Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (2 page)

“Azi!” A tiny voice breaks the strange tranquility. Princess Margy leans over the wall above me, grinning. A purple ring tied to a pink ribbon bobs from her tiny fingers. Half-dazed, I reach up and take it and hang it onto the hook where my glove is still caught.

“Time!” calls the crier. The crowd seems to find its voice again, cheering as officials rush onto the field to inspect the horses and count rings.

My knight slips from her horse hastily, her golden braid tumbling to her shoulder as she pulls her barrel helm free. She rushes to me and takes me by the shoulders. Her panicked blue eyes mirror my own and then search me, pulling my armor away from my skin to examine the injury, looking frantically for the source of the blood that has soaked the front of my livery.

“I’m okay, Mum,” I whisper, slightly embarrassed as I brush her hand away. “You healed it already.” Over her shoulder, I watch Dar throw his helm down in a fury and slide from his own horse. He shoves a still-stupefied Dacva roughly aside with the butt of his ax as he storms toward us. Dacva blinks and shakes his head, only just now starting to realize the game is done.

“Filthy Paladin tricks!” With his helmet off, Dar is even more intimidating. He stalks up to us with his nostrils flaring like a bull, his grimace baring two missing teeth as his nose bleeds into his beard. He spits blood at my mother’s feet and shoves her shoulder. She turns to face him, placing herself between us.

“Your boy was out to kill.” Her tone is measured.

“Damn right.” His eyes flash with cruel hatred. In the face of his rage, my mother’s peaceful demeanor makes him look a bit ridiculous. I shift my stance so she and I are shoulder-to-shoulder. When Dar glances past us at the king, his words are low and secret. “Put her in her place. In the ground, with the lot of you beside her.”

Behind us in the royal box, an argument between the prince and His Majesty draws my attention.  Two officials stand before the throne, each bearing a pillow. The red and orange one is empty, and upon the blue and gold one rests a single purple ring tied with a bloodstained pink ribbon. Prince Eron is contesting my mother’s Calming Pulse as an unfair advantage.

“Under the circumstances,” His Majesty the king declares firmly, “we rule that the use of magical force was justified.” He raises his voice to the crowd as Eron crosses his arms and looks away.

“The victor with one ring,” he declares, “is Azaeli Hammerfel, Squire of His Majesty’s Elite.” With a roar that is quickly drowned out by the crowd, Dar stomps to Dacva and grabs him by the back of his collar. He screams and cuffs the boy hard across the face with his metal gaunted fist. Dacva tries to struggle free and walk off with dignity, but Dar grips him by the back of his vest and drags him from the field in a ruthless fury.

My victory is dampened as I watch the two of them disappear through the dark exit at the edge of the arena. Redemption takes their station seriously. Their reputation is more important to them than friendship or family. They are ranked second in the king’s favor, right behind our own guild. Where I have been brought up with encouragement to succeed and patience for my failures, Dacva obviously has not.

“Come, Azi,” Mum says, slightly shaken as she tears her gaze from them. The horses and rings have been cleared off of the field and the second tournament is announced, pairing two guilds from the harbor borough. She guides me to the long empty bench just beside the royal booth where the rest of the winning squires and their sponsors will eventually be seated.

I think of Dacva and Dar as I stow my helm and gloves beneath the bench and scratch at my sweaty scalp. Perhaps it might have been better to let him win just to spare him the wrath of his family. Then I realize letting him win would have meant my own death. I try to push the thoughts away and I shift closer to my mother, whose attention is not on the game, but on the doors exiting the arena. Her eyes are narrowed, and in her lap her hands are clenched into fists.

“Mum?” I watch her for a moment and then follow her gaze to where Dacva’s form is crumpled against the wall of the exit tunnel. My father stands between him and Dar, who is obviously still enraged and inviting a fight. Da points deeper into the doorway apparently telling Dar to leave, and Dar kicks dust at Da and shoves him, but the attack doesn’t move him. My father is slightly smaller than the beast of a man, but not intimidated. He stands firm, strong and brave.

The scuffle catches the attention of the guards, who move in cautiously. My father points again and Dar waves a furious, dismissive hand at Dacva before stomping away into the darkness. As soon as he’s gone, the guards return to their stations and my father stoops beside Dacva and gestures to another man nearby. Brother Donal, our guild’s cleric. He and my father lift Dacva up and carry him off. My mother’s eyes are tear-filled as she turns to look at me. She starts to speak, but the words catch and she shakes her head.

“I’m proud of you,” she says on her second try. I know she wants to go and help, but it would be unheard of for either of us to leave the box until after our accolades are given. Instead I loop my arm into hers and squeeze it. The crowd roars again. The second game is finished and victors file in beside us as the next group is announced. Suddenly, I’m attacked by a flurry of brown curls and ruffles as Princess Margary bounces onto the bench beside me and dangles the winning purple ring in my face.

“This is for you,” she grins as she lowers it into my open palm. “Squire Azi! You can keep it. Mother said!”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” I tuck the ring into my surcoat. “And thank you for helping me win. Without your favor, I’d have to wait another year for my chance.”

“I know.” She bobs her head, watching the players on the field.

“You’d better go back up now, before one of us gets into trouble,” I say, feeling a little awkward with her sitting there.
Royal pup
, I think, and push the words away. I won’t ever have to hear them again now that I’m a squire.

“Father said I could sit with you,” she bounces up and down beside me as the crowd cheers at the games that have failed to capture my attention. “And tomorrow, you can come to the palace and show me how to play at swords.” I glance up at the throne and His Royal Majesty gives me a friendly wave. I smile and bow my head respectfully.

Normally I would welcome an invitation to the palace, but the timing is troublesome. Tomorrow, the guild will be readying to set off on the King’s Quest, which is traditionally declared on sunset the day after the festival. My duties to run messages, and inventory supplies and provisions for the trip, and to polish weapons and armor are too important to put off.

The bench slowly fills with new squires and their proud knights, and we are presented with the ribbons and medals of our new station. I wish I could be present in the moment, but my thoughts are already on tomorrow’s obligations. As I bid farewell to little Margary, I wonder how I’ll manage it all.

I’m half-starved and exhausted as Mum and I make our way slowly through the throngs leaving the arena. It takes us three times longer than usual to weave through the main streets, and eventually we break away to the lesser-traveled route which leads to our guild hall. The white stone spires of the palace gleam coral-pink us above the rooftops to the east, washed in the light of the setting sun. Mum and I avoid the road along the gardens that separate our street from the palace, knowing the crowds will be thick with sightseers along the park promenade, eager to catch a glimpse of the royal family returning from the games.

Though our hall is only a fraction of the size of the palace, it takes up a modest block of the city on the other side of the forest park. The compound is made up of a row of three two-story houses at the façade, and then another row beside it to form an L-shape. Ours is the first house we reach coming from the west, and the closest to the market square.

As soon as we step through our front door, all of the tension of the crowds and the games falls away. Our home is the perfect size for us, with two armchairs and a small couch surrounding the hearth, and a writing table against the front window. A cozy dining nook in the kitchen at the back of the main floor serves us well for breakfast and lunch. We usually take our supper in the meeting hall. Over the wooden counter, a window overlooks the back courtyard and my father’s forge.

“It wasn’t a bad hit,” I say over my shoulder as we make our way upstairs. Here, in the safety of our house, the fight with Dacva seems trivial. “I barely felt it. I’ve had worse in training.” Usually by his hand, I think to myself as we reach the small dressing room which connects our bedrooms. “I’m used to it, Mum.” She strokes a sticky strand of hair from my forehead and hugs me tightly.

“I know,” she says, sighing. “It still doesn’t make it easy for a mother to see her child bleed.” She steps back and brushes my shoulder with her hand as if to clean the bloodstain away. “It was well-fought, though, and Bryse is sure to be impressed by the amount of blood.” She rolls her eyes and musses my hair with her fingers. “Perhaps you should wear that to dinner.” We laugh and chat together as we help each other out of our armor, wash up, and change into comfortable, clean clothes. Mum chooses a soft gown and I decide on simple blue trousers and an undershirt. After a bit of thought I pull the bloodied tunic back on, a mark of my first real battle. Mum is right, if nothing else it will make for good conversation.

“Brace yourself. They’re not going to go easy on you, squire.” she grins as she hands me my sheathed sword and picks up her own, and I lead the way downstairs and out of the kitchen door. In passage to the hall, my stomach growls at the aroma of roasted pheasant hanging thick in the air.

As we approach the open doors, I catch snippets of our guild mates’ gathering. Mya is playing a lazy tune on her lute, and there’s a constant underlying snoring as Cort and Bryse argue boisterously about some wager. Two others discuss something in hushed tones. As we near, I catch a hint of the conversation.

“...going too far,” my father says. “They’ve never outright threatened us before. Not like this.”

“Keep your head, Benen,” Brother Donal warns. “A brash act is a dead man’s last folly. There is another solution. We yield to them. Relinquish...” The lute-playing stops as Donal’s voice trails off, and the rest of the room goes silent. The awkward pause continues for just a moment as my mother and I appear together in the doorway, and then chaos erupts.

“Azi!” Cort and Bryse whoop as they leap from the table and lunge at me, swords ready. Behind them Rian and Uncle Gaethon rise and lift their hands toward me, fists closed. My father and Donal jump to their feet and charge me, too. In the chaos I hear a screeching that makes me want to clap my hands over my ears: Mya’s warfare song. Thanks to Mum, I was expecting this welcome. I keep my wits and pull my sword free from its sheath.

Bryse reaches me first. I parry a high blow from his sword as he clashes into me. The muscles in his grey arms bulge, as thick as my waist, as he swings his shield in an attempt to stun me with a blow. I turn my shoulder to him, duck around the shield, and dive beneath his wide stance. Behind him, I roll and jump quickly to my feet, turn, and catch his sword around my own with a twist. It clatters to the floor.

I spin again to face Cort who’s been waiting behind him, flourishing a slender curved blade in each hand. As an opponent, he’s a stark contrast to Bryse with his slender build and deep brown skin. His long braids whip around his face as he flourishes his swords in an intricate dance. The weapons move so quickly they whistle and blur before my eyes, threatening to entrance me. His style is the most difficult for me to defeat with my own sword, which requires two hands and a slower swing. Still, I relieve him of one sword and then the other after a quick bout.

There’s no reprieve. Spells crackle and boom from Uncle Gaethon across the room, arcing flashes of light which burst before my eyes leaving spots of blue obscuring my vision. Brother Donal comes next with his staff. He battles me halfheartedly, a twinkle in his kind eye, and our short session ends when I send the long stick flying across the room where it only just misses the fireplace. He settles onto the bench nearby, breathless but smiling. Finally, my father approaches with his hammer. He goes easy on me with a very familiar three point combination I parry with ease before sending his weapon clattering to the floor, and then he jumps at me and curls his arm around my neck, laughing. Everyone cheers and embraces me. They clap me on the shoulder and hug me and congratulate me. I laugh and squeal as Bryse lifts me far up over his shoulder and hefts me across the room to drop me into an overstuffed armchair.

“If we’re quite finished!” Mouli appears in the doorway beside my mother and clicks her tongue disapprovingly. Tufts of grey hair peek out from beneath her hat. I blink the magic-induced spots from my eyes as my stomach growls again at the sight of the pheasant on the tray.

“Mouli!” Bryse jumps to grab his sword and mockingly charge at her, playing at recreating my greeting.

“Really, flashing your swords in the dining hall. Someone’s liable to get killed.” She ducks her head and bats Bryse away.

“Nah, Donal would heal us up in no time.” Bryse eyes the pheasant hungrily and tries to steal a taste as Mum helps Mouli with the tray. I laugh. This place is my refuge from the outside. Here there are no airs and graces. We’ve been a guild together for so long we’re as comfortable as family.

The meeting hall is a great square room. Its rich stone walls are decorated with several generations’ worth of tokens, trophies, and tapestries. In the center of the room is a long table lined with benches, which is used for both dining and planning. The great hearth, just inside the door, is encircled with an array of comfortable mismatched stuffed arm chairs.  At the far end of the hall beyond the long table, the walls are lined with shelves of books, scrolls, and maps. There are several writing desks there as well, for studying and drafting letters and plans.

Everything here in the guild hall is shared between its members. I’ve played as a toddler on its plush carpets as my parents planned their routes, and I’ve sat for hours practicing my writing as Uncle watched over my shoulder.  I’ve fallen asleep in the comfortable chairs when meetings ran too long, and I’ve crawled along the floor beside Rian as we made a game of tracking down the source of ants in springtime. This is my home, and my family, and with my induction as Squire I’m finally a true and official member of its company.

As I begin to drowse beside the low embers of the fire, I’m aware of the steady snoring which has been constant since we were in the passage. I turn to the chair beside me. How anyone could have slept through the chaos of my welcome is beyond me, but there Elliot lies, his legs draped over the chair’s arm, sound asleep. Now his nose twitches beneath a shaggy fringe of red hair as the smell of pheasant and pie and so many other wonderful things fills the room. Very slowly, he raises his head. His eyes, which have always struck me as an exotic shade of gold, take a moment to focus on me. In an instant he leaps up onto the cushion and his loaded bow appears pointed at my forehead faster than I can blink.

“Azi!” he shouts, and I’m too exhausted to do anything but shrink back into the chair and curl my knees up to guard myself. I let out a tiny squeal of surrender and cross my arms over my face.

“Too late.” Bryse says from the table, where he’s already heaping his dish with potatoes and both pheasant legs.

“Missed it.” Cort smirks and grabs a leg from Bryse, who growls and threatens a stab with his fork.

“Aw.” Elliot stretches, tosses his bow onto the chair cushion, and saunters to the table. “This looks amazing, Mouli.”

Wearily, I push myself up from the chair and join the meal. Dining at the guild hall is informal. There is no head of the table, everyone sits where they are most comfortable. I slide in next to Rian, who is a bit taller than me and rail thin. His slightly pointed ears peek out from his short cropped auburn hair. He grins at me as I sit, and leans to bump my shoulder with his. His mother, Mya, sits beside him. Her build is heartier and it is obvious Rian gets his height from her. It’s strange to see her dressed for a performance.  Her usually spiked red hair is smoothed back with a sparkling band, and she wears a revealing sleeveless gown with long slits revealing her bare legs. Beside Mya, Elliot is unremarkable aside from the wood elf’s point to his ears and the soft deer leathers he wears, dyed green.

Across the table, my parents greet each other with a kiss. Smiling, she smoothes back my father’s sandy gray hair and serves him a plate before taking her own. Beside them, Uncle Gaethon, her brother, straightens a stack of pages beside his dish. I pile my own plate with meat and root vegetables and bread and cheese. When everyone has a full plate before them, we bow our heads, clasp hands, and speak the blessing together. 

Mouli, who has been bustling around the table filling mugs and serving bread, stops beside me and fusses at my tunic. “Oughtn’t you have changed your shirt, Azi? Look at all that blood.” She clicks her tongue again.

“Bah, looks good on her. Makes her look tough.” Bryse winks at me across the table. “Was a good fight.” He shoves some potatoes into his mouth.

“It was a dirty fight.” Cort’s tone is distasteful. “Never should have happened. It’s supposed to be a game. They ruined it.”

“Azi came out the victor. Good was served.” Brother Donal nods and takes a gulp from his mug.

“It should have come as no surprise you’d be pitted against Redemption.” Mya’s soothing voice is steady, but there is an underlying note of anger. “I’m glad it’s over.”

“Over?” My father’s blue eyes flash across the table at Mya, and he stabs a chunk of meat with his fork. “How can you say it’s over? You didn’t see—“

“Benen.” My mother’s hand on his arm calms my father instantly. “I’m sure Mya only meant the arena. All of us here know it isn’t over as far as Redemption is concerned.” I look past Rian at Mya, who nods.

“As I was saying to Benen just before,” Donal brushes crumbs from the front of his brown robes, “it might be wise to relinquish our standing—“

“The coward’s way!” Bryse booms and his fists slam the table, and out of habit most of us reach to catch our mugs before they spill. “Give them our titles, or glory? Then what?” He leans across the table, looming over Donal. “You think that’ll fix it all? Giving them what we’ve earned by the sweat of our own brows? If they want it, they’ve got to earn it!” Donal folds his hands on the table and calmly meets Bryse’s furious gaze.

“I’m sure it wasn’t your intention to accuse me of being cowardly. I take no offense, of course.”

“Bah, don’t pull that with me.” Bryse drops to the bench and rips a loaf of bread in half. “You know it’s not what I meant.”

“It was a brazen act.” Cort shakes his head. “They’re out for blood. If they would be so brash right in front of everyone, in front of the king...”

“They’ll stop at nothing.” Elliot finishes his thought.

“Perhaps if we looked at the situation differently,” Mya offers, and she gives everyone a moment to settle into the suggestion before she continuing. “Perhaps the boy just got swept up in the excitement. Maybe Dar’s abuse toward him at the end of the bout, as you described it Benen, was a punishment for Dacva’s behavior toward Azi.”

“You weren’t there. The boy had it out for her from the start. Has for a long time and you know it. And Dar wasn’t going easy on Lis, either.” Bryse tears at the bread with his teeth and then sits brooding.

“Still, the game is done. Azi fought well, and we have no evidence they are threatening us directly.” Mya has always tried to be the voice of reason. Her level head and ability to look at a problem from every angle is how she rose to leadership. Still, I remember the fury in Dar’s eyes as he towered over my mother in the arena. I remember his words.
Put her in her place. In the ground. The lot of you beside her.
“Until we do,” Mya continues, “it’s best to just act as we always have. Keep ourselves in His Majesty’s favor by serving him and the kingdom, and watch our backs.”

“A wise beetle respects the spider’s web.” Donal proclaims. My mother catches my eye from across the table, and I can tell Dar’s threat is also on her mind. She chooses not to mention it, though, and I respect her silence. There’s a moment of quiet as everyone eats and drinks thoughtfully.