Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (21 page)

“I swear,” he mutters again as I link my arm through his and squeeze it.

“I think that’s everything,” she says, rising up from the moss with a flutter of her wings. “When in doubt, just do what everyone else is doing. Ready? Follow me!” She speeds across the grotto’s small pool, which is like a vast lake to us at our tiny size, and splashes right into the waterfall on the opposite side. I start to follow, picking my way around the edge of the pool.

“You just go along with it, don’t you?” he says quietly, taking my hand to hold me back. “You’re very trusting, Azi. More than I am. Sometimes, I wish I could be that way.”

“What choice do we have?” I ask, “You said it yourself. We don’t belong here. Mum said the same thing. There’s too much going on out there for us to stay here, and I can’t think of how to leave without crossing the border on foot. If we tried that, we might end up just like Da...” My voice trails off and he takes my chin in his hands.

“I’m not saying it’s a fault,” he says, “It’s one of the things I love about you. Just don’t let your guard down, okay?” he leans in and kisses me, and we stay locked together until we’re interrupted by a splash and an angry squeal from Flit.

“Really? I leave you for less than a cricket’s chirp and you can’t keep your hands off of each other? I thought this was important, Mage! Stop slobbering all over Azi and get through the waterfall!” She darts to us and takes each of our hands, and then we’re flying fast over the water and splashing through the trickling falls on the other side.

We come through dry, and my first impression of the Ring is that I’ve been here before. Blurs of colorful dancers streak past us as we stand outside the edge of the small meadow clearing, which is dotted with bright blossoms among the thick, green grass. The Ring itself is made up of pristine white mushrooms which create a perfect circle. Surrounding the circle of mushrooms, between them and the thick line of forest trees is a narrow strip of moss where a great crowd of fairies has gathered.

Some of them look like us, tiny people without wings, while others have stunning iridescent wings like Flit. Some are covered in fur so they might be mistaken for a mouse, and others resemble insects until they turn to look at us with human faces. There are creatures covered in tiny mushrooms, and fairies with sprigs of grass sprouting from their backs. Some of them are twisted and dark and spindly like the roots of a tree, with deep black eyes that sparkle, while others are bright and ethereal, with impossibly beautiful faces. I cling to Rian as the group closest to us turns to point. Their whispers rush through the crowd until almost all of the creatures around the Ring are craning to watch us pass.

“Hello!” Flit cheerfully greets those nearby. “Excuse us,” she squeaks as she pulls us through the path they create. As we approach the blur of dancing, it slows. At first I think it’s because of us, but then as they come to a stop I see Twig sitting in the grassy center of the ring. A few of those who were dancing fly up to perch on the mushrooms, and others settle beneath the caps to watch. “Hi, Twig!” Flit calls out, and he looks in our direction and gives her cheerful wave. Something pokes from the soil in front of him, and at first I think it must be a worm or a mole the way it’s burrowing upward, pushing the earth from below.

“There’s Crocus,” Flit points at the delicate spring-green bud that emerges and continues to grow just to Twig’s chest height. The petals transform to a beautiful deep purple as they fall open, revealing an elegant child-like fairy. The crowd around us gasps in approval and bursts into applause, and I find myself doing the same as she opens her arms in greeting. She has a delicate build that is not unlike a flower’s stem, and wears a crown of dewdrops on her puff of yellow-green hair. 

“Twig,” she says, and her sweet voice carries the same warmth as her smile. “Please present your name to the gallery,” she nods to the crowd with amusement in her bright green eyes, “which I see is quite occupied this noon.” Twig sticks his thumbs into his belt and rocks far back on his heels. His stick-like wings blur as they work to keep him from tipping backwards.

“Tufar Woodlish Icsanthius Gent,” he announces with a tone of importance, “currently reporting from the palace of Cerion City.”

“And what news have you, Twig?” she smiles gently, tilting her head to one side.

“The eldest princess’s ball was held last eve, with a great deal of magical decoration.”

“That would explain the flood of cyclones,” a large green fairy perched on one of the mushrooms offers in whispers. He has long, lean green legs and wings that fall sleekly over his back like tear-shaped leaves. At first I think he must be some sort of mantis or grasshopper, but when he turns and I can see his face, it’s quite human.  His hair is swept back in long streaks and his high cheekbones come to sharp points, making him look as though he’s flying into a strong wind. His large eyes are covered with a protective mask resembling the eyes of an insect. He pushes it up to his forehead as Crocus nods to him.

“We recognize Soren Hasten Udi Swiftish Haven,” she says, “Shush, what word from the North field?”

“Thank you,” he whispers quickly, so that I have to lean forward to hear him, “an unrelenting stream of cyclones throughout the night, and the trespass of a half-elf Mage and a human warrior.” A murmur rushes through the fairies, and those closest eye us cautiously. “Investigation tells us it is Lisabella’s daughter and her friend.”

“Is that so?” Crocus’ brow lifts gracefully as she scans the crowd and her gaze rests on Flit. She nods and beckons to us. “We recognize Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity and her charges.” Flit leads us to the center of the Ring to stand beside Twig, and Crocus waits for the buzzing crowd to settle before she speaks. “Please present your name, Lisabella’s daughter.”

“Azaeli Hammerfel.” I dip into a curtsy.

“A. H.” Crocus announced my initials thoughtfully. “Is that all?” I nod. “Well, Ah,” she says as the crowd giggles, “we are pleased to meet you.” She turns to Rian, “And the Mage?” she asks, folding her hands elegantly on top of her skirt petals.

“Rian Eldinae,” his formal bow spurs another giggle from the crowd.

“Re.” she nods again, “such short, strange little names. Ah, and Re. We now recognize you.” I glance at Flit, who is pressing her lips together, trying not to laugh.

“No, no,” she giggles. “Azi and Rian.”

“Well, it doesn’t match up, does it? And why is it she has a sword, but her name is Hammerfel? Did she drop her hammer? It fell and now she needs a sword?” Crocus covers her mouth and her laugh is sweet and melodic as a chime. I can’t tell whether she’s serious or teasing me. She turns to Rian, “Eldinae, though. That’s an old name. An elven name.” She tilts her head at Rian.

“My father is a wood elf,” he says.

“A half-wood-elf-high-Mage,” she claps her hands, “how oddly delightful! Oh, but you have the coils.” She swirls her finger in the air in the direction of his chest and leans forward, then gestures him closer as the scandalized crowd whispers around us. I try to follow, but Flit shakes her head at me and pulls me back, and my hand slips from his. He doesn’t hesitate. Instead he crouches down before the little flower, allowing her to reach her slender fingers out to him. All around us, the crowd of fae lean in, trying hard to get a closer look.

“How did you come by these?” She asks and lowers her hand, reluctant to touch him. Rian clears his throat awkwardly and glances back at Flit.

“I’ve been studying to rise to a new Circle,” he says, his voice a little feeble. “I came across some spells that were beyond my level and I was curious. I wanted to try them. Also, I was trying to help my friends, who were touched by your border wards.” The two study each other for a long time, and I feel awkward for him as I shift uncomfortably.

“Rian,” Flit leans forward to whisper. “It’s your turn to ask.” I groan inwardly. I don’t think either of us realized a game had started. Poor Rian.

“Oh, uh...” he glances back at Flit and then looks around the Ring, up at the vast array of fairies perched on mushrooms, hovering in the forest, and milling around the grass. I can guess how he feels. There are too many questions, where does he even start? “Is it true that the Mage Mark, that is, the coils, causes the cyclones?”

“Indeed, they are directly related.” She bows her head in grief, and the sadness drifts over me like a perfume. “Both mean that the balance has been disrupted, and that our Wellspring is abused. Were you unaware?”

“I didn’t realize,” he shakes his head apologetically, “that it was causing harm. I only meant to learn and grow so that I could be helpful to others.” Crocus nods, waiting for his question. “Why do you believe me so easily? I could be lying to you. I could be a danger right now.” All around us, the fae erupt into a fit of giggles, and even Crocus presses her delicate fingertips to her lips and looks down coyly.

“It is impossible,” she says, “to deceive us here within the Ring. Please, try. Tell me a lie.” I watch Rian as he opens his mouth and closes it several times, pausing in between to think, or scowl, or scratch his head. “So, do you see now?” she asks among a scatter of laughter from the others.

“I see. That’s very interesting,” he says. “Does it mean that you trust us, then?”

“To a degree, Mage. You may step away now.” She gestures back to the center, and then meets my gaze.

“Ah,” she beckons to me, and I exchange places with Rian. “You have the student’s print.” She gestures to my forehead. “Are you also a Mage? We understood that you followed your mother on the warrior’s path.”

“Rian chose me as his student,” I say. This close, I catch the floral scent of her petals. It’s so lovely that I have trouble forming my thoughts. “Just before we left to come here. It was easier that way to...” I glance back at him, trying to remember the events that happened just last night, but my mind is already foggy. “To get into the Academy. As a student. It’s very private. They keep things secure.” There was another reason, which I try hard to remember. “Oh, also I was affected by your border when my father crossed it. I wasn’t able to wield my sword. But that’s changed now. I’m still a warrior.”

I shake my head and rub my eyes. “Why do I feel so strange?” I ask her. Up close I feel enchanted by her. My eyes fix on the petal skirt, which is so full that I can’t see beneath it to tell whether she has a stem or legs and feet. I ponder that while she starts to reply, and I have to focus hard on her lips in order to understand.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she smiles. “My perfume has such an effect sometimes. You may step back, if you’d like. That will help.” I step back, and as the distance grows between us, I begin to feel my wits returning to me. “We are well aware of the Academy and its workings. You need not explain. Now,” she smoothes her petals, “how is it that you and Re came to be in the Half-Realm? The in-between?”

“We were trying to get to our guild, to warn them,” I say. “They were about to be betrayed. They would have been ambushed and killed. Do you know of Mistress Viala, and her plotting?”

“Yes, Twig has kept us well informed of the Mage and her hold on the young prince.” Some of the fairies perched on the mushrooms start to protest, but she raises a hand and they go silent. “It is an issue much debated within the Ring these days. Some feel that the prince is acting of his own accord, but we are of the belief that Viala has enchanted him. Either way, it is a dangerous pairing for the Wellspring.”

“He came here seeking treasure and power,” a fairy perched on one of the mushrooms raves, “his greed has blinded him! Without the Oculus which their people stole,” she jabs a finger at us, “our northern borders lie open and unprotected! There is peril on the Crag, and the prince is well aware. He’s the one who sent them here. Do not underestimate his motives!” The fairy is charcoal-skinned and wrinkled, with long orange hair and a dress of bright red embers. She floats up above her mushroom as though readying to dive into the circle. She sends a spray of orange and red sparkles behind her as she moves, which remind me of the sparks that fly from my father’s hammer as he strikes the red-hot steel at his forge. There is a long pause before Crocus replies.

“We do not recognize Ember at this time. The game will continue.” she turns back to me. I watch from the corner of my eye as Ember sits back down on her mushroom and crosses her arms with a huff. “We would like to be certain of the origins of this Mage. Are you aware of her past?” she asks. I try to remember what I know of Viala, which isn’t much.

“She’s from Sunteri, I think. She came to study a few years ago...” I turn to Rian for help. He looks from me to Flit and then Crocus.

“May I?” he asks. Crocus nods, and he continues. “She arrived six years ago from Sunteri to study at the Academy. Do you know of Sunteri?”

“We do. It is the triple continent, beyond the sea and the desert and the sea again. Far to the south. A land of mysteries not unlike our own. And so why do you suppose she would travel to Cerion to study?”

“Our methods are different here,” he says. “I imagine that she wanted to learn ways other than those taught by her countrymen. She rose quickly through the Circles until she became a Master herself. Everyone was quite impressed at the time.” There’s another stretch of silence and I nudge him with my elbow.

“Your turn,” I murmur.

“Oh,” he thinks. “You refer to yourself as ‘we’. Are you royalty? Should we call you Your Highness?” This causes a spattering of giggles from the onlookers again, and Crocus looks down at the ground with an adorable smile.