimlessly. This time, the ship is moving much more swiftly. In my heart, I feel a sense of urgency. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“Once again,” Valenor smiles, “I have no way of knowing where your dreams might take you.”

I look up at the sky and off into the distance. With the position of the sun, it’s easy to see we’re going south. South of Cerion is Elespen, and then farther on is Sunteri. I remember what Kaso Viro said about the Keepers of the Wellsprings.

“Mevyn,” I whisper. “We’re going to Sunteri.”

“Ah, yes. That would fit well.”

“But, last time in the dreaming, I was able to talk to him through you.”

“Indeed.”

“Can I again?” I ask.

“I imagine,” Valenor replies thoughtfully. “Though if you seek him for the reason I expect, a simple conversation will not do, will it?”

“No,” I scowl and rush up to the ship’s wheel. Valenor follows.

“Shall I make him aware of your imminent arrival?” he asks.

“You can do that?” I ask.

“Of course,” Valenor peers out over the dreaming. The wind rustles his hair and bright cloak. “He and I are ever linked, from the moment we became one in the caverns of the North. Though we have since gone our own way, we shall always have this connection. A thread that binds us through leagues and through realms. A bonding, just as the one he shares with you, Tibreseli.”

“He’s still linked with me?” I ask.

“Oh, indeed. If you wished to speak with him yourself, you have but to call on him. But doing so would invite him into your mind once more, and if I remember correctly, that is an imposition Mevyn swore he’d never make again.”

“Right,” to my surprise, I smile a little. Somehow, knowing there’s still a link between me and Mevyn is more comforting than disturbing. As much as I used to hate him, I realize I have missed him these past years. I sort of wish he would be around sometimes. I scoff and push the feelings away. I’m just getting sentimental because so much is happening right now.

Still, it makes sense. I never could bring myself to get rid of the boots he gave me. His tether. In fact, I’m wearing them now. I always do, even in the summer. They feel lucky to me. Like even though he’s gone, he’s still watching. I didn’t realize until now how much I really believed that.

“So, my friend,” Valenor drifts to the port side. Below, the land stretches out in great patches of jungle green. Elespen. “Tell me. What have you learned since last we met?”

“Your brother,” I start, feeling strange. I never thought of Valenor as a man with relations. He’s always just been Valenor. Dreamwalker. “Your brother told Rian and me all about the Six. The offerings.”

“Did he, now?” Valenor scowls. “Things must be getting quite urgent.”

“He told us about the Keepers of the Wellsprings,” I say. A shiver goes down my spine at the mention of it. Like I shouldn’t say it. Like it’s forbidden. “And then he said I should speak to you to learn more.”

“That was wise of him. Do not fret,” Valenor says. “It is safe to speak of such things here, for we are in your mind, Tib, and none can breach that. In fact, your mind in the dreaming, I might imagine, is the safest place one could find oneself.”

I let the smooth wood of the ship’s wheel slide over my fingertips as it unwinds. This feeling, the wind in my hair, the whole ship at my command, is one I could get used to. I don’t say anything. I let myself enjoy it for a while. Let myself dream. Let us coast.

“Six offerings,” I say after a while. “Three from Light and three from Dark.”

“Yes,” Valenor replies.

“Shush says the Light will be fairly easy. How will we get the Dark?” I ask.

“There are ways,” Valenor replies. “Bindings to the earth. Origins. Rules that Light and Dark must both adhere to.”

“Origins?” I ask.

“One’s place of birth has power,” he explains. “Going home.”

“I was born in Sunteri,” I say to him. “But it isn’t my home.”

“For some part of you, it will always be home, Tibreseli,” Valenor says. “And so, receiving the offering from the Wellspring there shall prove very little challenge to you. Even less so because of your bond with Mevyn. Indeed. I daresay Sunteri and Kythshire will be the simplest of offerings for the Dawn to collect.”

“What about the others?” I ask. “Shush says he can get Kythshire, but where are the rest of them?”

“That is where it becomes difficult, I’m afraid. You see, the elves are quite protective of their Source, and they hold the last of the Light. The Dark shall be hard-fought. One is hidden in the thickest jungles of Elespen. It is guarded as Kythshire, with wards of magic and totems and golems which will deny your entry. Only a child of Elespen may gain entry, and whoever it is must be determined, persuasive, and strong-willed.

“If you are fortunate enough to gain entry and collect the offering from Elespen, you must then travel to the frigid north, to lands which are so harsh they go unnamed even now. Not even the giants who reside there dare wander into these frozen peaks. Those who do become lost in endless squalls and jagged stone and ice. You have been near to there before, my friend. It is close to where I was held, though my prison was in a far less treacherous setting. As you might have imagined, that place is the home of the giants, and only one of Giant blood might convince the dervishes that protect it to allow him passage.

“Then there is Hywilkin, Tibreseli. Do not be fooled by what you know of this place. Humans live there, indeed, but its Source is well hidden in the darkest cavern, in the heart of the deepest lake. No man has set foot within its borders for centuries. The last to do so painted cryptic and primitive messages upon the walls in the stone depths. Warnings to those who were unfortunate to find the place. Filled with the Risen, it is. A wicked, dark place that will leave any sensible man clutching for the last remnants of his sanity. As you might guess, it is more easily conquered by a man whose family line can be traced to Hywilkin soil. Though I would warn against any effort to seek it out.”

“But we need all six, don’t we? Eventually?” I ask. The air is becoming drier, now, and filled with sand. A glance over the side shows me what I suspected, desert as far as I can see. In the distance, the ground is covered in red blossoms. Sunteri. My stomach flips. I promised myself I wouldn’t come back here. It’s not a place I ever wanted to see again.

“My advice would be to begin with three, my friend. Begin with three, and pray you have no need to seek out the rest from their source. There is another way to seek the Dark offerings.”

I remember what Loren said about the Dusk already having two. They must be Dark. They have to be. They couldn’t have gotten into the Light places without word getting back to us. Valenor is right, and I can’t help but smile. It’s another excuse to go back to the stronghold. We’ll get the one from Mevyn, and steal the other two from the Sorcerers. That will give us three. That will open the way. We’ll get Errie, and maybe even save Griff and Mikken and maybe even the other kids.

“How does it work?” I ask him. My heart races with anticipation. Finally, a plan. A real direction. A way to stop them. “How does it open the way?”

“First,” Valenor explains, “you must understand the way cannot be reached by magical means. The first gateway into Brindelier is said to be well-hidden. An archway in the sky.

“An archway in the sky? Valenor, I’ve seen it. I know where that is!” I whoop loudly and turn the wheel hard until we tip to the side and nearly fall out.

“Now, now,” Valenor chuckles. Rather than tip to the side with the rest of the ship, he floats upright in place. “As exciting as that is, you must still have a way to reach it. As I said, Tibreseli, it cannot be reached by magical means.” He watches me closely. Like he’s waiting for something to dawn on me. “Do you see now, why I so encouraged you to continue work on your invention?”

“You knew,” I whisper. “You knew we’d need it to get to Brindelier.”

“Indeed,” he nods.

“Why didn’t you say so? You knew all of this the whole time and you never explained.” I try not to look as annoyed as I feel. “Was it my idea after all, or did you give it to me?”

“Oh, no, no,” he chuckles. “You are entitled to claim the idea as your own. Absolutely entitled. A strange coincidence, to be sure, but still, it was fully yours. As for why I did not explain things to you…I have found, in my time, that it is best to allow these things to unfurl as they will. Much like a sail to the wind, with as little interference as possible.”

“Helpful of you,” I mutter and spin the wheel. “Where am I going, exactly?” I ask.

“Surely you know the way,” Valenor raises a brow. “You have been there before, after all.”

I shake my head.

“All you need to do is think about him, of course,” he nods.

“Why are we flying all over the place, then?”

“I should ask you the same. It is—”

“My dream. Right.” I close my eyes and think hard about the last time I was there. Sunteri’s Wellspring. When I watched Mevyn restore it. I remember the oasis in the desert, green and bright, with its red-gold pool. When I open my eyes again, I see it in the distance. My pulse quickens. I will the ship faster and it obeys my thoughts, skimming across the sand, sending a wake of dust billowing behind us. Valenor holds tight to the rigging, laughing heartily.

We crash through broad green ferns and leaves as big as I am. The ship teeters on the edge between desert and grass. Everything around us goes silent.

“Mevyn!” I call into the green depths. The ship fades from beneath us and we tumble into the ferns.

“Do not fear,” Valenor says quietly. “You cannot be harmed here. As real as it may seem, we are still in the Dreaming.”

As if summoned by his words, the vines above twist and snarl together in an enormous tangle of a creature. It ducks beneath the canopy to lower its head to me. Opens its mouth. Lets out a ferocious growl that covers me in musty, damp soil and bits of leaves.

“We are Gred. The Oasis embodied. The Vine Keepers. Revived from Dust. Esteemed Guardians of the Northern Border. Who calls the out the forbidden name? What human knows to speak it?”

It howls fiercely and lashes its vines out at me like whips. I jump back to avoid them and stumble into Valenor.

“Answer them,” he whispers to me.

I try to look brave. Even with Valenor’s assurance it’s hard. Gred is huge. Horrible. The vines. The voice. It’s a nightmare. I try to steady my wobbling knees. Try to keep from collapsing. Its vines swirl with wicked force. They weave around it like writhing, thorny snakes. I imagine them reaching out for me. Binding my arms, my legs, so I can’t move. Pinning me to the hot, dry sand.

“T-t, T,” I try to speak, but my voice won’t work. The creature is terrifying. It’s just like the roots that held me to the ground the last time I was in Sunteri. The vines. The trees that were my prison. I’m the boy I was two years ago. Confused. Distraught. Alone. I’d rather face a hundred Sorcerers than this.

“Speak your name,” the creature rumbles and hisses. It lashes at my wrist. Thorns catch and rip my skin. I come to my senses. Dodge away from it. It chases. Lashes again. The sudden fight, the rush of battle, somehow helps me find my voice.