Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “She was young,” I say, glad to turn the conversation away from our gloomy present and into the past.

  “Thirteen,” he says. “Can you imagine?”

  “I can’t imagine performing in front of so many people at any age.” I laugh softly. Rian’s mum, Mya, is a bard. She’s easily the most sought-after performer in Cerion. Her concerts have drawn a crowd for as long as I’ve been alive. She’s also our guild’s leader and a friend of my family since before I was born. My earliest memory is of Rian chasing me through the crowds at the Arena, the two of us laughing and squealing over the cheers of her adoring audience, and each of us being scooped up by our fathers and scolded for running off.

  “So, twenty-ninth Midsummer?” he asks again after a sweet, lingering kiss. Together with those early memories, it works well to lift my spirits.

  I try hard to focus on the present. Here in the woods there are no trials, no absent fairies, no forgotten suits of magical armor collecting dust in corners of closets. There are no awkward, silent hours sitting with our guild family, waiting for the order to adventure that never comes. There is just Rian and me, past, present and future: a tiny beam of hope shimmering beyond that dark cloud, waiting to burst out. Twenty-ninth Midsummer is just under a year away. Long enough to plan. Long enough to allow the Royal family a period of mourning once the trials are finally through.

  “It’s the perfect date for our wedding,” I say, and the kiss he gives me warms me from my cheeks all the way to my toes.

  A shrill whistle interrupts our intimate moment. Rian and I hasten to sit up just as my squire appears between two trees near the path to our secret clearing. Saesa is one of the only people who knows where to find us when Rian and I sneak away. Today in particular I’m grateful for her discretion which gives me just enough time straighten my clothes and maintain some semblance of innocence.

  “Sorry to disturb you, My Lady Knight,” Saesa says, her cheeks going red. She curtsies and graciously averts her eyes.

  “It’s all right, Saesa,” I laugh and hop to my feet and offer Rian a hand up. “Is it that time already?” I eye my squire, whose red curls float wildly around her face instead of being tied back for training. She’s dressed in a late summer split skirt and sleeveless tunic instead of her sparring leathers. Still, her sword, as always, is strapped to her belt.

  “No’M’,” she says. “Well it is, almost, but that’s not why I’ve come.”

  She crosses to me and hands me a folded note. It’s sealed with purple wax pressed with the image of a tiny winged lady.

  “Princess Margary?” I glance at Rian. My heart races. Since the trials began, our only contact with the royal family has been summonses to testify. I’ve worried about Margary through all of it. She and her older sister and I used to be much closer, but then Sarabel married and left with her prince to Sunteri, and it’s no wonder Margy hasn’t wanted to see me since I began testifying against her brother.

  On the first day of the trials, I was shocked to see the youngest princess in attendance. Since then she’s been a fixture there, stoic in her little throne. She never acknowledges anyone, not even with a glance. She only listens and watches her brother, never daring to show emotion, not even while her mother is crying. Not even when the king’s jaw is set so tight I fear he might crack his teeth. She’s suffered so much through it all and remained so strong, but Margy has always seemed somehow wiser than her twelve years.

  I pull the wax away and open the note, but my hands are shaking so hard I can’t focus on the words written there. Aside from the trials, the last time I saw the princess I was sitting in her father’s treaty room, fighting my newly-acquired Mentalism skills to keep from delving into the king’s mind. Margy knew that somehow. She saw what I could do and she forbade me silently. Since then I’ve wondered about that night. I’ve agonized over it. I never wanted to lose her trust. I never meant to put her father in danger. Rian covers my hand with his to steady it.

  “Her Highness Princess Margary,” he reads aloud over my shoulder, “requests the grace of your company tomorrow noon, for High Lunch. Sir Azaeli Hammerfel and one guest. Please present this invitation at the gate, et cetera…” he murmurs the last.

  “Don’t joke, Rian,” I say, dubious that the princess would invite me to lunch after all of my testimony against her brother. Long gone are the days when these invitations were a regular event I would roll my eyes at and begrudgingly attend. Now that I’ve fallen out of favor of the younger princess, I’m both thrilled and intrigued by her summons. I read it over myself and shake my head in disbelief.

  “I got one, too,” Saesa says as the three of us make our way down the path toward the city together. “By your leave, Lady Knight, I thought I’d bring Tib if I can pin him down long enough.”

  “I saw him near the shipyard yesterday on my way to the Academy,” Rian says as I look over the identical invitation and hand it back to her. “He was watching the lifts again.”

  “Of course, Saesa, if you can lure him away from that invention of his. He’s really determined, isn’t he?” I laugh and shake my head as I tuck my note away.

  “He says he’s almost finished,” Saesa shrugs. “Though with what, I have no idea. He’s tried to explain it to me before, but it’s over my head. I believe he can do it, though.”

  “If he can he’ll be a rich man,” Rian takes my hand as we step out onto the cobbles and head toward the guild hall. The familiar sound of Da’s hammer at the forge rings out to welcome us as we near.

  “Go on and change,” I say to Saesa. “I’ll meet you in the sparring square.”

  She gives me a quick bow and rushes off, leaving me and Rian alone at my doorstep. I pull him to me.

  “I should get back,” he says. “That tome isn’t going to scribe itself. Well, it could, actually, but that would fall under Unnecessary and Frivolous Use of Magic.” His voice takes on a mocking tone and he grins at me.

  “We can’t have that,” I hold him closer and tip my head back for another kiss. He doesn’t deny me and we linger for a long while on the doorstep together.

  “See, this is the sort of thing that makes leaving that much harder, Azi,” he says. He kisses the top of my head and tries to extract himself.

  “How many pages do you have left?” I squeeze him tighter as he tries to pull away. It’s no use. I’m stronger than he is, and he knows it.

  “Three hundred and seventy-two. Then I move on to the Dorane Tomes,” he wiggles one arm out of my grip and then the other before he gives up with an exaggerated sigh. “Shipment leaves in two days. The longer you keep me in your clutches, the longer it’ll take me to finish.”

  “All right, all right.” I pout and give him one last squeeze and a reluctant kiss farewell, and we part ways.

  The clanging at my father’s forge fills our otherwise quiet house. I follow the sound through the kitchen and out back to find Da busy with his back to me, working a strangely shaped strip of iron. Tib is perched on the wall nearby, stroking the fur of a thickly-tufted orange and black cat while he oversees Da’s work.

  “Hey, Azi,” he says, and hops down to land lightly beside me. The cat stays on the wall.

  “Good to see you, Tib,” I give him a squeeze around the shoulder and he quickly pats my back and pulls away. “Saesa’s looking for you. She’ll be back to train soon.”

  “All right,” he says, already distracted. He leans toward Da, examining the iron strip. “Narrower there, please,” he says, pointing to the end. “Then flaring out this way.”

  He draws a shape in the soot with his finger. Da nods to Tib and then winks at me and taps his cheek. I give him a quick peck and he turns away to plunge the iron into the coals.

  If Cerion has favored any one of us these past two years, it’s Tib. No longer the tortured, skinny slave-boy he was when first we met, Tib has grown from a timid, angry boy to a confident young man. His fringe of straight black hair still hangs to cover his slanted eyes, and he’s never withou
t his dagger. With my fighter’s eye I can pick out at least three others hidden on him, which is impressive considering his summer short-pants don’t leave him many places to stash them.

  Since our return to Cerion, Tib has earned himself an impressive reputation for lurking. Throughout the city, many are wary to speak openly about their enemies in public for fear that Tib has been hired to follow them and spy. Apparently he makes quite a stack of coin at the dangerous profession. He keeps it honest, though. He’s settled happily into Nessa Ganvent’s crew of orphans, and whisperings of his mysterious project follow quickly behind nearly every mention of his name.

  “Zeze looks better,” I point to the cat.

  “Yeah. She just needed some scraps, didn’t you, Ze?” Tib smiles. He pats her affectionately, and she meows in reply. “No, stay up there or Mouli will have your hide. You remember last time?” The cat mews and curls up near the warmth of the forge vent. “Good girl,” he says, and turns back to me.

  “Are you traveling any time soon?” he asks secretly under the cover of Da’s hammer clangs. I know he’s referring to Kythshire, the land of fairies where his sister guards the North border with the Spirit of the Shadow Crag, Iren.

  “Maybe,” I say, and the familiar pang of guilt over Flitt’s absence strikes me again. Perhaps another trip is in order after all. I could go now, quickly, while everyone else is busy. No, I can’t bear to go without Rian. We could go tonight when he gets back from scribing, but no, I don’t want to go and possibly get caught up in something that will make me miss the Princess’s invitation. And then, of course, tomorrow I must see the Princess. I sigh. No wonder Flitt is angry with me, the way I prioritize her.

  “Day after tomorrow, I think,” I say, pushing away the guilt. “Will you join me?”

  “I think so. Thanks,” he leans toward Da, already distracted again by the iron. “Sharper there, please, sir,” he wiggles his finger, “and then a curve.”

  I leave the two of them to their work and head up to my room to change into my training leathers. Saesa will be here soon, and the weight of my sword in my hands always makes me feel better, even if it’s only practice.

  In the quiet of my room, my thoughts wander. With no orders from the king since the trials have started, most of the Elite have gone off on their own to keep busy. This has left the guild hall feeling empty and lonesome. A certain melancholy has settled in. None of us likes being idle. We all have a taste for adventure, and as long as the trial continues there’ll be no hint of a quest on the horizon. The glory of His Majesty’s Elite along with the glory of Cerion itself, is fading.

  A glint of light reflecting off of my armor catches my eye. The helm has recently been polished, perhaps just this morning. I think of Saesa, my eager squire, and smile as I pick up the glossy, shimmering piece. A gift from the fairies, my armor is unlike anything made by man. The material is smooth like polished stone. Its color is deep blue flecked with tiny golden crystals. It shimmers as it catches the light, and holding it quickens my heart and makes me feel braver and more daring. Wearing it makes me feel safe. Bolstered. I cross to the mirror, pull the helm on, and slide down the face guard.

  The young woman looking back at me is startling. She’s strong, confident, and determined. She has the look of a true Knight, complete with that distant hint of mystery in her eyes. Something that says she’s seen tragedy and risen above it. A stirring that makes me want to follow her, to rally behind her.

  “Eh, it looks wrong,” a squeaky voice pipes up outside my helm. At my shoulder, rainbow-colored light twinkles and splashes off of the armor to dance across the low eaves of my ceiling.

  “Flitt?” I whisper. She responds with a sharp tug of my hair.

  “Azi! What were you thinking?” the fairy cries.

  “Ow!” I exclaim. My scalp starts to tingle. I pull my helm off and a long blonde braid tumbles down over my shoulder.

  “That’s better,” Flitt emerges from the light and grins at me. “Hello!”

  “Oh, Flitt!” I reach out to her.

  In a flash she’s my size. She throws her arms around me, and I can’t help but squeeze her to make sure she’s real. I’m so happy to see her that I really have to keep myself in check to avoid crushing her with my embrace.

  “Wings, wings,” she warns.

  “Sorry!” I sniffle. I had forgotten how she smells like dew and sunshine, how bright her hair is with its multi-colored ponytails, how brilliantly her light sparkles from every pore of her skin. “Where have you been?” I ask as she pops back to fairy-size again.

  “Ugh, I don’t know how you stand being so enormous,” she says, wrinkling her nose. She brushes at her ribbon skirt with disgust. “I’ve always said it. Humans are simply too ridiculously large. Don’t you consider those around you? I mean, you could very easily step on something and kill it, and you wouldn’t even know. A beetle, or an ant. Or a small chicken. You should really consider, as a race, smalling yourselves down a little. For the sake of those around you.”

  “Flitt,” I laugh. “Honestly, where have you been? I’ve been so worried.”

  “Oh, wait ‘til you hear,” she says with a grin as she settles on the handle of my hairbrush. “I know, let’s play!”

  Chapter Three: The Satchel

  Tib

  A brush of cobwebs against my skin. I step into the unseen. Into the shadows. Mevyn’s gift. Valenor’s lesson. A gift is not a trick. They taught me that. Sometimes, a gift is necessary. Sometimes it’s the last hope for something better. This time, it’s for something nobody else has dreamed up yet. I adjust the blade strapped to my back. It’s longer. It stretches up over my head farther than I can reach. Flatter, too. Twisted. Perfectly worked by Sir Benen.

  Zeze walks in front. Gets people to jump away or risk tripping over her. Some of them kick at her. I make a mental note of them for later. We travel this way for a while. Slinking on foot. Sticking to shadows. Out of the tucked-away street where Azi’s guild keeps their hall, past the castle, through the market. Past the lifts to the docks. I pause here. Watch the Mage at the wall as he raises his arms. Bulky muscled men crank the cranks. The lift creaks and squeals and bumps along the cliff face. Crates jostle and threaten to fall, but the Mage keeps them safe. His spell is a powerful one. It makes the load lighter. It keeps it protected. It’s necessary. Even the Princess thinks so.

  This goes on all day into the dusk. Mage spells. Crates. Boxes. People. Animals. Up and down, never stopping. Workers working. Ships loaded and unloaded. Cargo in. Cargo out. In the summer, the Mages keep things light and safe. They protect from wind and rain and sea salt. In the winter, they melt the ice. Every spell drains a drop from Kythshire’s Wellspring. A drop, a stream, it doesn’t matter to them. The port gets busier. Their work needs to be done. Nobody thinks of the fairies. Why should they? To them, the fae don’t exist. Legends. Stories. Mention them and they call you a simpleton. A liar. A tall tale-teller.

  I slip away from the port. When I’m done, they won’t need magic anymore for that task. My way will be better. My way will preserve the Wellsprings. Kythshire’s and Sunteri’s, too. I’ll sell my machine to them, then I’ll find another need to fill. Rian says we’ll always have a need for magic. He says the arts are getting more popular by the season. It’s harder to get into the school now. The Academy. They’re very careful about who’s allowed to learn its secrets. I’m glad. Magic is selfish and dangerous. It ruins people. It destroys things too easily. They shouldn’t trust just anyone with it.

  Zeze knows the way to Redstone. I follow her without thinking past the bright white walls of the Academy. Past the dorms and the stables and the rows of merchants in the main square. Through to the poorer places. The places you don’t really notice when you first come to Cerion. The places you walk by without looking too hard. The places you try to avoid. When I first came to Cerion, I didn’t think anyone here was poor. In Zhaghen, they’re everywhere. Spread out through the city, right in the open. Begging. Coughin
g. Crying.

  It’s different here. They have their place, neatly tucked away. Dark, stinking rows of red-brick houses. Houses so old and ignored that they might crumble to dust with one careless bump of a cart. Redstone Row. It used to be a small part of the city, but now it’s growing. The king is too distracted to pay his people the attention they need right now. Everyone’s talking about it. They say he doesn’t care. He doesn’t see them like he used to. The people aren’t important anymore. He’s too focused on his son. On the trials.

  Whispers that Cerion’s age of peace is coming to an end echo from the shadows here. through the filth of these forgotten streets I understand why. I slip from the shadows. Stop in the usual places. Unload my pockets slowly into outstretched hands. Coins. Rolls. Fruit. Trade them for smiles, for thanks. For information. Dreiya talks to me with a baby on each hip. Her husband is at a meeting. A secret rally. He’s a master stone carver. Worked for the Royal builders. They stopped working last year. Nothing left to build, they said. No orders from His Majesty for new construction.

  Lots on this row are in the same boat. No work because Cerion is fading. It’s happening slowly, just like it did in Zhaghen. Just like there, the poor are the first to see it. Just like there, powerful men sit in their towers, too caught up in their own problems to care. While things are getting worse in Cerion, in Sunteri things are getting better. The new princess is helping her prince. They’re working to rebuild the kingdom. Their first step was to make strong rules against magic. Guiding the royal treasury away from the Mage scholars and into the hands of the poor.

  Maybe Princess Sarabel should come back. Maybe she’d see what’s happening. Tell her father. Snap him out of his selfish misery. Show him how skinny everyone’s getting down here.

  I turn the corner, straight into a gang of boys. Their backs are turned to me. Some older than I am, some younger. All dirty. Scrappy. Grouped around something. Their arms are linked together to keep whatever’s inside from getting out. I step closer and peer in. A fray. A fistfight. A girl dressed in tatters fighting a dark-skinned boy in fine clothes. He doesn’t know how to fight. He’s grabbing at her hair. Kicking. Thrashing a lot and missing. She’s better at it. She lands a punch to his gut. A kick to his hip.