Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (27 page)

She hovers her other hand over Flit and my stomach flips as a sparkling purple streak of energy swirls up from the fairy into her palm, draining the color from Flit’s ponytail. Flit struggles and reaches into a pouch at her belt. She pulls out a fist full of glittering red powder and flings it into the air. Viala screams and drops her to the desk, clawing at her eyes in pain, and Flit scrambles back toward us.

She isn’t quick enough. Viala slams a hand over her and opens a drawer with the other one to rummage until she pulls out a slender dagger. With a cruel stab, she drives the gleaming blade through Flit’s wings, pinning her to the desk. Flit whimpers as red light spills out of the wound, draining from her hair. Viala twirls her finger around the escaping energy, soaking it up as Flit lies helpless.

Enraged, I finally break free from Rian and dive at the two, but he’s quicker than I am. In the time it takes me to reach Flit, Rian grows in size as he leaps across the desk at Viala, crashing into her. They stumble backward together onto the floor and Viala utters a spell that throws him across the room. He catches himself and jumps nimbly to his feet as she looks around, frantic.

“Show yourself,” she growls as she raises her hands to weave a spell, but Rian is too quick for her. He charges again with his fingers outspread and Viala stumbles back, grasping at her throat. I tear my attention from them to Flit, who’s deathly still before me. The light spilling from her wings has changed from red to orange now, and when she looks at me, her eyes are colorless.

“My wings,” she whimpers. “My light.” Viala overcomes the choking spell and sends Rian flying again. This time he soars through the door and lands hard on the floor of the balcony.  I try not to imagine him being thrown over the wall to the cliffs below as I drop to my knees beside Flit.

“You took the Revealer for me,” I whisper through my tears, grasping her hand. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“She was going to kill you if she saw you,” Flit says. Her eyes close slowly as she shivers, her hair and skin draining to gray.

“Flit,” I whisper frantically through my tears as I shake her shoulder and squeeze her hand. Her dim eyes flutter open weakly.

“I have to go to the grotto. Heal.” She closes her eyes and I expect her to vanish as she always does when she announces that she’s leaving, but instead she just lies there.

“Go, it’s okay. You can get better and then come back to us with Twig later, right?”

“Don’t let her see you,” she whispers, avoiding my question. “Promise.”

“Flit, I...” I swallow the lump in my throat and steal a glance at Viala and Rian who are now locked in a furious battle of lightning and flame on the balcony.

“Promise,” she says again.

“I promise...” I agree reluctantly.

She wriggles her hand in mine weakly. “I can’t take you, too. You have to let me go.” I realize that it’s her hand in mine that’s keeping her from going. I let it fall away, and she slowly fades until the only thing that remains of her is the still-sparkling shred of her wing pinned by the dagger.

I keep my promise as Rian and Viala’s battle moves inside again, and I dive behind a stack of books as she’s thrown into the desk. Rian is thrust away once more and he’s down for long enough to give her time to cast the Revealer. He tries to cast a shield to block it, but he isn’t fast enough. The air shimmers around him and Viala stumbles back, shocked.

“Rian,” she breathes. “What are doing here?” Rian cradles his right arm to his chest as he pushes himself to his feet.

“Stay right there,” Viala growls, “or I swear I’ll break your other arm, too. Answer me! How did you get past the wards? Why are you lurking in my room? What did you see?” I watch helplessly from behind my stack of books, wishing fervently that Rian had restored my size. Right now, all I have to fight with is a sword that would feel like no more than a pin prick to her. I curse myself for making that promise to Flit.

“I saw enough, Viala,” he says bitterly. “Who are they?” He points to the desk where the slab lies blank. She steals a quick glance behind her, long enough to see that Flit has escaped the dagger. Her face falls and she clutches the chair for support as she turns back to Rian.

“Please,” her tone changes instantly from venomous to desperate. “Please, you have to help me, Rian.” Rian’s eyes widen as she crosses to him. She reaches out for him but he leans away. “Please, you saw what they said. Help me or they’ll...” her voice trails off.

“Who are they?” he asks again with a glare as he steps back. “How did you get tangled up in this?”

“Sorcerers. They recognized my skill. They sent me here to learn. They said I could repay them later. Just learn, they said. Learn everything you can, as fast as you can. Find out about the Wellspring, and Kythshire. Report it all. It was my only dream, Rian, to be a Mage, to gain power and fame. I never would have had the means to go to school otherwise. I would have worked in the dye fields all my life if they hadn’t offered to sponsor me. It was too good to be true, but I didn’t care. And now,” she blinks piteously at him, “now they have my family.”

“That won’t work with me, Viala. I heard what you said. You don’t care about your family. You’re in it for yourself and you don’t care what happens to anyone else.” Viala eyes him like a predator watching a meal. Calculating. Thinking of an angle.

“You’ve always been brilliant,” she coos. “I’ve shown you the rush. You’ve felt it with me, remember?” She steps closer to him, traces her fingers over the Mark on his chest. “And that was only Rumination. Imagine the feel of it in the flesh. The liquid gold slipping through your fingers. Tell me where Azi is, and you and I’ll share it with you. We’ll unlock its secrets,” she slides her fingers through his hair, “together.”

“Get away from me.” He grabs her wrist and throws it down. “You’re out of your mind. You’ve betrayed everything we stand for, Viala. You’ve stolen sacred knowledge, secrets, and shared it all. And with whom? For what? Look at yourself. Your greed is consuming you. And now you expect me to help you?” His eyes flash with a rage I’ve never seen before in him. “You know how I feel about Azi. Some of us value love over power.”

“Enough. Where is she?” she snarls.

“I'm not telling you anything.” At Rian refusal to answer, she thrusts her hands out, and her spell strikes him violently. He crashes against the far wall, grabbing the draperies to steady himself. His reply is a murmured word, an attempt to cast sleep. She interrupts with a black tendril that lashes from her palm and wraps around his throat.

“You
will
tell me,” she growls. While Rian writhes and chokes, Viala looms over him and presses a fingertip to his forehead. “One way or another.” A spark of energy flares at Rian’s brow, and the vein at his temple bulges.

“Where,” she demands over his moaning and gasping, “is she?”

I forget my promise to Flit. I can’t bear to hide myself away and watch this.

“Here!” I scream. “I’m here!” I shove a glass jar off of the edge of the desk. It shatters on the floor and Viala whirls around. I push a second and a third. It works. In her moment of distraction, Rian dispels the choking tendril. He croaks out the sleep spell and thrusts his good hand out, and Viala collapses to the floor as the pink glow settles over her. Rian coughs and rubs his throat as he approaches her prone form with caution. He nudges her with his toe. When she doesn’t move, he rushes to me, nursing his broken arm.

“Good thinking,” he says, towering above me. “Are you all right?” Speechless, I simply nod.

“Flit?” he asks.

“Gone.” I manage around the lump in my throat. “To the grotto.”

He turns back to survey the wreck of a room. With a grunt of pain he begins to chant and I watch with amazement as the mess rights itself. The smashed bottles become whole and swirl up and settle on the desk. Books and papers stack themselves neatly beside them. Viala’s twisted form floats to settle on the bed, and the velvet coverlet sweeps over her and folds itself neatly. The golden curtains, no longer shredded and torn, flap softly beside her in the sea breeze.

As he conducts the objects into place, I take an inventory of his injuries. His right eyebrow and half of his side lock have been singed completely away, and his ear is charred and blackened. He has an open cut over his left brow, leaving a streak of blood that drips to his jawline. His throat is badly bruised.  His left arm is bent where it shouldn’t be between the elbow and the wrist, and his hand is purple and swollen.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he turns to me.

“Come on,” he says. I climb into his offered hand and he tucks me safely into his chest pocket. Close to his heart, I can hear it racing as he looks over the desk. He scoops up the shredded remains of Flit’s wings and slides them into the pocket beside me with reverence. In his bag, he packs the slab, the tome Viala had been leafing through, Margy’s bloodied ring, and several of Viala’s scrolls and notes.

“What now?” I ask.

“We can’t do anything until they arrive tonight. Hopefully the sleep  will hold until then.” He creeps to the bed and whispers something, and a soft shimmer falls over her. “A little extra, just in case,” he explains.

“You need to get to the conclave,” I say. I want to ask him to restore my size, but I know that would require both hands and I don’t want him moving his broken arm anymore. “You need healing, Rian!” I call up to him as I poke his chest through the fine fabric of his vest.

“Shh,” he warns as we cross the room. He brushes his good arm over himself with a quick spell to clean the blood away and repair the tears in his clothing. “Stay down,” he whispers as he steps out and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

“Conclave,” I say sternly once we’re outside again, enroute to the guild hall. “Rian!”

“What happened to her?” he asks me under his breath. “Flit? She’s not—“

“No,” I reply firmly. “No. She went home to heal. She’ll be fine.”

“I had no idea Viala was so far gone,” his voice is thick with emotion. “Nobody did.”

“It’s not your fault, Rian.”

Salty water drops into the pocket and splashes me, and I look up to see tears sliding down his cheek. We walk in silence the rest of the way, past the loading docks with their colorful banners and the pristine palace with its white towers stretching up into the blue sky, and the forest park rich with red and orange leaves. Everywhere, the bright splashes of color remind me of Flit. The memory of her lying before me, draining to white is more than I can bear in the wake of our encounter with Viala. I curl into the privacy of Rian’s pocket and allow myself to weep.

Emme, the nurse who sat with my father after his injuries, is a pious older woman who has dedicated her life to the healing arts. She has a kind, worn face which is always framed with the soft brown hood often worn by healers of the Conclave. She doesn’t scold Rian or fuss at him as Mouli did when she first saw his injuries, she simply gets to work settling him into a comfortable position on a chair in the hall, and lays her hands gently on the break.  Rian tips his head against the back of the chair and closes his eyes as she works, and soon he’s sleeping.

Healing a bone through meditation takes time, and unfortunately, time is something we don’t have much of. We both agree that Viala is deserving of the stripping, but doing so would doom her family, and neither of us wants their deaths on our consciences. Emme interrupted our discussion on how we intend to save them, though, and I’m left with little to do in my fairy-sized state but wait and try to be patient. At my current size, our cozy guild hall is as vast as the coliseum, and every piece of furniture is an insurmountable obstacle. I try not to feel intimidated as I settle onto a cushion tucked in beside the hearth. It’s a safe spot with a good view of the door and the healing session, and out of the way enough that I don’t need to worry about being stepped on accidentally.

With Rian in good hands and nothing to do but wait, my thoughts turn to Flit. I wonder whether fairies have healers of their own, and whether such a delicate and magical thing as a wing can be restored in the same way as a broken bone. My thoughts wander back to Viala’s room and begin to darken. Images from the encounter flash before me, and I relive every moment as if it’s happening again: Flit diving to take the spell, her light blinding Viala, Rian holding me back, the dagger driving through her fragile wing, the light bleeding out of her.

I should have done more to stop it. I could have shoved her aside and taken the spell myself. Saved her. It wasn’t her battle to fight. It should have remained between us selfish, violent humans. Typical, her little voice echoes in my memory. She was right about us all along. We aren’t to be trusted. We couldn’t stop her from being hurt. I barely even tried. I glance up at Rian, remembering how he held me back and kept me from trying to help her. At first I want to lay the blame on him, but in my heart I know that I could have fought harder. I could have done more. I was useless and cowardly. I was selfish. I sacrificed Flit for my own safety, and now she could be dying.

My train of thought is a tangled mess, but the idea comes clearly to me that somehow it isn’t too late. I could trade my life for hers. It would be valiant. It would show them that not all of us are selfish. Not all of us are wicked and greedy. Some of us are willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to save those who are weaker than us.

I don’t realize I’ve left the cushion until I cross the threshold of the guild hall into the street, and then I begin to run. I know where I’m going now, and I want to get there as quickly as I can. The route to the cliff wall is an impossible distance at this size, but my determination to right things quickens my pace so much I feel as though my feet are gliding across the cobblestone as I sprint. The thought of the white foam crashing against the jagged rocks lures me as I dodge and weave around carts and horses. The closer I get, the more convinced I am that my course is the right one. Flit will live. The wrongs will be righted. As the air begins to grow thick with the odor of the fish market and sea air, my heart begins to race. I hope that my death will be fast and painless, but then again, maybe I deserve a little pain.

I reach the wall with surprising speed, but I’m met with another obstacle. The structure, usually waist-high, is now a mountain to be climbed. I find a fisherman’s net draped over it and pull myself up. My mind is surprisingly clear as I place one hand over the other, one foot at a time, grasping the wet, slimy knots, not caring if I slip. With each inch I travel upward, my confidence is bolstered. I’m doing the right thing. It’ll be over soon. My thoughts stray to Rian for a moment and I pause in my climbing. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Won’t he miss me? Selfish, I think, you’re being selfish. Keep climbing.

I’m almost to the top of the wall, and then I reach the ledge and pull myself onto it and the sea and the blue sky stretch infinitely out before me. I don’t look down. I walk forward, right toward the crisp line of the horizon. It’ll be over soon. All will be righted.

Then I’m struck. Flying back, falling to the net again, caught up in a blur of fox fur as I tumble back. It catches me with sharp white teeth by the fabric at my shoulder and I dangle just above the cobbles. When I look up I’m met with a black muzzle and red-orange fur that shimmers in the afternoon sunlight. Its golden eye winks at me, and the surety I felt about diving off the sea wall is replaced with a sense of danger and foreboding. It turns its head to its shoulder, inviting me to ride, and I grasp onto the sleek red fur and pull myself up onto its back. Then we’re running fast, streaking though the city streets in a flash. Away from the sea.

Viala.
The single name pulses over and over as we go, matching the rhythm of the fox’s stride, until my thoughts slowly become my own again. My grip tightens so my fingers ache as I realize how close I came to throwing myself over the cliff, and how convinced I was that it was the right thing to do. The voice repeating her name in my mind is familiar to me, but I can’t place it. Slowly, though, I begin to realize what it’s trying to tell me. This was her doing. Sleep hasn’t stopped her from her work, she’s found a way around it. Somehow, she manipulated my thoughts. Convinced me to kill myself.

The palace guards don’t see us as we race into the depths of the palace to Margy’s cubby in the sitting room. Here the fox slows to a trot, cautiously investigating Margary’s soft sniffling. In her lap are the shredded remains of Twig’s poppet, which she’s doing her best to piece together with a needle and thread. Twig’s tether, destroyed.
Eron.
I reach out, wanting to comfort her, but the fox turns away and I have to catch his fur fast to keep myself seated at his sudden burst of speed.  As we run, I hope that the shredded poppet doesn’t mean that Twig is stuck in Kythshire for good.

We reach the terrace and I duck my head and squeeze my eyes shut as we clear the wall. My heart is in my throat as I brace for the fall, but the sensation doesn’t come. Instead we’re soaring, carried by the wind, high above the sea. I open my eyes and venture a glance and immediately wish I hadn’t.

“Flying again, why does it always have to be flying?” I whisper. Some might see beauty in the crisp blue water rippling below, so clear I can see a world of sea life all the way to the sandy depths. Some might marvel at the endless stretch of sea fading into the horizon, and how very small the masted ships look from this height. All I can think of are the drop, the fall, the impact if I were to lose my grip. I hold on for my life and bury my face into the thick scruff of fur, desperate to distract myself. Rian’s question before we left for Viala’s hours ago comes to mind. Does it remind you of anyone? The fox?

I think of its red-orange fur and golden eyes, its quick feet and gentle strength. I remember it leaping into the woods after Redemption’s retreat from the fight at the border, and I think of Mya’s expression as she saw him go. When it comes to me, I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to realize who it is. I wonder if some sort of concealing magic has been in play to keep me from thinking about it too much.

“Elliot?” I call over the wind that roars in my ears as our pace quickens. I open my eyes to slits long enough to see the brown-tipped ears bob with his nod, and then I duck back into the safety of his fur. “Where are we going?” I shout, but he doesn’t answer as we make our slow descent toward the water. A great continent stretches out before us, growing larger and larger as we near it. When the ocean changes to land beneath us his pace quickens impossibly, over the jungle and the desert and the jungle again and then we climb once more, far above another sea.

I close my eyes again and try to think of where we are, conjuring Uncle Gaethon’s torturous geography lessons. You’ll need to know this one day, he’d said. I hate that he’s always right. I mentally plot our course. We’ve already traveled Southeast over the vast trading channel between Cerion and Cresten City, and across the continent of Elespen into the wide Sones Ocean. Here, I know, is the great triple island continent of Sunteri. Viala’s homeland. We travel along the coast of the great island to an intimidating city which I know at once must be the capital, Zhaghen.

I barely have time to take in the opulence of the forbidding towers that stretch into the sky, each draped with silks of rich scarlet and indigo, and the stone facades that sparkle with jewels and gold before we dive down. Elliot slows his pace here, in the depths of the city, on the grimy cobbles of an alleyway strewn with filth. Nearby in the shadows, a huddled woman rifles through a pile of refuse with a sickly-looking baby strapped to her back.

Elliot trots past her and weaves through dark alleys and crumbling shanties in an endless maze of poverty and hopelessness until my heart feels as though it will to break into pieces. Just when I’m about to ask him why he’s brought me here, when I feel like I can’t take another moment of it without taking some sort of action, he pushes off again and we’re streaking away out of the city. We cross endless fields of scarlet flowers, where dozens of sunbaked laborers bend, picking and piling blossoms. Their clothes and skin are stained with red, their shoulders permanently hunched. These must be the dye fields that Viala spoke of with such distress.

Soon the ground beneath us fades from red and green to golden, and the desert here feels different from that of Elespen. I’m reminded of the wheat fields of Kythshire and with the thought comes the distinct sense that this place used to be the same. Littered along the grayish sand lie the blackened and petrified remains of a great forest. As Elliot takes us further into the desolation, my heart grows more and more heavy with grief for this place that I somehow know was once as rich and beautiful as Kythshire itself.

He picks up speed until we reach a great bowl-shaped canyon, and he pauses carefully on its rim. The perfectly circular canyon is empty, save for a small amount of sparkling gold liquid at the very bottom.  As we watch, a glittering spray of it shoots up into the sky in the direction of Zhaghen, and it empties even further.

“Another Wellspring?” I whisper. “But it’s nearly empty...” We trot along the vast lip to a small outcrop of three massive trees, the only ones in sight. As we approach, I realize something is odd about them. Their roots grow in tangles above the ground, twisted together as if clinging to each other for life. We stop a safe distance away and at first I wonder why, but then I see them. A dozen or so creatures huddle among the roots, their nearly white skin stretched tight across their spindly bones, their wings mere stubs at their backs. Their hair is wispy and colorless, and their eyes are black and cruel. One of them darts close to the roots and a whimper escapes from within them. Elliot and I creep closer and I spy a sprig of black hair wound tightly within the twisting prison. A close look reveals the figure of boy who wriggles and fights hopelessly against his bonds. Beside him the other two trees hold their own captives. I can’t see them, but I can hear the occasional whimper and cry as the fairies peer in at them.

“Shut up, you three,” one of the creatures hisses, jabbing at the roots. We move closer, so close I can touch one of them if I want to. It crouches possessively over something small, blood-red, and polished. An elegant glowing golden line rises up to its surface. “Not long now,” it reads. The wasted fairy snaps its head over its shoulder and spies us. It screeches out a deafening warning and instantly Elliot leaps into the air and dashes away, northward, off again to Cerion.

“We have to go back!” I cry. “We can’t leave them there!” Elliot’s only response is to go faster until the torrent of wind against my face stings my eyes and I’m forced to bury my head again. I steal glances now and then as we run for leagues and leagues, back over the ocean and the jungle and the desert until the long cliffs of Cerion finally stretch out before us again. The palace walls gleam gold in the sunlight, and as Elliot’s paws find the cobbles, I’m struck by the stark contrast between Cerion and Zhaghen.

Here, everyone has a place. It’s a pretty kingdom, but modest. Here, we don’t flaunt our riches. Here, we are charitable. I think of the wretched woman in the alley with the sickly baby on her back and my grip tightens. That would never happen in Cerion. Cerion isn’t perfect. There are those who are lawless and those who are poor, but charity is an important part of who we are. When someone is in need, we help them. I wonder what has happened in Zhaghen to make it so cruel and uncaring.

Elliot carries me up over the wall again and straight to the guild hall, where Rian continues to doze with Emme working over him. At first I think that he means to leave me there, but we only slow to a trot as we pass Rian, and then we’re off again. We leave the city walls for the trade road that heads West across Ceras’lain, toward Kythshire. Far ahead of us I can just make out a score of riders in gleaming armor and the livery of Cerion’s Guard. As Elliot quickens his run and we near them, I see Da at the forefront in his blue and gold. As we match their pace and begin to gain on them, I watch proudly as he thunders authoritatively over the packed dirt road.

I wave to him as we pass, forgetting that he most likely can’t see us as we remain in the Half-Realm. We speed up to a blur again, and it feels as though we’re skipping forward in time along the road. We pass the fork that branches to Kythshire and instead of heading that way, we veer north along a different route. The air grows cold around us as we climb into the mountains, and this road is the same that Elliot took me on in my last dream.