Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (47 page)

“I missed you,” Mya’s voice is much smoother this time. I know it’s intended for Elliot, but the tone still sends a shiver of a thrill through me. Right away, I think of Rian waiting for me at the gate. I wonder what Flitt told him and why he hasn’t come to see what’s taking me so long.

My thoughts are cut short as three more arrows whiz past in quick succession, urged on by Mya’s voice. Elliot is barely audible as he yawns back at her, “Missed you, too.”

Dacva reaches past me and puts a hand on Uncle and the gash on his face closes. Uncle stands a little taller, squares his shoulders, and stretches his hands up to cast.  His sights are set on the Mentalist. Their eyes are locked. I see the effort between them. Uncle, trying hard to fight the mind-control, and the Mentalist working harder to force his will. I see the magic between them like ropes of energy, and I slash at them with Mercy, severing them.

“I should have expected you to go back on your word,” I sneer at the Mentalist. As I stride toward him and the battle rages around us, I feel the sky lightening. The promise of morning bolsters me. The wings at my back grow bright and strong again. I feel the confidence I had when I arrived amplified. The Mentalist sees this in me, and for the first time I sense the fear in him. All around him, the bodies of his fallen allies lay crumpled and defeated. Only a few Sorcerers remain standing, and they have retreated to the hills again along with the imps who seem to see the approaching Dawn as a threat.

That’s what I think at first, until I spare a glance at the shadow-strewn hillside beyond the wall. There, a Sorcerer has his hands raised to cast. I’ve seen him before, in the assassin’s mind and in Tib’s. Quenson. His spell summons darkness in a great, swirling black mass that bleeds with malice and evil. The Void. It’s terrifying enough at first in its great formless mass, but then it starts to take a different shape: that of a serpent with sharp teeth which drip black like Eron’s sword. The black creature seeps over the crags, dwarfing the hillside itself as it grows and sprouts wings from its scaly back. As it slinks forward, it absorbs Quenson into it. The agents of Dusk huddling in the craggy shadows follow him. They step into the darkness willingly, allowing it to draw them in, becoming one with it. With every new addition, the creature grows larger and more powerful.

“Return to me, Xantivus.” The command is not a voice. It’s everywhere. It resounds from every sliver of shadow and resonates like a dark and wicked thought through my mind.

To my shock, the Mentalist turns his back to us. He walks calmly away across the stone walk and straight into the mouth of the Void beast.

“Azaeli Hammerfel. Peons of Dawn,” the beast hisses, “you are defeated.” With every word, darkness drips from the creature’s fangs and pools like sizzling tar on the stone before it. Its voice pierces through my ears like daggers, sending me to my knees. Around me, the Elite and the remaining Guard do the same, clapping their hands over their ears. I cover mine, too, but it does little to stop the torture. The fairies shrink away. Their golems vanish. His voice is too powerful. Too filled with agony and despair. “Your city burns. Your palace is taken. The sun will not rise. The Dawn has lost. Give us the offerings. Brindelier is ours to claim.”

“
Stand now, my Champion
,” the fairy queen’s voice drifts into my thoughts, soothing the pain, pushing away the fear. I see her clearly on her throne. She rises and glides down the stairs toward me with her wings slowly opening and closing. On the other side of the veil, the queen turns her back to me to face the Void. “Step into me, Azaeli,” she says. As the first beams of sunlight break across the horizon, I step forward and, like the Agents of Dusk with the Void, she and I become one with the light.

Tib

We crowd into the crow’s nest, as quiet as can be. Even though I want to whoop with excitement. Even though I could kiss Ruben and Raefe both for finishing it. For getting it going. I need to know how. I have so many questions. But, Margy. She’s awake now. Dispelled from the strange trance that held her up at the pyre. She’s angry, too. Pushing me. Crying. Fighting to get back to the Rites. I have trouble calming her. My elbow is still throbbing from Donal’s attack. I try to use that arm, but it’s too painful. I have to hold her with just one hand. For a princess, she’s pretty strong.

“I can’t be here. I can’t leave him,” she whimpers hysterically. “I can’t dishonor him. Let me go!” She shoves me. Kicks. Claws herself away and climbs onto the rim of the basket.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” Twig whispers. He opens his hand and a flower blooms from his palm. He blows the scent of it into Margy’s face. She stops fighting. Her eyelids grow heavy. She slips down against the low wall of the nest.

“Did you just drug her?” I hiss at the fae.

Twig knits his brow apologetically. “She was going to hurt herself. We have to get her down from here.”

“Keep a lookout, Rube,” I say as Twig surveys the height of the nest and the narrow ratlines that lead up to it. Without a word, he pops up to human size, scoops Margy into his arms, and flies down to the deck.

The ship sinks lower and creeps closer to the cliff. It’s almost like it has a mind of its own. Like it knows what to do, even though Cort is controlling it. I try to make sense of it as I pull a pink vial from my bandolier and drink it down. The bone knits back together and my arm tingles pleasantly.  I breathe a sigh of relief as the pain goes away. It’s not completely healed, but good enough that I can at least use it again. Climbing down the ratlines is painful, but doable. I reach the deck a little after Margy and Twig, grateful to be on solid footing again.

From the ship’s helm, Cort gives me a wave. Behind him, golems that look like they’re made of pure sky work the propellers and cranks. They remind me of the inside of Valenor’s cloak: midnight blue and stars, but when they turn a certain way, blue sky. It’s confusing to look at and try to make sense of. The sight of them makes me more aware. Valenor. He’s all around us. Cloaking us. Protecting us. His magic encircles the entire ship. Gives it a consciousness, almost. I catch a glimpse of his face just beyond the starboard wall and I want to run to him, to ask him how it all happened, but Raefe rushes to me, interrupting my thoughts.

“Amazing idea, Tib. I can’t believe it,” he says with a grin, squeezing my shoulder. “A flying ship!” With a nervous glance up to the cliffs he asks, “Is Saesa…?”

“Saesa?” I scowl and glance at Twig, who’s still holding Margy.  I hadn’t even thought of where Saesa could be. It’s strange that Azi would show up without her squire.

“At the gate,” Twig murmurs as he wafts another flower scent to Margy’s nose. “She’s with Rian, Shush, and Flitt. They’re waiting for us. They need the Princess.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

“We have ways of knowing what’s happening to each other,” Twig explains, “especially when we’re so close in proximity. Especially in times like this.”

Margy’s eyelids flutter open, and Twig smoothes her curls and whispers, “Ah, princess. I’m sorry.” He brushes a kiss across her forehead. She smiles contentedly. My stomach twists in anger. I’m not sure why.  Probably because he drugged her, and now she’s gazing at him like he’s the best thing in the world. He reaches to help her to stand, but I push between them and do it myself. Tears streak her cheeks and she wipes them away with the sleeve of her white robe.

“How could you take me away?” she narrows her eyes at me furiously. Her voice shakes with rage and betrayal. She pulls herself free from my arms and stalks away from us. “The vigil—”

“It’s over, Princess,” Twig says softly. He makes himself small again and drifts closer to her, opening his arms in a gesture of peace. She presses her lips in a tight, thin line. Her nostrils flare as she spins to face me.

“It’s not over. It’s defiled. Disrespected. Ru-ruined,” she hiccups the last and takes a shuddering breath. Twig lands on her shoulder and strokes her hair. He whispers something to her, and again my heart thuds angrily in my chest. Margy shakes her head violently and Twig darts away from her whip-like hair.  “Take me back to my father!” she screams at the two of us, her voice raised above the wind, her fists clenched at her sides.

“Shhh,” Valenor’s warning settles over us, but I can’t help it.

“Ruined?” I shout. “You think your father’s vigil is ruined
now
?” She cowers back against the bulwark as I stalk closer in my fury. “How about when his daughter is skewered by his own guards? What about then? You’re not going back up there, Margy. Those Sorcerers, you’re a threat to them. They turned your own guards against you. They want you dead, don’t you see that?”

“Tib,” Raefe takes my injured arm and pulls me away from her. The calmness of his voice only makes me angrier. “She’s the princess. Show some respect.”

“She’s my friend, first,” I tug away from him, growling at the pain that shoots through my elbow.  I wasted that potion. You’re supposed to rest, to let it work, and I didn’t. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Margy ducks her head. Twig floats in the space between us, like he’s defending her. I don’t know from what. I don’t want to hurt her. I’m trying to protect her. Trying to make her see. “What then, Margy? What happens after they kill you?” She winces at my question. “Who’s left to rule your beloved Cerion, when you’re d—?”

“Uh, Tib?” Ruben interrupts from above. He points up to the pyre, where three figures are being dangled over the cliff’s edge by dark tendrils.

“Cast the nets!” Cort shouts.

“No time!” Twig cries. He flings his hands out, palms up, and tangle of vines shoots from his fingertips. They weave together to make a net of their own just in time to catch Lisabella, who’s the first to be dropped. Azi’s scream echoes from the top of the cliff. Soon after, the other two fall into the vine net. Twig, looking pale and tired, lowers the three of them to the deck. He bows his head like he’s concentrating, and the vines spring back to him.

Margy gathers Twig close to her and whispers to him. I watch her give him her own energy. Watch him perk up a little. She’s tired, though. They both are. She doesn’t have much more to give. Watching the others warily, she creeps closer to me and clings to my arm. The bad one. It doesn’t matter. I barely feel the pain as she comes to me for protection. My anger toward her fades. Having her so close, depending on me, sends a rush through me.

Silently, I position myself between her and our former allies, not knowing what to expect. I draw one knife from my bandolier. Beside me Raefe looks a little confused, but does the same with his rapier. We circle Lisabella, who’s on her knees, hunched over her sword, trying to catch her breath. Bryse stands over her looking confused as he shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. Beside them, flat on his back, Brother Donal stares up at the stars. His hand drifts to his shoulder where I stabbed him. To my surprise, he doesn’t heal it. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet with a little difficulty and steadies himself against the riggings.

Bryse is the first one to see Margy. His eyes flash with recognition. He strides closer to us and his heavy footsteps make the deck beneath us shudder and creak. I raise my knife, ready to throw it, knowing it’d do little against the giant of a man. I don’t have to worry about that, though.

“Princess,” he says, his voice heavy with grief. He drops to his knees. Thumps his fist to his chest. Bows his head. “Please forgive me. It was a spell. I would never…”

Lisabella and Donal approach, too. They do the same as Bryse. Kneel. Apologize.

I glance back at the princess and she nods. “I know,” she says. Her voice is thick with pain and fear. “It’s all right, Bryse. Sir Hammerfel. Brother Donal. I know it wasn’t your doing. You’d never—” She interrupts herself with a scream as another figure hurtles over the side of the cliff and plummets toward the ship. Twig tries to catch it again with his net of vines, but he’s too tired. Despite Margy’s gift, his magic is spent. The figure hits the deck with a deafening crack that splinters the wood. At first, it doesn’t move. Lisabella, Donal, and Bryse take a cautious step toward it. Margy ducks behind me and peers out cautiously. She grips my arm so tightly my fingertips go numb.

“You have lost, little sister,” Eron’s twisted, sinister voice is almost unrecognizable. He pushes himself to his hands and knees. His neck bends at an odd angle as he grins and looks to the top of the cliff. “The Void encroaches.”

When he straightens to his full height, there’s a collective gasp from all of us. His chestplate is pierced through, showing a wound that would have killed even the heartiest fighter.

“How is he not dead?” Lisabella whispers.

“Oh, but I am,” Eron sneers and jerks his head to straighten his neck into place. “And soon you will be, too.”

Bryse is the first to react. He’s fast, for such a hulk. Even Eron doesn’t see him coming. He clomps to him, raises his fist, and drives him like a nail all the way through the already cracked deck. Then he kicks some splinters of wood down into the hole that’s left behind and grumbles, “That’ll shut ‘im up.”

“Bryse!” Lisabella gasps in disbelief.

“Yeah,” I scowl, “you put a hole in my deck!”

Cort scampers down from the ship’s wheel and skids to a stop right before the hole. Together, he and Bryse peer into it.

“What’s down there?” Bryse asks Cort.

“Barracks are up front, and storage,” Cort replies. “Captain’s and officers’ quarters are at the stern.”

They back away a little at the sounds of Eron’s raging screams and thumps below.

“We should figure out a way to hold him,” Lisabella says, looking plainly horrified. “And be respectful. He’s still the princess’s brother, after all.”

“No,” Margy whispers from behind me. “That thing is not my brother.”

“She’s right,” Donal agrees quietly. He takes my arm and heals it the rest of the way with a graze of his fingertips. “Resurrection is Necromancy. That beast may seem like Eron, and look like him. It might even have Eron’s knowledge, emotion, and memories. But it is a creature of darkness now. Immortal and changed forever. The butterfly can never again become a caterpillar.” His voice is soft and calming. When he talks, it’s like Lisabella’s peace pulse. I let it soothe me and I realize it isn’t magic. He’s just got that sort of voice. He moves through the group of us, checking us over. Takes special care with Margy. Heals the small scratches on her. Gives Twig energy, too. When he’s sure everyone else is healed, he finally heals himself of the knife wound in his shoulder.

“Sorry about that,” I mumble sincerely.

“No need,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You did what you had to in order to protect our princess and the throne.”

Below deck, the crashing grows louder. Eron’s angry howls give me chills. Lisabella and Cort exchange a glance.

“Are there iron chains on board?” Donal asks Cort.

“Aye,” Cort nods.

“Those will hold him for now,” Donal says, and Bryse and Cort agree to go and bind him up.

“How do we end him, Donal? Once and for all?” Lisabella asks quietly.

“This is one of those rare cases,” Donal replies, “when healers and Mages must work together. It’s like a stripping. Blood magic, Necromancy.” He glances at Margy and looks away. “The life that was taken from another to be given to him…” he sighs and shakes his head, and my heart pangs for Errie. Donal rubs his eyes and strokes his palm over the bare skin on the top of his head. “It’s complicated.”

“Could the boy be saved?” I ask. “The one they used?”

Donal shakes his head mournfully. “What’s done is done.”

My stomach twists with guilt. If I hadn’t been so bent on getting Dub, if I had just kept my temper, Eron wouldn’t be here. This is all my fault. I pull away from Margy and go to the port side bulwark to look out over the sea. Between her outburst earlier and my own guilt, I need to be alone. She’s got them now, anyway. She doesn’t need me. Suddenly, I just want to be away from this. All of it. I stare at the horizon and imagine taking the ship and just flying away, forever. Valenor’s face shifts before me. He doesn’t say anything. Just shows me he’s there. Shatters my daydream. Brings me back to the present.

As Cort and Bryse come back from below, a thundering voice from above grabs everyone’s attention. I know it right away. The Void. Declaring victory. Claiming that it will own Brindelier. I forget my anger and guilt and whirl to face the others.

“We can’t let that happen,” Twig says. “Eron is the Dusk’s claim to the throne. Where the princess is pure, just, and kind, Eron is her opposite: Corrupt. Wicked. Dangerous. The Dusk must not be allowed to bring him through the gates. He must be taken far from here until he can be destroyed.”

“I know a place,” Bryse says firmly. Cort glances up at him and nods. He seems to know just where Bryse means without him having to say it.

“If I can use the ship, we can be there in a day’s time,” he says to me.

“’Course you can use the ship,” I say, a little disheartened by the reality that I won’t be sailing off on my own any time soon.