Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3) (6 page)

“Nothing pressing? That’s reassuring.” I snort and adjust the wood against the iron. Two more screws. I flex my sore fingers and then set to work again. Valenor stays silent. Watches. Waits. When I finish my work and he still hasn’t said anything, I look up. The shadows are still again. Unmoving.

“Valenor?” I whisper. “What do you mean, nothing pressing? Valenor?”

“Keep an ear to the darkness and shadows, Tib. Listen to whisperings, especially at dusk. Do not dismiss that which strikes you as unusual. Keep working. Keep thinking. Be vigilant.” His voice echoes softly as it fades away, leaving my arms prickling with chills again.

“Thanks for that!” I call out to the empty room, a little annoyed. No use trying to get more information out of him. He’s gone. I toss my turnscrew into the toolbox and douse the torches. Climb up the ladder. Bar the door. Weave through the routes again. Back to the rich part of town. Back to Nessa’s, all the while thinking of Valenor’s warning and Loren and the vest and Celli. It’s not like her to steal. Not that way, anyway. A loaf of bread, maybe. A handful of coin. Anything to get by. Not a rich man’s bag. Or a rich boy’s, for that matter.
Do not dismiss that which strikes you as unusual
.

The Ganvent manse stands sturdy and welcoming in front of me. Cool stone, rosy with the sunset. Ruben is outside, tossing a ball up the stoop and catching it as it rolls down. He’s ten now, and always wants to do whatever I’m doing, only better. He doesn’t notice me yet. I pause. My mouth waters as the smoky aroma of roast meat wafts past. Supper. Nessa worries if I miss it. It’s really all she asks of us in exchange for her kindness. Make sure you’re home for supper. But these new thoughts about Celli are weighing on me. Valenor’s words ring in my ears with Loren’s. Something’s coming. Listen.

I take off at a jog. Past Ruben. Past the manse.

“Where you going?” Ruben calls after me. “It’s grouse tonight! Raefe caught ‘em! If you’re late, someone’ll eat yours! Tib! Can I have it then?”

“Go home, Rube,” I shout, waving him off. “And don’t you dare eat my grouse!”

He keeps following.

“Go home or Saesa will eat yours,” I shout over my shoulder. His footsteps stop. Go back the other way. My mouth is still watering. I’d much rather be at the table right now, but I have to find out about Celli. Why she stole that bag. The real reason. I pick up my pace. Run fast. Think about the red swirls. Celli’s screaming. Did they take her to the conclave, I wonder, or the Academy? Did the Mark keep growing?

My feet pound across uneven cobbles. Pebbles. Dirt. Mud. I leap over the filthy gutter and skid to a stop. The street that runs through the crooked houses of Redstone Row is empty. Too empty for this time of day. Usually at supper there are people wandering around, chatting. Looking for an open place at the table of a generous friend or neighbor. Either that or standing in their own door, calling out they have extra. Not tonight. All the doors are closed. Everything is quiet.

I step back over the gutter and pull the cobwebs around me to sink out of view. I press against the crumbling wall of Old Ven’s house. Listen harder. Hear low voices. Whispers. Urgent. Frightened. I follow the sound along the wall. Four houses down are the Deshtals. Celli’s family. Their small house is full of people. The door is closed tight. The shutters, too. I press my eye to the crack. Try to see. It’s too dark to make anything out, though, and the whispers are all jumbled together.

I turn to press my ear to the shutter. When I do I catch a glimpse of something even more strange. Two boys across the way, slipping into an alley. One looks back over his shoulder. His glance is full of fear and secrets. I step lightly into the street. Follow them to where they’re huddled together in the narrow space between crooked buildings. They don’t notice me as they stand close together, whispering. I know these two. Griff is twelve, skinny and scrappy. The son of a woodcarver. Mikken is eight. Rounder. Son of a butcher. Both are thought to be good boys by the adults, but I know better. They’re almost always up to some scheme.

I step closer. They smell strange. Like Averie’s apothecary booth. Old, odd things. Dead things. Not just that. Magic. Strange magic. I feel it around them. It lingers like perfume. Powerful. Quiet. Forbidding.
These boys are mine,
it seems to say
. Don’t touch.

“What are we going to do?” Mikken, the younger of the two, hisses. He’s terrified. Breathless. He’s got Griff by the arm. Griff’s not doing much better. He’s shaking. His eyes dart around. He tries to catch his breath.

“We gotta tell someone,” Griff mouths. His voice is too weak, too scared to make a sound.

“We can’t. He said—” Mikken starts, but Griff cuts him off.

“Shh!! Don’t mention him! You remember? Don’t dare, Mik. Don’t, or he’ll…” Griff trails off. Shudders.

“But Celli,” Mik whines under his breath. Glances toward her house. “Everyone’s looking for her.”

“She didn’t listen. They told her to get it and not to touch it, and she didn’t listen,” Griff clings to Mik, too. Keeps looking around, like the shadows will pop out and grab him.

“That doesn’t mean she deserves what they—” Mikken starts again, but Griff claps a hand over his mouth.

“You can’t. You can’t talk about them. Mik, remember what they said. Anyone could hear. Shadows have ears. Remember?” Griff slides his hand away as Mikken nods, wide-eyed.

“But Celli,” Mik says again. “What do we do?”

“She failed,” Griff whispers. “She failed, and she’s got to pay. We can’t do anything. You heard them. We have to do what they say or they’ll take us, too.”

“But how?” Mik whines again. “It’s impossible.”

“We gotta find that kid in the yellow. Track down that bag,” Griff says hopelessly.

“What if it’s already in the palace? What if he delivered it?” Mikken asks.

“Then we find someone to get it. We have to,” Griff whispers.

“But who? How?” Mik snaps his head up to a sound at the mouth of the alley. I look, too. A rat scurries past in the twilight.

“Tib. He goes sometimes. To visit the princess. We could ask him to get it. To find it,” Griff suggests.

“How do we even ask him that?” Mik shivers. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. Not to anyone.”

“Maybe he could get us inside, then.” Griff shrugs.

“No way. They’d never let us in the palace, it doesn’t matter who we’re with. We’re peasants! Look at us,” Mik grabs a handful of his filthy threadbare tunic. Griff looks at him.

“If Eron were king,” he whispers, “things would be different. He wouldn’t keep his people out, no matter what they looked like.”

“Yeah,” says Mikken. “He’d be a better king. I hope the appeals work. Hope he gets to be king soon.”

“Me too,” whispers Griff. “Things might get better, then.”

“Yeah,” Mikken says. He shakes his head. Neither of them has anything else to say.

I stand there, right next to them, my hands balled into fists. I have my own opinions about what should happen to Eron, and apparently we’re on complete opposite sides.

Still, whoever is behind this, whoever is so desperate that they would terrify children to recover that vest, must be wicked. Evil. Sorcerers. Why, though? Why is that object so important? What do they need it for? Who are they? I think about showing myself to them. Offering help. Asking all of these questions.

They won’t answer, though. I’m sure of it. If Sorcery is behind it, and I’m sure it is, they wouldn’t be able to tell me, anyway. I know how it works. I’ve seen it before.

“We’ll track him,” Griff says. “The rich boy. That’s the best first thing. Maybe he still has it. If he does, we can get it.”

“Yeah,” Mikken cracks his knuckles. “We can get it from him. He wasn’t so strong, anyway.”

“Let’s go,” Griff squares his shoulders. Tries to look brave. Mikken lets go of him and tries to feign bravery, too. They hurry off together. I follow them out of the alley, out of Redstone Row, and into the streets of Cerion. If they won’t ask for help, I’ll stick close to them. Try my best to keep them safe while I figure out exactly who they’re working for, and what they’re up to.

Azi

“Imagine,” Rian paces the length of the meeting hall with Shush drifting close behind, “a constant, nagging—”

“Nagging?” Shush interrupts with a hiss of a whisper.

“All right,” Rian pauses and rubs the back of his neck, looking up to the ceiling. “Persistently enticing?” He glances at Shush, who nods his approval.

“Imagine a constant, persistently enticing, luscious, divine little personal source of power. You know how it feels, Azi, to use it. To cast a spell. That sensation of the magic coursing through you. The euphoria. The…” he sighs, his eyes half-closed.

“I know,” I cross to him and take his hands. I do know. When I was lured into the Dreaming by Jacek and tricked into using Mentalism, I abused it. I let it tempt me just like Rian is describing now. It filled me with such ecstasy, such rapture that I lost myself. I forgot who I was and why I was there. I only wanted more. I wanted to feel nothing but that, forever. I shiver, and Rian pulls me close. “But you’re trained. You’re tempered to it, Rian. You’ve been tested and tried since you were a child. You know your limits. You’re in control.”

“Never,” Rian murmurs into my hair. “I’m never in control, Azi. I’m on constant guard. After a while it becomes second nature, but it’s still there. The conscious effort I have to make to keep myself in check. To keep from losing myself to Sorcery.”

“But you’d never let it go that far,” I say, stroking his arm reassuringly. “You wouldn’t turn to that.”

“Do you think,” he pulls away from me and starts pacing again, “a Mage just wakes up one day and says oh, I think I’ll be a Sorcerer? No. It happens gradually. Slowly. It inks its way into your heart when the Marks curl. A little bit here, a little bit there. That’s what makes it so dangerous. The more you allow, the more you want, the more you justify, until you’re black as coals.”

I glance at Shush while Rian keeps pacing. He seems to have lost interest in the conversation in favor of a dish of sugared summer fruits Mouli left out on the table. He picks up a morsel and sniffs it, pokes it, nibbles it.

“Human logic,” he sprays juice and sugar as he whispers through a mouthful. “You think I’d just give it to you, hm? Just let you take my power? Let you leech it out? Just like that?”

Rian pauses and turns to the fae. “Couldn’t I?” he asks.

“You’d have to make a conscious effort, first. Break down my barriers. Wards, you call them. Unweave the winds.” He snaps his sticky fingers and a tiny dervish of a breeze whips around him, scattering the sugar crystals at his feet and swooping his hair into a sharper point. “I wouldn’t offer myself for this pairing without taking precautions. Nor would I if I didn’t trust you. Even so,” he beckons Rian closer, “try it.”

“What?” Rian spins to fully face him, and slowly backs away.

“Come, now. Try it,” Shush beckons again. “I’ll show you, you can’t just sap me. Not anymore. We’ve learned things since the Battle of the North.”

I think back to all that time ago, two years to the month, almost, when Sorcerers attacked the Northern Border of Kythshire. Their combined power was terrifying. They moved mountains, literally, to gain the upper hand. When their keep was in place, they captured wind fairies, Shush’s charges, and used them to restore their own power. I remember clear as day, the cages filled with tiny white bodies. Sapped fairies. Drained and wasted.

Rian closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. The invitation obviously disturbs him. Slowly, he shakes his head and pushes his hand up across his forehead and through his hair. He looks at Shush squarely.

“I understand what you’re offering me is a great honor. An unbelievable gesture of trust. I am truly humbled, Shush,” he says quietly.

Shush looks up from his fruit. He gives me a glance and a little nod. He’s hopeful that Rian will accept. I’m not, though. I know him. In matters like this, he’ll always be stubborn.

“But until I see an honest, pressing need for such a partnership, I’m afraid I have to decline,” Rian crosses to the table and leans down so he’s eye-to-eye with the fae. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I think you should leave now.”

“I see. Well.” Shush looks wide-eyed from Rian to me. When I shrug apologetically, he stuffs his pouches full of fruit, gives us both a swift salute, and disappears in a blink.

I take Rian’s shaking hand and pull him to the group of squashy armchairs arranged around the hearth. He’s silent for a long time, his eyes covered with one long, slender hand. I take in everything about him: the slump of his shoulders, the way his robes pool around him in the chair, the way the firelight turns his auburn hair to fiery orange, the smoky scent of incense that lingers in the air around him.

I collect these things and tuck them into my memory for some dark moment in the future, when they may be all I have to cling to. I find myself doing this often since my time with Jacek in the dreaming. I have lots of little collections stashed away. Mum, Da, Flitt, plenty of Rian. Even Mouli.

Rian slumps back, still covering his eyes. I don’t realize he’s crying until he sniffles softly.

“Rian?” I reach for his free hand and he slips it into mine. He’s not shaking anymore, but his hand is cold and stained with ink. I rub it between mine and kiss his knuckles one by one while he weeps quietly in the chair beside me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I whisper, pressing his hand to my cheek. There’s something more weighing on him. Not just the fairies. It isn’t like Rian to succumb to tears. He’s one of the strongest people I know. For him to cry here, in the guild hall where anyone could walk in, something else must be going on.

“Can’t,” he whispers and draws in a deep breath. He rubs his eyes and wipes them dry. After a moment, he strokes my cheek and guides my chin to face him. “Look,” he says.

I feel it well in my heart, the warm desire that comes from his invitation. Look. All I have to do is gaze into his eyes and let myself tumble. Let the magic of Mentalism course through me. Allow myself to walk in his memories. Be him. Feel the bliss of it.
The more you allow, the more you want.
His words from moments before ring in my ears. Maybe it’s because I want to help or maybe it’s because I’m not as strong as he is. Maybe he’s trying to prove a point. I don’t know. I don’t care. The lure of the thrill pulls me until it’s nearly impossible to resist.

I gaze into his red-rimmed eyes and feel the swell of magic rush through me. My body tingles as I lose myself in the hazel flecks of his eyes: gold and copper and green. I fall away from the room, away from myself, and into his mind.

The Academy walls stretch up overhead to an elegant domed ceiling. He’s in the entry hall, which is stark white and completely unadorned. I remember this place in my own mind. I’ve been here once before, but now I’m Rian. His own memories and emotions leak into mine. He’s nervous. Afraid. He walks at a brisk pace through the entry, avoiding eye contact with the other students. They whisper to each other behind their hands as he passes by. Some of them raise their chins disdainfully, or glare. It’s obvious they have little respect for him here. It’s almost as though they’re afraid of him.

He pushes open a door that leads to a passageway of rich wood walls lined with shelves of various artifacts and instruments. As he walks through it, Rian works to calm himself. There is something very unnerving about this passage, as though these things were placed here to intimidate. He tries not to look at them, focusing instead on the gray door at the far end. When he finally reaches it, his heart is racing even faster. Despite his efforts his nerves are on edge. He rests his shaking hand on the latch and takes a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Inside is a cramped triangular room, all gray and dark. It’s the size of a dressing room or a closet. The shape of the room is unnerving, too. Stepping inside makes one feel off balance. He looks down at his feet. The floor is polished stone, white with circles of red, and slightly slanted. He takes a deliberate, measured step into a red circle, and magical light from an unseen source beams down around him. Within it are orbs of brighter light that cling to him in places. I remember these. They are used to identify any enchanted objects he might be carrying.

“Mentor Rian Eldinae,” a voice booms through the small room. The light goes dim again. “Step to the center.”

Rian does so, but the slant of the polished floor requires a constant effort to keep him from sliding. In the short time waiting for the voice to speak again, the muscles of his calves and ankles already burn.

“Mentor Rian Eldinae,” the voice booms again, “you are charged with six counts of Sorcery and Unknown Dealings, two counts of Trespassing at the Source, and one count of Intentional Harm to a Fellow Student. This trial will determine your motives for these actions and deem them necessary or unnecessary. If they are found to be willful and unnecessary, you will be stripped of your Title and Circles. Is this clear?”

“Yes, Master. I agree to answer all questions willingly and truthfully,” Rian replies to the empty walls with a shift of his feet.

Later, hours later, he’s still standing. His legs ache from the effort but he refuses to lean or sit. His hands are clasped behind his back as he answers question after question. They grill him about every noted instance of Mage Mark recorded in the time leading up to the Battle of Kythshire. He answers everything truthfully. Their questions turn to Viala, the student turned Sorceress. They ask him how he found out about her. Why he didn’t report her to a Master or Advisor. Why he chose to strip her without ceremony or permission. Most importantly, they ask him how he managed, as a Mentor-level student, do to it on his own. At that, Rian pauses.

“Answer the question,” the voice booms. I’ve counted several different voices throughout the interrogation. This one makes my skin prickle. I’m certain it’s Gaethon, the Headmaster of the Academy. My uncle. My own anger charges through me, overclouding Rian’s fear and nervousness. Uncle had been at the border for much of the battle. He saw things firsthand. How could he put Rian through this?

“I…” Rian’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. He reaches up and scrapes his fingernails through his short-cropped hair. This happened some time ago, I realize then. They must have questioned him right after Kythshire.

“I drew it into me. Her knowledge and power. I drained it from her, all of it, until it was mine and she had no memory of it.” This is true. I remember it well. But not entirely true. Shush was there, and Ember as well. The two fairies were sent with us to put a stop to Viala and her plots. Rian is careful to protect them, though.

“Impossible,” another Master barks after a long pause. “A Seventeenth-Circle Mage simply cannot, on his own, perform a full and complete stripping. We do not accept your answer as the entire truth.”

Rian shifts again. His feet are pounding, his knees ache. His toes are curled and cramped by his effort to keep from sliding. He wants nothing more than to relieve the pain, but he knows that’s precisely what this room is meant for; to demonstrate his conviction and his discipline. He could do any number of things: sit, float, even tilt the floor to level it. He could, but any of those actions would incriminate him as weak-minded and ruled too much by his physical needs. He visited this place many times as a child for counts of mischief and learned the rules quickly. This time is different, though. These accusations are far more serious.

“To protect the Wellspring and its Keepers, I regret that I’m unable to answer to your satisfaction,” he says clearly. To my surprise, they seem to accept this reply. They move on to the next round of questioning. This one focuses on Kythshire itself, how he was able to enter, what sort of things he saw. He answers each one in turn with the same calm reply: “To protect the Wellspring and its Keepers, I regret that I’m unable to answer to your satisfaction.”

The scene changes slowly as those words repeat over and over.

Now, he’s sitting in a dim room at a broad desk stacked with tomes and thick sheaves of parchment. Other desks line the room in neat rows, each holding its own stack of books, each employing a student hard at work.

Rian’s long hair tumbles into his face while he works and I understand that this is the present. Today, possibly. His finger traces across the ancient page as he transcribes its words to the stack of paper before him. His writing is neat and clear, not at all like I’ve seen it in the assignments he works on at home. Here, he’s careful and deliberate with each stroke of the quill. I understand these are books being copied to replenish Sunteri’s burned libraries.

I look closer at Rian’s book. The drawings on the page are disturbing: Men with skin peeled away to reveal the muscle and bone beneath. Their faces are twisted and tortured. While he copies, Rian seems to be in a state of deep meditation. His stomach is twisted in knots. He tries hard not pay attention to the words he copies, which are dark and wicked. Not many are trusted to transcribe this content. Rian’s high Circle and his restraint have earned him the privilege. At first he was proud to be given the honor, but the deeper he gets into these dark volumes, the sicker he feels.

Around him, the other students whisper to each other. They joke and laugh. No one seems to acknowledge Rian, though. Instead they make an effort to actively avoid him.

He finishes the page, places it on top of the neat stack at the edge of his desk, and starts another. At the table beside him, a younger student whoops and tucks his work into a leather binding.