Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (36 page)

“Rian Eldinae: Windsaver, Oathkeeper, Arcane Guardian, Steward of the Wellspring,” he booms as cheers erupt from the crowd of fae surrounding us. “You may now collect your debt and be restored from the Half-Realm.” Rian shifts slightly and then turns to look at me as he rubs the back of his neck. I had forgotten about our request to be restored in exchange for stripping Viala, and I’m a little disappointed. Having the ability to move unseen and stay out of harm’s way was quite helpful to us in our quest. By the look on Rian’s face, I can tell he feels the same way. Now that we’ve learned how to work around it, it’d be a useful skill to keep. I hesitate and then step forward.

“We recognize Azaeli Hammerfel of Cerion,” Crocus says with a hint of caution, as if expecting the reaction that follows. At once the gathered fairies erupt into deafening cheers, even louder than they had for Scree, and then the dancing starts again, livelier even than before, and we are swept away with it. It doesn’t stop again until the sun is low in the sky, spilling splashes of pink through the deep green canopy above. Rian and I tumble back to the center of the Ring again, breathless.

“What have you to add, Ah?” Scree booms.

“If you please... I think Rian and I would like to remain in the Half-Realm, for now. If that’s what you were thinking, Rian?” He nods.

“It’s useful,” he smiles at Crocus, who blushes and fans herself with a bit of her skirt.

“Very well,” Scree booms. “But know that you may collect on this debt at any time. We forever honor our bargains.” With that, Crocus turns to me.

“Azaeli Hammerfel of Cerion,” she starts, and the crowd goes up in cheers again, but this time when she raises her hand there is a hush. “You have protected our kind through countless dangers, putting yourself in harm’s way. Your actions have been brave, selfless, level-headed, kind, nurturing, loyal, just, and pure of heart. You have restored our Esteemed Guardian of the Northern Border, Iren, that we would no longer be plagued by the Shadow Twists. You stood beside your friends in the battle against the Sorcerers of Zhaghen and fought valiantly. We bequeath unto you the titles: The Temperate, Pure of Heart, Reviver of Iren, The Great Protector, and most importantly, if you will agree to it, Cerion’s Ambassador to Kythshire.”

As the colorful assembly erupts into a chaos of cheering and dancing again, I stand in the center of the blur, stunned. Rian nudges me and I stare up at him in disbelief. Over his shoulder, my mother wipes a tear from her eye just before she’s caught up in the dancing. Flitt breaks free from the celebration and dives at me to hug me. The dancing goes on and on as the sunlight wanes, and Crocus yawns and stretches and finally beckons me closer with a bemused smile. I step forward, and Rian and Flitt join me.

“They are likely to dance to the moon this night,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “You may think on this honor, Ah, and accept it later if you so choose. Accepting it would mean that you shall offer your aid to any of our kind who find themselves in trouble in Cerion. In addition you would assist in strengthening our relationship and trust with your country and its men.” She smiles sweetly.

“We have grown fond of you. We should like to remind you of your status. You have been bestowed with a gift of armor by Scree’s parentage, a mark of Iren’s confidence in you. You also carry with you a token of great trust from Cerion’s Academy. Have you forgotten?”

I remember Uncle’s ring, which I retrieve from my belt pouch. Beside me, Rian’s eyes widen as he recognizes it. I turn the signet in my hand, looking over the strong symbol that represents the Headmaster of Cerion’s only school of magic. My uncle, who trusted me enough to offer me this token, which shows anyone who might question me that my word is as good as his. I tuck the ring safely away again and slip my hand into Rian’s.

“Most impressive of all,” Crocus says softly, “Is how much you accomplished on your own, without making use of that.”

“Not on my own,” I tug Rian’s hand so he steps closer, and take Flitt’s hand on my other side. “Ember, Shush,” I gesture to their mushroom tops, which they’ve left behind to join the dance. “Flitt, Twig, Rian, all of us worked together.” I look around for Twig, who seems to be absent.

“Indeed,” Crocus giggles. “Which reminds us,” she looks down at Scree, whose voice booms across the ring.

“We offer you your True Wish, Azaeli, for returning the Oculus and restoring Iren, The Shadow Crag embodied, The Mountain Keeper, Esteemed Guardian of the Northern Border. What do you wish?” Some of the dancing fairies settle down as his voice rumbles over the din, but many remain dancing in a colorful blur around the outside of the Ring.

“What do you wish, what do you wish?” The gathering of fae repeats his words over and over in a hypnotizing rhythm. I glance at Flitt and go over in my mind one more time the wish that we rehearsed together as we made our way here earlier. True wishes are tricky, she warned me. They must be worded perfectly in order to be sure you get exactly what you want.

“My True Wish,” I start, and suddenly everything is silent and still. The dancing fairies stop abruptly, and all eyes are on me.

“Ow,” Flitt whispers and pulls her hand free from mine, flexing her fingers. I offer her an apologetic glance and loosen my other hand’s grip on Rian’s as I focus on my wish.

“What did I miss?” I recognize Twig’s voice among the crowd, followed by a hiss for him to be quiet as the mass of fairies leans forward collectively, waiting to hear what I’ll wish for. I close my eyes and recall the words one more time before I speak.

“My True Wish is for Bane’s Pass Keep to be restored to its former strength and returned to its rightful place at the border between the country of Cerion and the land known to my people as the Outlands, that the North border of Kythshire remain undisturbed by my people now and always.”

Crocus gazes northward, her flawless porcelain skin glowing bright against the deep blue of her petals as the ground beneath us trembles. In the distance I hear strange noises, loud cracks, muffled rumbles, thunderous sounds. The fairies around the Ring cling to one another and murmur quietly amongst themselves. I’m vaguely aware of Flitt’s hand slipping back into mine as Crocus returns her attention to us. She speaks in unison with Scree this time.

“It is done,” they declare together. “We are immensely grateful for your selfless use of this wish. Azaeli Hammerfel, Rian Eldenae, Lisabella Hammerfel, if there is nothing further, then we wish you a safe return to Cerion. Shall we send you there now?” Crocus asks.

Flitt watches us with interest, her eyes changing quickly from magenta to purple, from blue to gold.

“No thank you,” I smile up at Rian, who pulls me close as the fairies start their dance again. “I think we’d prefer to ride home.” I reach for Mum’s hand. “All of us, together.”

Thank you so much for reading Call of Kythshire. I hope you loved reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you did, please be sure to write me a review on Amazon.
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Can’t get enough? Read on for a sneak peak of Book Two in the Half-Realm series:

Call of Sunteri

Chapter One: Flame and Sea
Tib

Filth and grunge. Rats. Rot. Bones. Cobbles. Stench. Sobbing. Striking. Silence.

“Climb the wall.”

Yes, climb. My feet are swift and sure in the darkness as I leap and cling to the rough stone. They find each crevice perfectly, anchoring me as I push myself up. Climbing feels good. Free. The higher I go, the better I can see the city stretched out before me. In the dye fields, they tell stories of Zhaghen with eyes full of awe. How beautiful it is, how majestic. For me, it’s the place that breeds greed. Cruel. Twisted. Soiled.

“
Higher.”

Yes, higher. The towers are dark tonight, unprotected. Not as scary as I thought they’d be, reaching up into the sky. I creep closer to a slotted window and pause. Sniff. The air here is thick with the scent of old paper. Books. A fan of shining black hair flicks into my memory as my fingers grip the stone through soft leather gloves.

              “Inside.”

             
Yes, inside. My feet find the ledge and I crouch on the sill. Tucked safely into the shadows, I peer below into the darkness. It was a good climb, a long climb. Now I’m high, higher than any city boy could climb. Higher than I’ve ever climbed. Far up above the city. So easy here to ignore the suffering below. To live unaware of it. The cries of the starving, the stench of the gutters, they could never reach this high. Only the Mages. Mages and students. Worse. Sorcerers. My hatred for them pushes me forward.

              “The hearth.”

             
Yes, the hearth. I slide from the sill and land lightly on my feet. My new boots are silent on the plush carpet. The room is still. Huge. Dark except for dying embers crackling far beyond tables piled with pages and books. Shelves. Scrolls. Bottles and jars. The ceiling is high. Domed. Glass. Stars shine above. No one is here this late. The tower is asleep. Empty, except for books. Hundreds. Thousands. Ancient. Irreplaceable. Sacred. Neatly arranged on dozens of shelves. Good to hide behind. To sneak behind.

“Start it.”

I take a sheaf of parchment from the shelf as I pass through the last row and creep forward. The crackle of coals lures me. It’s dying, but soon it won’t be. Soon it will grow. I light the sheaf, watch the edges flare and curl black. I move away through the room. One by one I tuck the burning pages into place on shelves and tables. Everything is so dry and old, it catches quickly. I back toward the window, my escape. Watch the glow of flame that crawls up shelves and across tabletops. I did this. I alone. This is my revenge. Their precious knowledge, turning to char. Ashes. Dust.

“Outside.”

Yes, outside. I slip through the window. My fingers find the crevices and I start my descent. Watch the smoke pour from the window. Hear the cries from inside. Fire! Fire! My feet are swift. My hands are steady. I land lightly on the cobbles and stroll away from the smoking tower. The gloves come off, tuck into my tattered bag. They’re too fine for the rest of me. They’d give me away.

“On to the next.”

Yes, on to the next. I step around the corner, into the gathering crowd. Necks craned up, watching smoke billowing. Some rush the doors with buckets of water, but even in this crisis they’re turned away. No one notices me, the whelp in field clothes, older than a boy but not yet a man. I’m nothing to them. Unimportant. Unnoticed. I disappear as the crowd thickens around the base of the tower. On to the next.

Six pillars of black smoke rise into the night sky. Six towers burn. My work is done. The city is awake now. Watching, Screaming. Crying. Cheering. I don’t need to run. Nobody suspects me. Nobody notices the poor boy in field clothes.

“Into the sea.”

Yes, into the sea. I tuck my new boots safely into my bag and jump from the harbor wall into the deep. The water is warm and calm. I go under. Scrub the soot from my hands, face, and hair. Masts of tall ships loom before me, dark shapes against the darker sky, anchored in the inky water. I’m a fair swimmer. I find the ship with the crest I need: purple chevron under a blue ring. I reach it and pull myself into a skiff lashed beside. Rest a moment. Listen. On deck, men are talking. Watching the smoke rise. Wondering if it will delay their departure.

“Say something.”

Yes, I ought to.

“Ho there, sirs!” I call up. Footsteps. Faces peering down at me. Men with trimmed beards. Hair tied neatly. Uniforms. Swords.

“Who goes?” one says.

“It’s just a boy,” the other answers.

“You swim all that way, boy?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a fair swimmer, sir.”

“What for?”

“I need passage to Cerion, sir.”

“Passage to Cerion!” Scoffing. Laughter. “We’re no charter, boy! Find yourself another ship.”

“I have no money for a charter, sir. I mean to work for it.”

“Work for it!” More laughter. Footsteps. A deep voice growls about the racket. The men go quiet. Hushed discussion of the boy in the skiff. A broad man with a pitted face and squinted eyes leers down at me. Looks me over. Calls out an order for the rope ladder.

“Climb it,” he says. I do, as quickly as the flames that licked the shelves. I stand before him. Bow respectfully. “You want to work, eh?” He eyes me. “Why should I let you?”

“I’m a fast learner, sir. A hard worker. I don’t complain. I’ll do any task. I’m not squeamish. I’m quick. I can climb. I can swim.” I say. He grabs my wrists, inspects my hands. Looks at my fingers stained red.

“From the dye fields,” he grunts and lets go. “Hard working, I’m sure of it. Ever been on a ship before?”

“No, sir.”

“You’ll get seasick.”

“I’ve been on a carriage before, sir. A bumpy one. Never got sick, sir.”

“A carriage!” Laughter again.

“A carriage is a far cry from a ship tossed by the waves of a storm. We’ve got a crowd in the rows ashore, boy. Men. Strong men. All waiting to work for passage. Seafaring men. Men who know what they’re doing.”

“I know. That’s why I swum out. I could have stowed away, but I want to work. I’ll work harder than them. I’m honest. I won’t argue. I don’t eat much. I don’t like to sleep. I’m respectful. I don’t steal. I’m not afraid of anything. I’ll do my work, you won’t even notice me. None of them swum out. They don’t want it as much, sir.”

“Look at him, Cap, sir. Somethin’s not right,” one of the uniformed men murmurs. I cast my eyes down. Don’t let them look too hard. Feel Cap’s eyes on me.

“Climb the foremast. Untie the lashing on the fore moonraker. Stow it back proper again.” He crosses his arms. Smirks. I don’t question. I run to the ratlines and climb all the way to the top. Even anchored in the calm, the mast rocks. I grip hard with my legs. Work the knots. Drop the edge of the highest sail. Bind it up again. Tie it. They watch from below. I’m sure they’re impressed. A boy from the dye fields shouldn’t know knots, rigging, and sails. I don’t know it, but it comes to me anyway. I lash it up again, exactly as it was. Make perfect knots. Slide down the ratlines. Land light and sure at the captain’s feet. Salute.

“Well done.” He’s impressed. Pleasantly surprised. I nod once, but don’t smile. Don’t want to look too proud. Powerful men don’t like that. “You can stay on. Do as you’re told. One wrong move and we cast you over. Agreed?” He offers his hand, and I shake it. “What’re you called, boy?”

“Tib, sir.”

“Welcome aboard, then, Tib.”

The journey is long. Days into weeks. I sleep anywhere but below, where the wood encases me, reminding me of the trees, the roots, the past. The crow’s nest is my favorite. Here I can see all around me. Watch passing ships grow and shrink. See ocean stretch to a thin curve, all the way out on the horizon. I’m talented with the lamplight, and I learn how to send signals to the navy ships that follow us, too slow to keep our pace. We are their scout ship. We watch for danger.

Soon, I am invisible to those more important to me. I can lurk. Pick up conversations. Learn things. One of those navy ships carries Prince Vorance. The only prince of Sunteri. He courts the eldest daughter of the king of Cerion. Her name is Sarabel. She is smitten with him. Six ships come with him including ours. Six is an auspicious number, they say. A circle number. I’m not sure what it means, but I can’t ask. If I do, they’ll know that I’ve been listening.

One month. We sail into the mouth of the river they call Jairun. I don’t like it. We move slower here, through the center of Elespen, where the jungle creeps into the water on both sides of us. Days more of this. Days of watching jungle become village and jungle again, and then sand and only sand as far as I can see. An ocean of sand. Too much like Sunteri. Too much like the home I never wanted to see again. I feel the panic rise in me. I don’t want to be in the desert.

“Sleep.”

Yes, sleep. I curl up in the safety of the fore nest, and when I wake the stars stretch out endlessly above me. Noise. Lapping and chatting. Laughing and shouting. Bargaining. Unloading. The scrape of the hull against the pier.

“Boy!” Cap shouts, and I slip down the ratlines and drop to his side. The deck is deserted except for the pair of watch guards at the gangway. I stand straight and look Cap in the eye, as he has told me to do. It keeps a man honest, he says, to meet his crew’s eyes.

“Sir!” I shout. He taught me to do that, too.

He tells me I’m a hard worker. I have earned five copper, which he jingles in a pouch. I like the sound of it. I have never held coin before. It has more weight than I expected. He tells me I can go ashore if I want to, and then he goes back below. I peer out at the city. Cresten. Capital of Elespen. It’s different from Zhaghen. Cleaner. Brighter, even in the starlight. Noisy, but the noise is happier. No towers here, to watch and rule over them. Just a castle, low and sprawling. Music leaks out from the taverns into the street. People in beautiful colors dance in the glow of torchlight. Others toss coin at them. Even in the night, merchants in booths cook and sell. The aroma is exotic and flavorful. My mouth waters.

“Stay aboard.”

Yes, stay aboard. I tie the coin to my belt and wrap the sash around it three times to secure it. Then I climb back into the nest and sleep again.

I wake to the signal. The air is cooler, even with the sun bearing down. We’re sailing again, flying across the water. North still, but more west now. The jungle is far behind us, just a line of deep green between the sea and sky. I train the scope behind, find the trailing ship. Read the message. Flash the mirror to acknowledge.

Two months now at sea, since we left Zhaghen. Sea and days of messages filled with nothing. All is well. All is well. Back and forth. Over and again. Still, the work is easy. Not like the fields. Freer, even confined to a ship. I keep to myself way up here, and nobody bothers with me. The main nest collects the same messages as mine. Cap tells me I’m the backup. My keen eye is valuable. I could do the main nest one day, if I stay on. He thinks I want a life of this. He doesn’t know.

When they appear, Cerion’s cliffs are unmistakable. A white slash between the cloudless blue sky and the crisp blue-green sea. They grow impossibly high as we approach, so high that it would take ten of our ship’s highest masts to reach the top. As we dock I’m paid again, and told that I’m welcome back. I say little in the way of farewells. I know I’ll never return to the sea.

The climb up the cliff seems as long as the sailing itself. Stairs and more stairs. My legs are strong, though, from climbing the ratlines. I scurry past others who trudge more slowly. The stone glints wet beneath my feet, catching the sun. Wet, but not icy, which I find strange. The wind is threatens to carry me off, and I keep close to the wall as it lashes at me. I have never felt cold like this before. Winter. Sunteri has no winter. The chill is painful. I am not dressed for it. I have my gloves. I have my new boots. No cloak, though. No sleeves to cover my arms.

“Climb faster.”

Yes, climb faster. The work keeps me warm. Up and up I go, until I reach the top and the city stretches out before me. Low. Plain. Clean. Kind. Someone stops me. Offers me a clay mug filled with a sweet, hot drink. Tells me I should visit their tavern. Moves on to those behind me without asking for payment. I sip it and it warms me to the toes. Children run past, laughing, cloaks of fur flapping behind them.

“Follow them.”

Yes, follow them. I leave my empty cup at the stall and trot after them, ignoring the numbness in my toes and the sting of cold that pinches my fingertips through my gloves. I hug myself tightly as I pass booths selling fresh fish, or baubles, or fine clothes. I slow at one that boasts barrels of ground dye powders, heaping with red and blue and orange dust.

“Ten silver a scoop,”a pretty lady smiles at me. I wonder if she knows the work that goes into one scoop. Thousands of blooms. The picking, the hauling, the drying, the grinding. The dozens who break their backs in the field for a loaf to feed their family and a roof over their heads.

“The children.”

Yes, the children. I tear myself from the booth and chase after the laughter. When I catch up, I find them standing in a crowd that lines the streets. One of them, a girl just a little younger than I am with bright red curls that poke out from beneath her hat, bumps my shoulder.