Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (49 page)

“Saesa is my squire,” I explain, reaching for her.

“That is acceptable,” says the Knight, and Saesa slips past him to stand by me. He turns to Tib. “And you? Where is your Faedin?”

“My what?” Tib scowls.

“Your link. Your Ili’luvrie.”

“I don’t have one,” Tib crosses his arms defiantly.

“He’s lying!” Stryker gasps. “Why would he lie about his Faedin, Gus? Deception! Danger!”

The Knight places a hand on his sword hilt for the first time since our arrival. “Why, indeed?” he asks with a warning tone. 

“Wait,” Rian says, stepping between the knight and Tib. “It’s not a deception. Tib isn’t lying. It’s just a misunderstanding. Tib’s Faedin is Mevyn of Sunteri. The Keeper of the Wellspring. His denial of their pairing is not a deception, but a protection.”

Gus looks Tib over cautiously. “Is that so? Tib, is it?”

Tib glares at the knight, his arms still crossed, his fists clenched hard around the handles of the knives tucked in his bandoliers. His lips press into a thin line. He glances at Rian and huffs a single breath through flared nostrils. “Yeah,” he finally admits through clenched teeth.

Still hidden in Gus’s helm, Stryker sniffs loudly at Tib. “That’s right,” he declares.

“Enter, then, Tib. You are most welcome here,” the knight says, and to my surprise, he bows to Tib in a gesture that is more reverent even than his treatment of the Princess herself.

The inner gate opens, and as we step through it I hear Stryker mutter to Gus, “What a motley bunch.”

“Aye,” says the knight as the gate creaks shut. “I wish them all the best.”

“They’ll need it!” Stryker’s laughter is shut out as soon as the gate closes, leaving us in complete silence to stand in awe before the great city.

“Will you look at that?” Rian whispers. He takes my hand and gapes at the city streets that stretch out before us. Everything is brilliantly clean and shining. Even the roads are a smooth, solid stone like the polished floors of the palace in Cerion. Graceful statues of dancing children painted with bright colors line the entry to the city, and banners of every color flap in the soft breeze. The air is temperate, not too cold or hot, even when we step past the main archway into the sunny square beyond.

On the opposite side of the square from the gate, buildings of painted stone tower over a babbling fountain. The shape of them is strange, narrow on the bottom and wide at the top, and each one is uniquely decorated with carvings of flowers and fauna and depictions of people performing various tasks. Margy crosses the square, wide-eyed, and we follow in a close-knit group, scanning the area for any possible threat. The thought is practical, but it seems ridiculous. The city is eerily silent. No carts roll through the streets, no merchants call from their stands, no horses stomp their hooves, impatient for grain. If it wasn’t so well kept-up, if things weren’t so polished and cleaned, it might seem abandoned.

Margy pauses at the wide window of what seems to be a tailor. The clothes on display within are bright hues of blue, green, purple, and teal. Exquisite embroidered gowns sparkle blindingly, almost as though they’ve been enchanted with light. Beyond the shop mannequins, the figure of a woman lies stretched out on an ornate, heavily-pillowed chaise. Her hair is perfectly set in curls piled on top of her head. The ruffles of her gown drip from the edge of the chaise in a glittering cascade of teal and blue like a waterfall. Her painted red lips are parted slightly, and her thick lashes graze her pink cheeks as she sleeps. In her hand is an embroidery hoop stitched with bright red thread against a golden silk. It’s tipped perfectly so that we can read the fine script that says, very plainly, “Welcome.”

“She looks like a doll,” Margy whispers. “A real, lady-sized doll.”

She tears herself away from that window to the next, and the scene inside is just as enchanting. This window is highly decorated with cheerful ribbons that sway in the breeze as we approach. In the window, several groupings of wares are on display. There are finely crafted amulets, strangely shaped hats, boots with odd silver trinkets dangling from them, glass bottles of every shape and color, books with strange writing and bold, rich illustrations on the covers, wrist cuffs of gold and silver, fine daggers inlaid with rare gemstones, and so many more items that we all peer into the window, captivated by the scene.

“Uh,” Tib tugs my cloak after a long while. “It’s just a shop. Can we go?”

“Wait,” Margy whispers and points to the window. Past the display, in the shop itself, a wizened old Mage with a long beard sits propped against the counter. His head rests on the counter top beside an enormous tome, and every once in a while, the pages are rustled by his breath. Along the counter’s edge, silvery letters float aimlessly, spelling out a single word: Welcome. Two young apprentices lie curled up on the floor on fluffy cushions. Each has a fairy tucked in the crook of his arm. All that is visible is the glint of their wings as the apprentices’ chests rise and fall.  A long scroll is stretched out between them, and a single word is illuminated on the parchment, arranged so it faces us.

“Welcome,” Margy reads. “See it?”

“It’s like they’ve been waiting for us,” Saesa says with wonder.

“It’s almost as if,” Rian says as he moves to the next shop window, “they knew they were going to be enchanted. They understood well in advance. Look how everything is decorated as if for a festival.”

“To celebrating waking up,” Flitt says as she presses her nose to the window and licks her pink lips. “Ohh, look at the sweets! Cubes and cakes, Azi! And look at those! Oh! They look like tiny rain drops!”

We gaze together into the window at the little cakes artfully arranged to form the word, “Welcome.” Again we linger, taking in the array of colors and whispering about the slumbering shop keepers dressed in cheerful striped gowns and aprons and oddly shaped hats. Tib slinks away from us to the next shop while we ogle the tasty looking treats, our mouths watering. When we finally tear ourselves away and come to his side, Margy laughs.

“We’re enthralled by sweets and magic, and this is where Tib finds his fancy,” she giggles.

The display in this shop is cluttered with all sorts of metals and ropes. Wooden crates filled with gears and pikes and screws and nails are stacked to the ceiling precariously beside the window, as though they’re about to tip. Tucked in the corner, looking rather grumpy, a red-nosed, round-faced merchant in a greasy leather apron sits with his arms crossed, snoring loudly. As we watch, his face starts to twitch. The long hairs of his mustache wind up around his nose. The shopkeeper sneezes so loudly that the crates in the window teeter dangerously. Giggles echo from the silence.

“Hey,” Tib taps the glass, “stop that.”

“Who are you—” I whisper, and clap my hands over my mouth as two fairies shimmer into view inside the shop. One tugs on the shopkeeper’s mustache again, and the second perches on the nearly-tipping stack of crates. In unison, they wink at us through the window. The man sneezes, and the crates tip and smash through the window with a resounding crash, spraying us with shattered glass.

Rian throws up a shield before any of us can even think to duck, and the glass falls to the ground at our feet with a soft, chime-like tinkling. With another peal of giggles, the two fairies dash out of the broken window in blurs of gold and silver.

They dart around Tib, who raises his hands to swat them away. Before anyone can stop them, they unclasp his bandolier, pull it free, and tear off down the street with it, bubbling with laughter.

“Get back here! Give that back!” Tib bellow.

“Make us!” they squeal merrily in the distance. “Catch us!”

Rian whispers a quick spell that sends the crates and gears back through the window, stacked perfectly as they were before. Another spell sends the glass swirling into place, perfectly repaired. Margy and Tib are the first to dash off after the thieving fairies, with the rest of us not far behind.

Tib

Red. Blue. Purple. Green. Yellow. Orange. With Margy’s hand in mine, we race together through the streets of Brindelier after the two thieves who stole my bandolier. All the colors of the rainbow streak together along the walls of houses and shops as we chase after them. Running is liberating. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I’d had a good, strong run. This city is doused with magic. It seeps through the stone walls. It hangs thick in the air. Creepy. Strange. Everyone else seems enthralled by this place and everything in it, but not me. I see it for what it is. An ancient place, frozen in time. Dipped and draped with strong enchantments to keep it still and perfect. To preserve it. Cakes and sweets that were baked a century ago? No, thank you. The way the others stood staring in windows, unable or unwilling to turn away, bothered me.

And now, this. Fairies. Not just mischievous but thieving. Stealing, trifling little sneaks. I pump my legs faster. To my surprise, Margy keeps up. Good thing. I’m so mad at those fairies I’d probably let go of her hand and leave her behind if she was too slow.

Up ahead, there’s a fountain. A man on a horse, draped in flowers. The horse is rearing up. Water shoots from its mouth. The fairies glint and flash as they hover high above it, waiting. Margy and I skid to a stop just before the fountain’s pool. The others aren’t far behind us.

As soon as they’re sure we’re all together, the fairies start laughing again. They pull a purple vial from my bandolier and toss it down at us. Before it reaches the ground, it transforms into a butterfly. The butterfly turns into ten butterflies. They swarm around us, releasing golden dust that tickles my nose. Margy yawns and sways. Shush blows a puff of wind, and the butterflies tumble away.

“Go home!” the two cry in unison. “We’ll pay you to leave!”

They throw another vial, this one yellow, and it bursts into a hundred golden coins that rain down on us and clatter on the polished stone of the street. As each coin falls, it multiplies into more coins until we can’t take a step without losing our footing on them.

“You’re wasting my vials!” I shout up at the pair. “Give that back!”

“Give that back!” the silver one mocks in a nasally, high-pitched voice. She tugs the bandolier from the golden one and tosses it onto the statue’s raised sword.

“Get it yourself!” the gold one laughs. The two link arms and spin in place, and the silver one streaks down toward Azi. Flitt tucks the offering orb protectively into her belt pouch just in time. The gold fae plunges into Azi’s chest plate and races off with her diamond before Azi can think to stop her.

“Flitt!” she shouts. “Your tether!”

Azi, Saesa, and Flitt rush off after the pair, who have already disappeared a safe distance down the street across from the statue.

“Here, Tib,” Rian says hastily. He wriggles his fingers at the statue’s sword and my bandolier floats down into my waiting hands.

“Thanks,” I say as I buckle it back on.

“Let’s go!” Rian says. He and I help the princess get her footing until she’s past the coins, and together we race off after Azi, Flitt, and Saesa.

We find them in the midst of a sleeping parade route. Carriages decked in banners and streamers sit motionless along the main square, with people lying sound asleep both inside the carriages and on the street, draped in silks and propped on pillows. In the center of the square, a stage is set with yellow and green curtains. Dancers in gaudy costumes lay in a perfect formation on the stage, arranged to spell out the same word as in the windows: Welcome.

“Look,” says Margy, “It’s absolutely…” her voice trails off.

“Creepy,” I finish for her with a mutter.

“Tib! No it isn’t,” she swats my arm as we watch Rian and Azi and Saesa pick their way through the sleeping crowd up to the stage, where Flitt’s diamond glitters between the two hovering fairies perched in the curtains.

“Please,” Azi calls up to them, “I don’t understand why you’re behaving this way. That diamond is precious to me. It means a great deal. May I have it back?”

“You don’t think so?” I ask Margy. “How long have they been sleeping like this? A hundred years? Doesn’t ever rain here? Don’t they get burned by the sun? Or pecked at by birds? How are they not dead? When do they eat? When do they relieve themselves?”

“Tib!” Margy gasps, scandalized.

“What? It’s a fair question.”

“It’s magic, Tib,” Twig whispers.

“It’s creepy. And why is everything all decorated for a festival?” I scowl. “It’s very strange.”

“It’s wonderful,” Margy says under her breath as Azi argues with the little thieves. “The kingdom knew they had to go to sleep, and they were so hopeful they’d be woken one day that they made ready for a grand celebration. They prepared for it. I think it’s an amazing show of the sort of people they are.”

“Look there,” I say as the fairies toss the diamond back to Azi and dart off again. “Those hedges should have overgrown the entire place by now, and they’re perfect. Who trims them? Who takes care of the sleeping city?”

Margy takes my hand and we run off after the others, back at the chase.

“Nobody does, Tib. It’s magic,” she says. “And it’s remarkable.”

I glance sidelong into her eyes, which are bright with wonder and hope. Innocence. Joy. She loves this. Even the part with the annoying little fae. She thinks it’s an adventure. A story to be told one day. It makes me uneasy. This much magic, no matter why it’s been used, is a danger. The fact that she doesn’t see it and neither does anyone else, worries me. Even Azi and Rian are laughing ahead of us. The fae have taken something of Saesa’s. Feat. Her sword. They disarmed her just like they disarmed me, and everyone thinks it’s a game.

‘How many circles are you, Magey-Mage?” the silver fairy calls down to the others, who are gathered below a painted statue of a herd of elk galloping across brook. Behind them is the grand stairway to a building so impressive it can only be the palace of Brindelier.

“Oh,” Margy gasps in wonder at the sight of it. The face of the palace is made up of perfectly symmetrical webs of stone, like lace rosettes. Each one is lined inside with colored glass, so the entire front of it glitters and shimmers with reflections of the sky and the buildings around it. On the other side of the facade, there are dozens of spires that point up to the sky. They are all different heights, from two stories to probably twenty. Just like the rest of the city, every surface of every spire is carved with scenes and painted with bright colors.

The most disturbing part of the outside of the palace are the suits of armor lined up along the walk. They stand completely still. They don’t even breathe. Still, I feel like they’re watching us as Margy and I join the others. With my healed eye I look closely at them, but I can’t tell if they’re actual guards, or just enchanted suits of armor. The fact that I can’t see either way puts me on edge.

“Yes, yes, how many Circles?” the gold fairy clicks his tongue at the silver one, and she tosses Feat to him. He catches it and swings it around aimlessly, which looks ridiculous because the sword is several times his size.

“Twenty,” Rian answers warily.

“Twenty!” the silver one yelps.

“Twenty!” the gold one laughs. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” Rian says. “Please return my Lady Knight’s Squire’s sword.”

“Ooooh a Lady Knight and a Squire,” the silver one chirps. “Which one is here to wake the twins, hm?”

“I am,” Margy says, stepping forward. The gold fairy spies her, his eyes narrowed, and drops the sword. Rian flicks his wrist to slow it with a spell before it clatters to the ground, and Saesa rushes to retrieve it.

The gold fairy floats down slowly, looking over Margy in her plain, smudged white robes of mourning. He closes one eye, looks at her hand in mine, and sneers.

“Who’s that?” he wrinkles his nose at me.

The silver fairy darts annoyingly around my head, and I swat her away.

“This is Tib,” Margy says, and to my dismay, she lets go of my hand and takes a step away from me. “He’s a friend.”

“And who’re you?” he asks. When he flies close to her, Rian, Azi, and Saesa take a protective step toward the princess.

“Margary Plethore, daughter of His Majesty, King Tirnon Plethore, grandson of His Majesty, King Asio Plethore, Princess and rightful heir of Cerion.”

The two fairies dart around each other, whispering quickly.

“Pretty curls,” golds says to silver.

“Dull brown eyes,” the silver one shrugs. “And what is she wearing? Where is her crown if she’s a princess? Do they all dress like that?”

“Don’t know,” shrugs the gold.

“What do you think?” whispers the silver. “Let her in?”

“Yes, let her in,” the gold nods. “Let them decide.”

“Come on, then, Princess. This way,” the silver one chirps.

Margary takes a step, and the rest of us group up behind her.

“Oh, no, no, no,” says the gold. “Just the princess.”

“I’m not letting her out of my sight,” I say sternly.

“Nor are we,” Azi says, and I’m glad she sees things the way I do.

“Azi is her Champion,” Rian explains to the fairies, who both hover with their arms crossed, looking dubious.

“We all go, or none of us goes,” I say.

“All right, all right,” says the silver. “You don’t have to be such dudskuns. You can come in a little further.”

“Dudskuns?” the gold one mutters to the silver, and they both giggle again as they lead the way through the palace doors and into the courtyard.

“Fillidinks?” the silver laughs.

“Sordiwumpuses,” snorts the gold one.

“Gig-a-lum-kus-es,” the silver gasps between each part of the word, trying to catch her breath from laughing so hard.

“Oh, that’s a good one. Tell that one to Poe.”

They pause in front of a set of steps across the courtyard. Here, we can look straight up and see the full height of the impressive spires. Even Rian stands with his neck craned back, gaping. Even I do, as annoyed as I am by this bold city and these stupid fae and their ridiculous games.

“You should really change,” the gold one says to Margy. “What were you thinking coming in such a dull outfit?”

“Yeah, she’s right,” says the silver. “You’ll never impress Poe looking that way.”

“Poe?” Margy asks nervously.

“Yes, Poe. You know? Prince Poelkevren?”

“His name is Pole- kevrin?” I huff, and Margy quickly shushes me.

“Didn’t you know that?” the silver one throws over her shoulder as she flutters away, leading us down a polished golden hallway. “You’ve come to offer your hand to someone and you don’t even know his name?”

“How dare you,” I utter under my breath and Rian catches me by the collar and tugs me back to keep me from snatching her right out of the air.

“Now,” Azi says. She rests a reassuring hand on Margy’s shoulder. “Wait a moment. We won’t have you speak to our princess that way. She’s been through many trials to get this far. We all have. And you’ve done nothing but make a game of all of us since we arrived here. You’ve insulted her clothes and her looks, and now you insult her intelligence. If you can’t show her the respect she is due, then perhaps your prince isn’t the right fit for our princess.”

I look at Azi with admiration. She said exactly what I wanted to, but I never could have done it with that much respect and kindness. I’d much rather have wrung their tiny fairy necks.

The silver fairy stares at Azi, and the silence between them hangs heavy in the air. After a long exchange of awkward silence, the silver fairy sticks out her bottom lip in a tiny pout, shrugs her shoulders, and says, “Fair enough. But I really think she ought to at least change her gown.”

“It’s not a gown, you idiot,” I shout, unable to control my anger any longer. “It’s a robe of mourning! For her father! She left his Rites to come here, for you stupid people! She left him so she could save you before the Dusk gets here, you ungrateful little specks!”

“Specks!” the gold one yelps. “Specks!”

The others stare at me, horrified.

“I like it,” says the silver one. “That’s a good one. Look how angry he is. He’s funny.”

“Smart, too,” says the gold. “Did you see that ship?”

“I saw it. Impressive,” the silver one says coyly. “He’s got a Keeper, too.” She flits closer to me and I glare at her. "Oh, yes. We know about you.”

“Yeah. We like you,” says the gold. “You’re spunky. Sparky.”

“Sparky! Get it? Because he just bursts out unexpectedly?” The silver one pats the gold one on the back, and they turn from us to drift along the bright corridor. “Good one!”

“That’s your nickname, then, Sunteri boy,” the gold one says. “Sparky.”

“No, it isn’t,” I grumble.  “My name is Tib.”

“The Knight can be Twinkles, because of her gold Mark.”

“Twinkles, yes!”

“And the tall one is Lanky.”

“Lanky!”

“And the—”

“No, the tall one is Rian,” Flitt interrupts. “I call him Stinky, because you know, Mages.” I can almost hear the eye-roll in her tone as she floats up alongside them.