Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (11 page)

“Rian, don’t...” my voice trails off as he holds his hand up to stop me. What he’s telling me about is the Mage’s secret of trained meditation. Rumination is a special art that they practice to open their minds and increase the flow of magic. He could be severely disciplined if Uncle or Viala or anyone else caught wind of him describing it to me in such detail.

“When I’m able to push through it, everything goes white and quiet. It’s the most beautiful, peaceful feeling after all that noise and pain. That’s the second stage. It lasts for a long time, Azi. Some people spend days there and never reach the next stage. You start to go mad from the stillness of it if you stay too long.” He watches me. I still don’t understand why he’s sharing this.

“In the third stage, if you’re ever patient and quiet enough to reach it, the sky is vast and blue, so blue that it dazzles you. The ground is a field of golden wheat that stretches as far as the eye can see.” My heart starts to race. How did he find out? I didn’t tell anyone about my dreams. Even when I was talking to Flit I didn’t mention the field or the sky. He’s joking with me, he’s got to be. He must have used some Mage’s trick to peek into my mind. I shake my head slightly, dismissing the thought. I’m starting to sound like Flit.

“Stop it,” I say. “I don’t know how you knew that, Rian, but just—don’t. It’s not funny.” He tips his head toward me, his expression something between puzzled and intrigued.

“I’m not joking, Azi. It’s written, and I’ve seen it myself. Do you remember last week when you asked about the Mark, and I told you I went too far and Master Gaethon tore me out?” I think back to that morning. Was it just last week? It seems like ages ago. I nod slowly. “Was it in your dream? Is that what you saw?” I hesitate, but I nod again. “Ha!” He claps his hands once and I jump. “I thought so! That explains your Mark!” He pulls the blank page close and starts writing frantically. “Somehow in your sleep you managed to enter the Third Stage. It’s unheard of! In your sleep! Some mages spend their whole lives trying to reach it and you just doze off and there you are.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Amazing.”

I have a hard time sharing his enthusiasm. The wheat field is mine, my private, beautiful, peaceful place. Knowing that others have been there or have tried so hard to reach it and it’s not mine alone makes it feel sullied in my mind. I’m reminded of the dark cloud on the mountain and the smudge of rain in the distance. I fold my hands in my lap and sit silently, listening to the quill scratch on the page. When it finally slows and stops, I look up at Rian. He’s so pleased with himself. One mystery solved. He doesn’t realize that it’s made me feel violated somehow.

“All done?” I ask, forcing a smile. He nods and stretches. “Now will you go to bed?”

“A quick nap,” he says. “Wake me for dinner, okay?” He brushes my cheek with his fingertips and I feel it warm with his touch. I close my eyes and he kisses me again, shorter than I’d like. He smiles at me and then stands and stretches before he slips out of the room. After he’s gone, I pick up the page of fresh notes. Reading them over makes me feel nauseated. They are so impersonal, so precise and analytical. I fold the paper and without thinking I cross to the hearth and drop it in. I watch the page brown and curl against the coals until the flames lick it into black char, and then die away. Somehow, I feel much better.

My father’s spell-induced sleep disturbs me when I go to check on him. This sort of spell is one I’m vaguely familiar with, but it’s usually reserved for criminals and madmen. No one needs to sit with him. He’ll sleep until the spell is lifted. I try to settle myself in there with him, sitting near the open window.

As I sit, I think back on my last game with Flit and what she told me about my mother. When I go over the conversation in my mind, I realize how vague her answers were, and how she manipulated the game carefully and distracted me whenever I asked anything about my mother. I suddenly wonder whether anything she told me was actually true. The dreams I’ve had certainly tie into all of it to make it more believable, but legend has always said that fairies have strong magic. I imagine that if they wanted to, they could make me believe anything.

Should I have trusted her so easily? Should I write the guild and tell them what I know? What would I say? That a fairy told me Mum is safe, and they shouldn’t bother looking for her anymore? They’d think I’d lost my mind. Fairies are mythical creatures who haven’t been seen for over a century. Nobody believes they’re real anymore. The notion makes me realize that we haven’t had a note from Elliot yet today, and so I leave my father and go to look for one.

It doesn’t take long. When I pass my room on the way to check the guild hall again, a rustling sound catches my attention, not surprisingly coming from the pitcher on the window ledge.  I cross to it and bend to look inside, where I find a lovely blue and black songbird nestled in the scraps.

“Well, I was just going looking for you,” I say to the bird. It blinks up at me, and then it hops out onto the ledge and lifts its skinny leg, where a tiny scroll is tied. I free the scroll as gently as I can with shaking fingers and unroll it to read:

On course. Will arrive at border three days.

“Thank you, thank you,” I whisper. Now I can send my own reply.

“Wait here,” I say quietly as I scoop the fluffy creature back into Flit’s house.

“Hey! Get your feathers out of my—oh, it’s you.” Flit presses herself against the wall of her house to edge past the bird and then stands at the lip of the pitcher with her arms crossed, scowling at the opposite wall.

“A bit of a tight space for a house guest,” I say suspiciously. Elliot’s birds are highly trained and very intelligent. They know to go directly to one of us at the guild hall. If we want to send him a reply, they always find him. Elliot is a wood elf, and wood elves are highly tuned with nature. They claim to talk to trees and animals the same as they do to humans. Flit pointedly turns her head away from me.

“Oh Flit, are you giving me the silent treatment?” She pulls her arms tighter across her chest and raises her elbows up and down sternly. She’s certainly angry with me, but I ignore it for now as I pen my reply to Elliot, carefully squeezing everything I can think of onto the tiny square of parchment.

Da still unwell, sleeping. Don’t expect us. Have word that Mum is safe across the border. Unsure if true.
I pause and try to think of anything else they need to know,
Rian’s trial tomorrow.
I consider waking Rian to make sure the message is okay, but I decide it’s important for them to know either way, and he really does need his sleep.

“Thank you, little bird,” I whisper as I tuck the note in place, “please bring this to Elliot.” She stands and shakes her feathers and darts off into the sky to the west.

“Wow, you even used your manners. I’m so impressed,” Flit says dryly from inside of the pitcher.

“I’m sorry about before,” I offer. “I didn’t defend you very well against Rian, and I should have. I was caught up in the moment.” Flit gradually comes into view. She ponders me while I try to look as sincere as possible.

“That’s alright,” she says finally. “Kissing is pretty amazing, even if it is with the stinky Mage. I almost felt bad interrupting. But he was doing High Magic. Above his skill. Did you know that it’s forbidden? He should know that, being an Apprentice. It seems like every time I see him his coils are higher and higher. If he doesn’t watch out, he’ll be swallowed up in blue-black. He’ll be just like a giant, walking bruise. Then he’ll be just as ugly as he is stinky! Although I do think blue is pretty. And black has its moments. Just not together. And not on skin.” She shivers and dives into the pitcher and rummages around, then comes back out sulking. “I’m all out of sugar cubes.”

“If I get you some more, will you play the question game?” I ask.

“Oh! Can you show me where they are? Then I can get my own whenever I like!” She squeals and claps her hands when I nod. I show her the jar in the kitchen where the sugar is kept, and she takes several and stuffs them impossibly into a pouch at her belt. I gaze out the window as she does. The afternoon is bright and clear, and the air is so temperate I can barely feel it on my skin. A gentle breeze carries the perfume of the fresh flowers on the windowsill. I stand on tiptoes and breathe in the sweet scent.

“There you go, loving dead things again,” Flit murmurs in my ear. “Creepy!”

“But it’s not, they’re not dead. They’re lovely. Don’t fairies like flowers? I thought you made dresses from them and wore them in your hair.”

“Well, we do. But we collect the petals after they’ve fallen. Or we grow them right in our hair. We don’t chop their stems off or ruthlessly tear them apart just so they can look pretty as they slowly die on our windowsill.” She flies up to the beautiful pink and white bunches and strokes them gently, “Poor little dears. It’ll be over soon.” With her back to me, I roll my eyes. There are some things we’ll never see eye to eye on. Many things, probably.

“Can we play now?” I’m eager for answers, but I’m not very hopeful. Flit’s behavior is especially ornery today. She settles in a sunbeam on the windowsill and nods.

“Yes. My turn. How did you get that bird to take messages for you? I’ll bet your tortured it, or brainwashed it, or did something just as horrible.” She looks up at the flowers and sighs and looks away. I blink at her in disbelief, and I wonder if all fairies have such a horrible opinion of our people.

“My guild mate, Elliot, is a wood elf. I don’t know how he does it. But I do know he’d never hurt an animal.”

“Oh! A wood elf? They’re okay. I like them. Your turn.”

“Do you remember the dream I told you about, where the diamond was given to me?” I start.

“Yes. My turn!” Flit giggles, and I groan and remind myself to be more careful with my wording. “Why did the stinky Mage make you an ice sword?”

“Um,” I think back to Rian’s spell, and how the canvas of the training dummy frosted and steamed as I sliced at it. I suppose it was an ice sword. I want to tell her the real answer, but I’m afraid it’ll disrupt my current line of questions. But then I weigh the two. I want to find out if I entered the third level of Rumination in my dream, like Rian suggested, but if Flit knows anything about the curse and how to break it, then I need to know right away. “I can’t wield any weapons right now. So he created that one so I could fight again.” I center my thoughts. If I play this correctly, I can get both of my questions answered in one game. “Rian believes that I entered the third stage of Rumination by having that dream, and that’s how I got Marked. How is that possible when I’ve never been trained in meditation?”

“Oh! That’s a good one, Azi! There are many ways to visit what you call the third level, or what I call home. It very rarely happens, but sometimes you can be pulled there by a group of special fairies named callers. The callers pull you in, usually while you’re dreaming, so others can talk to you and show you things. They’re kind of snobbish, those callers. You really have to convince them to get them to do anything for you. They’re rather annoying. But anyway, the stinky Mage was right. Traveling there will make you get the coils. That’s what we call the Mark, coils.  He’s clever, I’ll give him that!” She wrinkles her nose a little, “Why’s it so important for you to be able to kill people with a sword, anyway?”

“Not to kill people...” I sigh. How do I explain this to her in terms she’ll understand? My world is so much different than hers seems to be. “I’ve been learning to swordfight since I was a girl. I took it up because my mother and father are both Knights. It’s part of my birthright, it’s in my blood. I’m not bloodthirsty, Flit. It’s just... it’s different here. There are people out there who are ruthless, exactly the way you seem imagine all of our people to be. I took up my sword to defend others against those people. There are those who are too weak to fight, or too innocent to want to. I fight for them. To protect them. Everyone here in our guild does. We don’t fight for money or personal gain. We try hard not to be selfish or punishing.”

For some reason, it’s really important for me to make her understand. We’re good people. She pushes off from the windowsill and comes up to my eye level. Slowly she moves toward me and presses her hand to my forehead. I feel a soft tingling there and then she laughs and moves away so we’re eye to eye.

“I didn’t think you were lying. I hoped you weren’t. Sure, I’ve been around the kingdom these few days and I’ve heard whisperings about you, you know. Everyone talks about ‘Azi the great new promising Squire,’ or ‘that Azaeli girl who’s so sweet and inspiring,’ or ‘one day I want to grow up to be just like her’ or “mummy, please buy me a sword so I can learn to fight like her’ or ‘can’t you make my hair golden like hers,’ or ‘their family is such an inspiration,’ or ‘Cerion is a safer place with them in it,’ it gets a little sickening, actually. Seems I can’t flit from one street to another without hearing your name on someone’s tongue. Hammerfel, this. Azi, that.” She looks at me, and her expression is very different from the scowling fae that glowered up from the pitcher earlier. She seems enamored, now. “Your turn for a question!”

“I...” Her description of my fame throughout the kingdom jars me. She’s exaggerating. If it’s true, I’ve certainly never noticed it. I press my fingertips to my hot cheeks as she gazes at me, blinking expectantly. She’s on the verge of giggling, I can tell. I wonder if it’s a diversion, to push me off my line of questioning. If it is, it worked. I try hard to redirect my thoughts, to remember what I was going to ask. “You said that the callers bring people from their dreams into your world, and your world is the same as the third level. How does that work? Does my spirit go to your world?”

“Your consciousness does. So it would seem like you’re sleeping to anyone watching. But inside,” she taps her head, “you’re not there. You’re in Kythshire. Why can’t you wield a sword?”

“I’ve been cursed,” I say, “Whenever I try, I black out. You said I go to Kythshire? Where my mother is? Can I go there again? Can I talk to her?”

“Whoa, it doesn’t take long for the game to fall apart with you, does it? Which question do you want me to answer? You have to pick one.” She floats down to rest on the edge of the windowsill again. Her wings catch the sunlight and send it sparkling in rainbows across the kitchen.

“Can I go to Kythshire again and talk to my mother?” I ask, hoping it’s okay to put two questions in one. Flit gives me a look. She shakes her head and smiles.

“Typical. If you were to go again, you could talk to her if you could find her. But visiting that way, you’d probably need a guide. It’s not easy. It’d be much easier if you were really there. Kythshire is bigger than you think. And a lot more complicated.” She twirls her purple ponytail around her finger, “What exactly happens when you pick up a sword?”

“I hear screaming, and the room starts spinning, and then I black out, or I get sick.” My heart races just from the memory of it. “Could you guide me?”

“Not my job, you’d need a guide for that. They’re haughty, too. Very full of themselves. Think they know everything about everything. Then what happens?”

“What happens?”

“After you black out? What happens?”

“I let go of the sword...”

“Well, did you ever keep holding onto it?” Her tone chides me and I suddenly feel embarrassed. Not once in all of those swords and clubs and maces that Rian handed me did I think to keep holding on.

“I never did. Why? What would happen if I held on?”

“Azi!” The front door bumps open and without a thought I turn to shield Flit from Mouli’s view. When I glance behind me, she has already disappeared. “Oh, you’re here, I’m so glad. Look, I’ve got your dress and it’s just as I imagined it!” She closes the shutters and beckons me into the sitting room.

“I brought the tailor to measure you. It’ll need hemming and letting out in the arms.” The tailor files into the house followed by two assistants carrying a shimmering, deep blue gown with gold slashing at the sleeves and in the skirt pleating. It’s more extravagant than anything I’ve ever worn before, and as Mouli helps me out of my plain dress and into the rich, heavy gown, I find myself wishing that chain mail could be acceptable attire for a princess’s birthday ball.

“We’ll let it out there,” the tailor murmurs as she and her assistants circle around me. “Not so many ladies have muscles like yours, my dear.” They pinch the fabric here and there and take measurements and notes while I fight to keep from scratching the itchy lace at my neckline. I try to stay still as one of the assistants measures my bicep and the other kneels at my hem to pin it up.

“Plenty of extra fabric here,” she chuckles. I find it odd to have my body so scrutinized, but I try to hide my discomfort for Mouli’s sake. The door opens again, and I look over my shoulder to see Rian silhouetted against the waning sunlight.