Call of Kythshire (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 1) (9 page)

The sounds of the forest call me, promising friendship and shelter.  I turn away from the riches and start to make the long walk to the safety of the woods. I long to see how large the trees truly are. I wonder if my tree is still there, waiting for me. As I walk, the wheat grows taller and taller until it stretches high above my head. Far in the distance behind me, a rumble of thunder causes the earth beneath my feet to tremble. I quicken my pace. The wheat is as tall as treetops now, and I can see the first bit of leafy canopy stretching higher than two times the tallest tower in Cerion.

The edge of the wheat is lined with the thickest, most plush carpet of green moss I have ever seen. When I reach it, I kneel and brush it with my fingers, marveling in its velvety softness. The thunder rumbles closer and I look over my shoulder. In the distance, the wheat is moving erratically. Something large is tunneling through it. I step backwards into the nook of an enormous elm root that’s thicker than my torso. It’s then that I realize I’m tiny. Fairy sized.

The tunneling creature moves with terrifying speed, almost as though it is flashing forward in bursts. I crouch behind a knob of roots, shaking. I’m certain if it finds me, it will kill me. A troupe of fairies darts out of the forest. I try to call to them to warn them, but my voice fails me. The creature in the wheat bursts forth. It reminds me of a shadow, but it gives off a much more ominous energy. It is formless, a shimmer of gray streaked with black, and transparent. Within it, I’m disturbed to catch glimpses of tiny forms spinning and churning. A hand here, a leg there. A face. The creature twists like a cyclone and the fairies from the forest charge to drive it away. They zoom around it in the opposite direction of its spin, confusing it. A tendril of black snaps out and grabs one of them, pulling him in. I cry out in disbelief as he becomes a part of it, swallowed up to join with the other pitiful figures in the churning black shadow.

The ground beneath me trembles again, this time caused by heavy footsteps. A woman in gleaming plate armor steps out from the shelter of the trees. Her blond braid sways behind her as she draws her glowing blue sword and charges the shadowy spinning creature. “Mum!” I try to call out to her, but again my voice is mute. She doesn’t see me, she is focused on her foe. One swing is all she needs. She slices sideways through the shadow’s middle and it bursts apart with a deafening thunderous rumble.

Lying in a heap where it once twisted and swirled are nearly a dozen tiny bodies. Their wings are limp, their clothes disheveled. Mum kneels and carefully scoops the battered and bloodied little creatures into her arms. When she turns to carry them into the woods, she looks at me. The face is familiar, but it’s wrong. It isn’t my mother’s; it’s as if I’m looking into a mirror. It’s me. She presses a finger to her lips and nods at me, and then she disappears between the tree trunks into the depths of the forest.

I wake with a lingering feeling of wonder and optimism. It feels like a festival day, like I know I have something exciting to look forward to. Warm morning sun splashes over my bed and a cool, autumn-like breeze drifts in from the window to brush my cheeks. I smile and stretch and snuggle deeper into my blankets to savor the warmth and comfort of my bed. The gentle, rhythmic swish of a file on metal outside my window soothes me. It is such a lovely familiar sound: the sound of burrs being filed away, of a blade being made new. I can almost see the thin, freshly polished sword edge in my mind’s eye as I listen to my father work. Then I realize it’s wrong. My father...

I stumble out of bed and pull on my filthy, rumpled trousers from the day before. I run barefooted to his room. His bed is unmade and abandoned. So is the chair. Why is no one here to watch him? I curse under my breath as I realize that that task was supposed to be mine. I was so distracted by Flit last night that I left him unattended. My feet barely touch the stairs as I speed through the house and skid to a stop at the back door. There he stands in the bright morning sun, working at repairing a sword held by a clamp at his bench. He slides the file along the blade with a perfect stroke and leans down to assess it, one eye closed.

“Good morning, my dear,” he says in a singsong voice. I stand, mouth agape, watching him.

“Good...” I blink and shake my head. I’m dreaming. I must still be dreaming. If Da was really awake, he wouldn’t be casually sharpening swords. He’d be packing his horse. Readying to go and find my mother. But the pebbles pressing into the soft soles of my bare feet feel real enough, and the wood of the door frame is as rough as it ever has been when I graze my fingers over it. I clear my throat. “Feeling all right?” I manage in my confusion. He turns to me and winks.

“Never better.” He slides the file over the blade once more and takes a strip of oiled leather to start the polish. One hand loosens the clamp and the other closes over the sword’s hilt. Then it happens. He falls to his knees, his free hand flying up to his ear as the other grips the hilt tighter. His eyes roll back into his head and he starts to scream. I’m at his side instantly, desperate to pry his fingers free from the hilt, but his grip is too strong. He’s lying on the ground now, his body shaking and convulsing.

“Let go, Da!” I cry, grabbing the sword by its ornate guard with both hands. I clamp my feet around his wrist and pull, and my hands slip to the newly sharpened blade which slices into my skin so cleanly that I barely feel it. The sword finally comes free and I fling it away. My father groans and turns to his side. I clench my bleeding hands into fists to slow the flow of blood and kneel beside him.

“Breathe, just breathe,” I whisper into his ear, rubbing his shoulder with my bloody fist, leaving a smear of red against the soft blue. He rolls onto his back, panting, and I help him to sit up. “Just rest for a moment,” I say as he hunches forward, his pale brow beaded with sweat. My thoughts are clouded with rage. Da is cursed, too. I want to find out who did this to us and make them hurt. I want them to feel just as helpless. Whoever it is, I want to make them beg. The dark thoughts jar me. I know it isn’t right to think this way.

It’s bad enough that I’m cursed, but I can take up a new skill if I need to. I’m young. But my father has worked at this his whole life. His livelihood is at stake. He’s renowned all over the city for his artistry at forging weapons. Everyone knows the pride he takes in his work and the love he puts into even the smallest job. People come from other kingdoms to seek him out. If anyone finds out he’s been cursed, he’ll be ruined.

“Hello?” Mouli’s voice calls as I hear our front door open and close. She bustles about the kitchen and I pat Da on the back with the flat of my fist.

“Da, can you stand?” I think about the aftereffects of the curse on me. He’ll be dizzy and tired, but he should be able to get up. He nods weakly and I help him to a stool. I have just enough time to kick the sword under the bench and shove my bloody hands into my pockets before Mouli appears in the doorway.

“Benen! You’re up and about? How wonderful.” My father grunts and gives a halfhearted wave. He looks a little green and I’m sure he’s trying hard to hold the contents of his stomach.

“I thought he could use a bit of sun,” the lie is bitter on my tongue. What am I becoming?

“Wonderful. I’ll set the breakfast out, oh and Azi, this came for you this morning from the palace.” She holds up an envelope with a tassel and a purple seal. I groan inwardly, but I force a smile.

“Thanks, Mouli. I’ll read it at the table.” She ducks back inside and I lean close to Da’s ear to whisper. “Da, don’t say anything to Mouli. We’ll talk about it after breakfast, okay?” He nods weakly and I help him up from the stool with my hands still balled into fists. I have to do something about them. After I help Da to the table, I jog to the stairs. “I just have to run upstairs for a moment,” I try to sound casual, grateful that Mouli’s too distracted by the morning meal to notice the blood. The last thing I need right now is her fussing over me.

“Mm,” Mouli slices up a melon. “Best change those filthy clothes while you’re at it.” She clucks her tongue with disapproval.

In my room I dunk my hands into my washbowl and work the red-brown crust from my fingers. When I’m able to open them, I clean my palms, careful not to reopen the wounds. Thankfully, the cuts across each palm are clean and not too deep. They don’t need stitching, and they should heal well if I get them bandaged. If I have time later, I’ll go to the conclave. In the meantime, I wrap them with a stash of gauze I keep in my dresser and change into a simple frock to appease Mouli.

The silver pitcher glints in the corner of my vision as I’m lacing the ties at the side of the bodice, and I hear the tiniest sneeze. I take a moment to listen to my father and Mouli talking downstairs. Mouli is telling him about a new stall at the market. It seems a safe enough conversation to buy me a little time. I step to the windowsill and peer inside the pitcher.

“Flit?” I whisper. There’s a rustling of fabric scraps and then her face appears, blinking up at me.

“It stinks like blood and metal,” She pinches her nose. “Did you kill someone?”

“No!” I whisper adamantly.

“Oh, good,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “What is it, why did you wake me up?”

“I just wanted to see if you were still here.”

“Typical,” she says, and burrows back into the silk and lace. I peek inside and see the glint of the diamond flash back at me from beneath her makeshift pillow. The cricket has gone. I have so many questions for her, but I don’t think I’m ready for another game just yet. I glance at Rian’s hatch and decide to let him sleep. Right now, my concern is for my father.

Mouli gives me an appraising look as I return to the kitchen and sit beside my father. Her eyes linger on my bandaged hands but she simply shakes her head and lays a bowl of boiled eggs down beside me. She’s used to me being bandaged and bruised.  Next to me Da is frowning, and I can tell his thoughts are racing behind his eyes. We let Mouli go on and on about the latest gossip in town while we fill our plates. It takes me a moment as I chew my breakfast to realize she’s talking about a ball. My eyes slide to the official-looking envelope tucked beside my plate. I take it and break the seal, which I recognize to be Sarabel’s: a rose crossed over a fleur-de-lis.

A ROYAL INVITATION
Sq. Azaeli Hammerfel
is Requested to Attend the Ball
In Celebration of the Sixteenth Birthday
Of Her Majesty Princess Sarabel
Beginning Sunset on the Twenty-First of Autumnsdawn

Year 37 of the Age of Peace
Present This Invitation for Entry into the Palace
Please Respond Yes or No as Soon as Possible

I sit reading the invitation over and over for so long that my father and Mouli both come to look over my shoulder. It seems preposterous to me, getting an invitation to go to a ball in the midst of everything else that’s happening. How can anyone celebrate at a time like this? Then I remember that these crises are my own. Everyone else is going on with their everyday lives. Most people don’t even realize that my mother is missing, and my father and I are cursed. All they know is that our guild is on the King’s Quest. I set the paper down beside my plate.

“Well, I’m glad to have an excuse to decline,” I say quietly. It’s true. Even if nothing else was going on, I don’t care much for dressing in fine gowns and dancing at court.

“Nonsense!” Mouli bats my shoulder with a towel, “That, my dear, is just the medicine you need. Something to lift you up and brush you off. You’ve had a bad time of it these couple of weeks. We all need to forget our troubles once in a while.”

“Forget my troubles?” Is she honestly suggesting I just set aside the fact that I might never see my mother again? That my family might be ruined?

“Mouli’s right, my dear,” Da says, his attention back on his breakfast, “It’d do you good to get your mind off things for a night.” I look at him in disbelief and he slides a glance at me that tells me to go along with him.

“I’m glad you’re talking sense, Benen,” Mouli nods and starts clearing plates, “Listen to your father, Azi. Good man.” I read the invitation again and then get up to clear my plate, but Mouli takes it from my hands to do it herself.

“It’s just a few days from now,” I say. “I don’t even have a dress.”

“Never you mind that,” says Mouli, and I know she’s already planning everything from jewels to shoes and in between. She hums with delight as she cleans up the breakfast, and Da and I sit in silence as she goes on now and then about the color, and the style, and the weight of the dress. “So much to think about! I’ve got to get to market. I’ll be back for midday meal.” She takes off her apron, tucks it into her basket, and rushes out the front door.

“Well, that got her out of the way,” Da shakes his head. “Poor Mouli, she’s so predictable. Heart of gold, though, that one.” I slide closer to my father and hug him tight. He might be cursed as I am, but at least his mind seems whole again. I was worried he’d never be the same. He pats my arm absently.

“How did you know to make me let go of the sword?” He asks, and I pull away to look up at him. His gray eyes are the sort that always look as though they’re smiling, even when the rest of him isn’t.

“It happens to me, too,” I say. I recount everything to him, from the afternoon in the training hall with Cort and Bryse, to my days of sleep, to the experiments yesterday with Rian. I leave out Flit and the dreams. I don’t want him to worry that I’ve lost my mind. By the time I’ve finished, he’s leaning forward over the table, his clenched fists supporting his forehead. I let him sit for a moment in silence, as long as I can stand to be quiet. I have questions to ask him. I need to know.

“Da, what happened that day? To you? To Mum?” I watch his back rise and fall. He’s going through it in his thoughts, I can tell. His body tenses, the muscles of his arms ripple. The front door opens and I turn. Rian stands on the threshold, his arms weighed down with books, and his scroll case stuffed to overflowing. His eyes are half-wild, but when they stop at me and he sees my father sitting beside me he smoothes his expression so it’s nearly unreadable.  When he crosses into the light, I notice that he looks even worse now than he did last night. The dark circles under his bloodshot eyes are prominent against his pale skin. His robes are disheveled and wrinkled, his hair limp and oily. I wonder if he’s gotten any sleep at all. He certainly doesn’t look it. His collar is pulled up high, but not quite high enough to cover the thin inky tendril that has curled up to his jawline. My father sits upright and turns to look at him. His expression darkens. Rian shrinks like a mouse caught under the cat’s paw.

“Hall. Now.” His chair slides back, and he disappears into the covered walkway that leads to the guild hall. As I follow him through to the corridor, my eyes fix on the streak of blood I’d left on his back earlier, which has since darkened to a rusty brown. Behind me I can hear Rian’s nearly silent steps along with the swish of his robes. Then I hear something else, so quiet that it might just be a thought in my head.

“
Is that your Da, out of bed? He’s a little scary.”
Flit. I look to one side and then the other, but I don’t see her. Rian doesn’t notice. His attention is fixed on the smooth floorboards as he walks. He has the look of a judged man on the way to sentencing.

“Not now,” I whisper as quietly as I can, unnerved by the fact that I can’t see her, and that I can hear her all too well in my mind. This could get annoying, fast.

“
He’s not as tall as I thought he’d be, though. And he has nice hair. But he stinks worse than the stinky Mage.”
I shake my head. “Go away, Flit.” I whisper, a little louder. I turn to Rian, but he is so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t react.

We follow my father into the hall, where he crosses to the door that connects it to the training hall and slides it closed and locks it. He comes back around Rian and myself and closes and bars the main door as well. It’s an odd thing to do. We never lock the hall doors. The thought of it makes me uneasy as I watch him.

Rian dumps the armload of books onto a chair by the hearth and shakes his arms out, then sinks into the chair beside it. He closes his eyes, preparing for the onslaught. Da is muttering to himself now, and I can’t make out what he’s saying. I have never seen him so agitated. He is usually one of the more patient members of the guild, the voice of reason. Not now, though. Now, he lets out an anguished growl and drives his fist into the stone wall with all his strength. I wince as I hear the crack of his knuckle bones on the unyielding stone, and rush I to stop him but he pushes past me and stalks to Rian.

“Da, stop!” I cry, but he’s already half-lifted Rian out of his chair by the front of his collar.

“You,” he snarls, “and your never ending secrets!” Rian’s feet graze the floor as my father lifts him so they’re eye to eye. The contrast between the two men is frightening. Rian has always been tall for his age, but his body is lean, almost too lean. Mouli is constantly trying to fatten him up, but he has always had the build of a sapling tree. When it comes to physical fighting, he avoids it at all costs. So when Da draws his fist back to threaten him, Rian screws his eyes shut and tries to press his face into his own shoulder to brace for the blow. His hands are occupied trying to free Da’s choke hold.

“DA!” I run behind him and grab his hand, pulling it down to keep him from swinging. He doesn’t relent.

“I never should have listened to you. I should have listened to my gut! You knew what you were sending her into, didn’t you?” He violently shakes Rian, who struggles weakly, fighting to breathe.

“Didn’t you, Gaethon?”
Gaethon,
I think. He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to.

“Da please, that’s not Uncle, it’s not! Look at him! It’s Rian! He can’t breathe!” I pull his free arm with all of my might, but it isn’t enough. My father has years of training and heavy labor on me. He’s just too strong.

“You knew what would happen. You knew she’d have to stay there, you knew because it’s in your blood, too! You should have stopped her! Forced her to stay! Now she’s lost!” He drops Rian into a heap on the floor and falls to his own knees, sobbing. “She’s gone, gone...”

“Are you okay?” I rush to Rian who is on his hands and knees gasping for air. He nods and I throw my arms around him. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. My father’s sobbing slowly subsides as Rian catches his breath. I feel his eyes on us as we look up at him. His eyes are filled with hatred as he watches us kneeling close together, holding each other.

“And I trusted you, Lisabella. You swore you’d never go back.” He starts to sob. Beside me, Rian whispers something and casts an arm out, and I yelp in surprise as my father is suddenly flung away from us. He lands with a thud against the far wall and slides down it. Rian gets to his feet unsteadily and weaves his fingers in an intricate pattern. He murmurs some incantation and a soft pink glow hovers in the air over my father and then settles over him, fading until it disappears into his prone form. Da’s eyes slowly close as he fades into a deep sleep.

“What was that?” I ask, clinging to Rian.

“Sleep spell,” Rian murmurs.

“How long will it last?” My heart breaks when I realize the gravity of what’s just happened. Rian drops to his knees and leans over until his head is resting in my lap. I stroke his hair back with shaking fingers as I stare blankly at my sleeping father.

“Until I wake him,” Rian croaks. He coughs softly and rubs his throat.

“Are you okay?” I ask again, smoothing the fabric at his shoulder as he lays there. When turns away to cough, I notice that the inky tendril peeking up over his collar has thickened slightly.

“Oh, just fine,” he forces a laugh and I realize that it was a ridiculous question. He was just nearly choked to death by a man who is like a second father to him. Of course he’s not okay. I know how he feels. I wish I didn’t, but I do.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, squeezing his shoulder. “I didn’t know. He seemed better. I thought he was better.”

“It’s not your fault,” he mumbles, his eyes drifting closed. “Or his...” It’s not long before his breathing slows and he drifts off to sleep.  Careful not to disturb him, I stretch my legs out in front of me onto the hearth rug and lean my back against a chair. I’m certain that it’s been a day or perhaps two since he’s slept at all, and so I stay as still as I can to let him rest until my back aches and my legs are numb. My father sleeps, too, and with the warm air of the crackling hearth washing over me, I doze in and out as well. As I do, I go over in my mind the things my father said during his fit of madness. 
You and your never ending secrets! You knew she’d have to stay there! You should have stopped her!

I turn the words around and over again and again in my mind, trying to see them from every angle. Uncle Gaethon knew it was dangerous for Mum to travel to Kythshire. Da says he knew because it was in Uncle’s blood, too. But what is in their blood? Gaethon is my mother’s brother. They share the same parents and the same lineage. I think back on it and realize that my mother has never talked much about our family line on her side, though I can name my father’s tree for several generations. 
I trusted you Lisabella
.
You swore you’d never go back.
It can only mean that my mother has been to Kythshire before. If his accusations were right, she knew she’d have to stay if she went back. I remember how reserved she was at our last guild meeting, and the note in her saddle bag. Still, I can’t bring myself to believe that she would choose to leave us behind.

I twist my torso from one side to the other to stretch my back, careful not to wake Rian.  His scroll case and books are piled on the chair I’m resting against and I reach up over my head to feel for something to occupy myself while he sleeps. My fingers find the scroll case and I pull it to rest on the floor beside me. I hesitate for a moment. I know that Rian has been researching the curse, and that his notes and Uncle’s are tucked inside the case. It isn’t forbidden for me to see these. I would only have to be careful not to study anything that might teach me to use magic. At least, I think that’s the way it works. I slide the thick roll of parchment from the tube and smooth it out beside me. The first page is headed with the title of a book of curses, followed by a list of names and dates. The last name and most recent on the list is Viala Nullen, who Uncle assigned to teach Rian in his absence.

I leaf through several similar pages and find her name on every one of them. There are books of curses, books about Kythshire, books about the fae, and a tome of records listing the lineage of the families of Cerion. At first I’m suspicious to see her name appearing so frequently, but then I realize it can’t be that unusual. Someone in her position has probably read most of the tomes in the vast library. I scan the sheets again and realize that my uncle’s name and even Rian’s are scattered here and there on them. With a sigh I slide them aside and come to the first page of Rian’s notes. Much of them are written in the scholar’s language and despite my uncle’s relentless pestering, I never showed a talent for learning it. I fleetingly wish I had tried a little harder as the strange words swim on the page before me. He has written here and there in the commoner’s tongue, which I have much less trouble discerning, but his notes are brief: