Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  “Give it back!” The rich boy huffs, grabbing at a bag slung across the girl’s chest. It doesn’t match the rest of her. It’s finer. Cleaner. Something’s inside that I can feel, but not see. Something magical. Powerful. Dangerous. Definitely not hers. The boy lunges at her and she swings up with bloodied knuckles. Uppercut to his jaw. He’s thrown back. She laughs. The circle of boys cheers. To them it’s a game. To the boy, that bag is important. He wipes blood from his lip onto his yellow silk sleeve. Pushes himself up. The rest of the boys charge him. Push him down. Kick. The girl joins in.

  He doesn’t give in. He keeps trying to get up, even when the flash of a blade catches the sun. That’s when I step in. Zeze goes first. Saunters up to them. The boys in the back of the pack freeze when they see her. They tug at the others. Point. The fight dies down as nudges travel through them into the center. One of the boys tugs the girl’s arm. She shoves him away but Zeze catches her eye. She turns. Lowers the knife.

  Cowered against the wall, the rich boy peeks around his upraised arms. Glances at all of them, standing with their backs to him. Staring at me. Waiting.

  “What’s the word, Celli?” I ask. Casual. Like I didn’t just interrupt her almost murdering someone. She shrugs. Rolls her eyes a little. She’s my age. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Cold eyes. Thin mouth. Broad shoulders. The look of someone who’s been fighting for a long time. The other boys step back a little. Watch between us.

  “What’s that?” she points to the iron slung to my back.

  “Later,” I say. “What’s that?” I point to the bag. She shrugs again.

  “It’s my lord’s bag, and she stole it right out of his hands!” the rich boy cries. His accent is thick. He starts to get up, but Celli turns a fist to him and he cowers away.

  “That true?” I ask her.

  “Nope. This stupid clod left it lying on a stool,” Celli sneers. “So it walked. What’s in here that’s so important?” she asks. Folds open the flap. Reaches a hand inside. The rich boy jumps up. Grabs at it. She shoves him away.

  “Give it back!” he shouts. “Don’t touch it!”

  “Celli, no!” I try to warn her.

  She doesn’t listen. She touches whatever is in there. When she does, she screams. Pulls her hand out. It’s red. Bright red, like the petals of the flowers I used to pick. The color creeps up along her arm, swirling and curling like Mage Mark. She scrambles with the bag. Yanks it from her shoulder. Throws it at the rich boy. The curls don’t stop. They stretch over the skin of her chest, sizzling. She screams. Claws at it.

  The boy doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bag and runs. Fast. I’m caught. Do I chase him down? Find out what that was? Or help Celli? I glance at her. The other boys are already surrounding her. Lifting her. Arguing over whether to go to the Academy or the Conclave. I let them. I turn and chase. I’m fast in a footrace. Known for it now. Made a few silver off it, racing.

  The rich boy is easy to spot. A streak of yellow silk against the dingy gray. He’s fast, too. I trail him through narrow alleys and past sagging shop stalls. Zeze darts ahead in a blur of orange and black fur. The boy ducks around a corner and I follow. I skid to a stop in the crowded sea market street. It’s midafternoon. The lifts have been emptied. New wares are on display. Silks of green and red and gold that billow out from their hangings. Banners that snap against the salty wind. People. Crowds of people so thick I can barely squeeze through them.

  “Young Master Tib,” Averie, the apothecary merchant, calls out from his booth nearby. He’s always pestering me to buy from him ever since Saesa told him about my vials. I brush him off as I catch a glimpse of yellow ahead. The rich boy ducks into a tavern. I know that one well. It’s not a good place for a kid like him.

  “Later,” I say. I tug my sleeve from Averie’s grip and he fumbles with the lavender vial he’d been holding up to me as I run off.

  Seabird’s Swoop is the name of this place. It used to be nice when I first came to Cerion. Now it’s a little more run down on the outside and the inside smells like fish, sweat, and ale. That doesn’t matter much to its patrons, though. Thirsty sailors don’t care what it looks or smells like, as long as there’s cheap drink and pretty women. This place has both.

  Zeze slinks around my ankles as my eyes adjust to the dark. The fire is just coals and the candles aren’t lit yet, but I still see him in the corner, bright like a beacon. I take a step. Feel the cobwebs brush my face just before he glances to the door. He’ll see it as empty, even though I’m still here. Watching. I creep forward, past a bunch of men gambling at a long table. Past a few other men occupied with the tavern’s ladies. The barkeep looks up. Winks at Zeze. He lets her stay. He knows I’m here. We have an agreement.

  I sneak up to the boy, who’s hunched at a small table with his back to the wall. He doesn’t look like he just got in a fight. His yellow silks are spotless. The blood on his face is cleaned away. Even his bruises are fading as he sips from a cup and sets it down with a shaking hand. Mage. He’s got to be.

  With his other hand he’s got the bag under the table where I can’t see it. He peers into it. I try to come around for a better angle, but I can’t get one. He’s too tucked into the corner. His lips are moving like he’s whispering, but as close as I am I can’t hear anything. Saesa is teaching me to read lips, but I can’t make anything out. It’s a different language. A Mage spell, or Islandic, considering his dark skin and stubbly shaved head. He’s definitely an islander from Stepstone. Or Vermina.

  An ocean-blue glow splashes the front of his silks. He snaps the bag shut and looks hurriedly around to see if anyone’s noticed. Nobody has, though. They’re all half drunk. None of them cares about the rich boy in the corner. His leg bounces nervously. He glances at the door again. I follow his gaze to the man who’s just entered.

  He’s broad-shouldered with a respectably trimmed beard, dressed in well-fitted plain clothes. A short sword is belted to his waist. It takes me some time to place him. I’m not used to seeing him out of his royal armor. He’s one of Princess Margy’s guards. His name is Finn. I lean back against the wall and watch. To my surprise, he crosses straight to the rich boy. Nods. Sits. Eyes the strap of the bag showing above the table.

  “Loren,” he says in greeting.

  “Sir Finn,” the boy nods.

  “You have it, then?” Finn asks.

  “Right here,” Loren pats the bag under the table carefully. “You’ll take it to the princess?”

  Finn leans across the table. His lips press into a thin line. He drums his fingers. Leans back again. Never takes his eyes from the boy’s.

  “You’re certain of this?” Finn asks. Turns his hand over and beckons.

  “My master swears by it,” Loren pushes the bag across the table into Finn’s outstretched hand. Finn scowls. Peeks inside. The same splash of sea-blue light spills over his face.

  “How does it work?” he murmurs and shakes his head slightly. His expression is wary. Reluctant. He presses the flap closed to shut out the light.

  “By touch,” Loren says simply. I think of Celli’s arm, covered in the red Mark. How she screamed. The magic in that bag is strong and strange. I can’t figure it out, and that worries me.

  “You will remain here until it is done,” Finn says sternly. The boy smiles. Bows his head.

  “Of course,” he says. “That was my master’s agreement. We of Stepstone keep our word.”

  “Very well, then. Our business is done for now.” Finn stands up with the bag. Glares at it. Tucks it under his arm.

  “I have this, too” the boy stands. He hesitates and watches Finn warily.

  “Course you do. What is it?” The princess’s guard holds out his free hand and huffs impatiently.

  “A letter for Her Highness,” Loren produces a fold of parchment sealed with an aqua ribbon and a red seal. Finn nods and tucks the parchment away.

  “That’ll be all, then.” It’s a statement, not a question. Finn is done with this business.

>   Loren gives a humble nod. He watches Finn cross through the noisy, crowded tavern and out the door. Then he sinks back into his chair, closes his eyes, and lets out a long sigh of relief.

  “It’s done,” he whispers. I stare out the door and into the street in disbelief. What business was that? Why would Finn come here to collect such an object from a strange island boy and bring it to the princess? “No, master,” Loren whispers. He rests his head in his hands. His lips are moving again. Whispering strange words. I watch, unsure what to do.

  Finn has sworn to protect Princess Margary. He’s her truest, most noble guard. He loves her like his own daughter. That much is plain. He would never put her in danger by delivering such an object to her. Princess Margary loves him, too. She trusts him. If he told her to touch that thing, whatever it was, she’d do it. But why would he? Does he know what it could do?

  I watch the boy, Loren. He’s relieved, but still shaking. I can feel his fear like a blanket around him. He glances at the sailors and ducks his head again. His lips are still moving. He presses his forehead into his hand. A tavern maid comes over. Asks him to order something. He does. Good. He’ll be here for a while. I leave him to go chase down Finn. As curious as I am about the boy, I need to warn the princess.

  I slip out of hiding among the crowded market patrons and run to the palace. I catch up to Finn just before the side gate. He’s hidden the bag away. Tucked it in the back of his belt and pulled his tunic free to cover it.

  “Finn!” I call to him. He hesitates before turning to face me.

  “Well, Master Tib,” he offers me a kind smile. Natural. Like he wasn’t just lurking in a low-class tavern conspiring with strangers. “Good to see you.”

  “You too,” I cross my arms. Look him in the eye. There’s determination there. Urgency. No regret. No sign that what he’s about to do could be dangerous. He’s a soldier, though. He’s trained to be stoic. I glance past him at the guards at the gate, who are close enough to hear us. Choose my next words carefully.

  “Nice day for a drink,” I say. Narrow my eyes. He scowls.

  “I don’t partake on duty, Tib,” he says.

  “But you’re not on duty,” I reply, pointing to his clothes.

  “Not so,” he pats his sword. Chuckles. Tries to brush me off. “Why the sudden suspicion, boy? You have your sights set on old Finn?”

  Zeze slinks around Finn’s ankles, purring and rubbing. He glances down at her and smiles. Doesn’t kick her away like most would. Looks back at me again.

  “It’s dangerous,” I say. “I saw what it can do.”

  With that, he glances over his shoulder. Puts a hand on my back. Guides me out of earshot of the guards.

  “Best put it out of your mind,” he says to me as we stop along the low wall overlooking the sea. “It’s not your concern.”

  “It is my concern. She’s my friend, and I won’t let anything happen to her.” I clench my fists at my side. His casual attitude about all of this really bothers me. If he had seen what that thing had done to Celli, he would have second thoughts about bringing it into the palace. He doesn’t care, though. He shakes his head. Looks like he’s going to say something, then thinks the better of it and turns back toward the guards.

  “Don’t, Finn!” I shout as he starts to walk away. There’s nothing else for it. I dive at him. Grab the bag from his belt before he can react. He spins, giving me just enough time to reach in and close my hand around the object before he yanks the bag away. I have it though. It’s small. Soft. A baby doll’s vest woven of silver and gold and encrusted with sparkling jewels. Fit for a prince. It emanates magic. I can feel it tingling in my hand and trying to stretch along my arm like it did to Celli. It can’t, though. I’m protected. Magic doesn’t affect me.

  Finn’s eyes go wide. He stalks toward me, seething. Yanks the thing away. Shoves it in the bag even as the red curls sizzle across his hand. Pushes me against the wall and holds me there.

  “Go home, Tib,” he hisses between his teeth. “Go home before I change my mind and have you arrested for thieving. Go!”

  I don’t think. I turn and run. Back through the market toward home. Back to Nessa, who keeps me safe. Past the market stalls. Past Seabird’s Swoop. I pause. The boy would still be inside. I slip into hiding again and step to the door. He is. Just there, tucked in the corner, finishing his supper.

  Chapter Four: Reunions

  Azi

  “So you asked first: Where have I been? Answer: Kythshire. My turn!” Flitt giggles.

  Flitt’s game verges on annoying on a good day, when I’ve had practice and I’m not teeming with questions that have been floating through my mind for months. Today, I have little patience for it and I’m out of practice, but I try hard anyway. I don’t want to do anything to upset her and make her go away again. She darts around curiously as I sit cross-legged on my bedroom floor and watch her. Her light dances over me, lifting my spirits. Despite the dark mood in the kingdom, I’m grinning like a fool and I don’t even care.

  “My question is,” she rests on the windowsill, “how much longer do you think the trials will go?”

  I’m not surprised that this would be the first thing she asks, since Flitt reports most of what goes on here to the Ring in Kythshire. They fairies there have a personal grudge against Prince Eron. They’re as eager for a verdict as any of us.

  “I’d say weeks. Two, maybe three,” I sigh. “I’ve said that before, though, and then the appeals come, so who knows?”

  “Nobody knows, apparently!” Flitt answers. “My turn again.”

  I groan. My question wasn’t really a question, but it counts as one.

  “Do you think they’re right to go through with it, if he’s guilty?” she asks. I’m thrown off by the question. She seems more interested in my opinion of the situation than the actual decision. My thoughts drift to Eron and my own experience of his wickedness. His plots with the Sorceress Viala. The way he used to look at me with hunger and desire to force his power over me. The coldness in his eyes when he ran his blade through Ki to end her life. His vow that he would rule not only Cerion, but Kythshire and every land he could conquer. Slowly, I nod.

  “I do,” I reply. “I’m not usually quick to cry death, but Eron is too far gone. There are things that have come out in the trial beyond what we knew. There’s no hope for redemption. His heart is black. He wants only power, and he doesn’t care who he hurts to get it. He would see his own father dead to help him claim the throne. If he was ever able to be king, not only would Cerion be ruined, but he wouldn’t stop. His selfishness would destroy everything that the Plethores have worked so hard to build. I don’t see any way he could be allowed to live if we’re to preserve Cerion’s peace.”

  Flitt nods thoughtfully and stretches out onto her belly in a beam of sunlight, facing me. She plucks a sugar cube from the dish I always keep full there, and takes a bit. Her wings slowly open and close, like a butterfly happily sipping at nectar.

  “Your question,” she says, resting her chin in her hand.

  “You were gone for a long time. I was worried and I missed you so much,” I say as I move closer to kneel at the windowsill. “Why were you gone for so long?”

  “Lots of reasons,” she says, grinning impishly.

  “Flitt! That’s not a real answer. Come on, don’t be so tricky,” I force a laugh, but my eyes brim with tears. I want to know. I need to know.

  “Aw, Azi. I missed you, too,” she floats up to pat my cheek. “I’ll tell you, but you can’t tell anyone else, okay? Promise.”

  “I promise, but, not even Rian?” I press my fingertips to the spot that she touched, which tingles warmly as they stick to the sugar she left behind.

  “Oh, don’t be stupid. Of course you’ll tell Stinky. I’m not completely brainless, am I?” She rolls her eyes and settles again on the windowsill.

  “I never said you were. We’re back to Stinky again, are we?” I ask. Poor Rian. Flitt loves to tease and torment
him, and he tolerates it because he knows I adore her.

  “Yup,” she replies, grinning. “This has to do with him anyway, sort of. So are you going to ask me again?”

  “Okay. What kept you away for so long?” I glance out the window and see Saesa’s red hair bouncing along toward us. She’ll be headed to the training square. She’ll wait for me there.

  “New titles,” Flitt says excitedly. “You’re looking at Flitter. Felicity Lumine Instacia Tenacity Teeming Elite Reformer. Can you believe it?” She jumps up and does a little celebratory spin in the air.

  “Wow, two new names,” I exclaim, genuinely pleased for her. “Well done, Flitt!” Fairies earn new names as rewards and recognition for impressive deeds. The longer a fairy’s name, the higher her esteem. When I met her, she was Flitt. Since then, she’s earned three names. She giggles and straightens up a little, her chin raised proudly. “Elite Reformer,” I repeat. “That sounds rather important. How did you get those?”

  “Oh, that’s the interesting part. I had some ideas about fairy relations. Old fashioned ideas. From the old days, you know. Way back when. I was just sitting in my grotto one morning listening to the chimes and it came to me. We should go back to it. The way things were. Once Prince Creepy is gone, I mean. Not ‘til then, because it would mean exposing ourselves a little, and we’d have to really make sure Cerion was on our side first. But your kingdom has respected our treaty for a long time, now, and we’ve been safe. The elves do it, you know. They do it in other places, too. And with Princess Margary how she is, Twig says she’ll be Queen. She won’t let bad things happen. And if it works, it’s like built-in protection. So that would make sense.

  “But then I brought it up at the Ring, you know. And Crocus and Scree were wary. Shush was for it. Ember of course wasn’t. Twig was. There was a vote. There was lots of arguing, too. I almost got kicked out of the Circle for it, if you can believe it. There was so much dancing. Dancing for weeks and weeks. Some of them still hate me for bringing it up. I won’t be putting myself alone with Ember any time soon, if you know what I mean.”