Call of Brindelier (Keepers of the Wellsprings Book 3)

by Missy Sheldrake

  I’m left with a sense of serenity so delicious that I can do nothing but stand in awe of the woman on the throne. Her gown is white petals and birch bark and dove feathers that cascade to the floor like a waterfall. Her crown is diamond and ivory and dew-kissed twig and lacewing held by loose, flyaway locks of spun-gold hair. Curls of the same tumble down her bare shoulders and reflect in the shimmer of her wings, which are as delicate as a dragonfly’s. I have never seen wings as impressive as hers. They dance with a light even more colorful and bright than Flitt’s and they’re twice as broad as her arm’s reach.

  “My Sunbeam,” the queen’s voice is the whisper of a sweet spring breeze and the tinkle of a chime. She holds her arms out to Flitt, and I’m surprised when my fairy companion doesn’t dive into them. Instead, Flitt looks at the queen with a hint of caution and something else I can’t place. Actually I can, but I’m so shocked by it that I can’t believe Flitt could have the audacity to show it. Defiance.

  All around us the fairies in the hall hover silently, leaning in, waiting. They sense it, too, this tension between Flitt and the queen.

  “Why, little one,” the queen tilts her head to the side, causing her crown to jingle and glitter. “Long has it been since we held you in our arms. Why do you deny us your embrace?”

  Flitt tightens her grip on my hand. She tugs me along with her as she leans in and allows the queen to hug her. This close to the queen, I can feel her power like the beams of the sun itself. I fear if I linger too long, I might be burned by it. The palace erupts into applause and sighs of approval as the queen hugs Flitt closer.

  “I missed you, Memi,” Flitt whispers only loud enough for the three of us to hear. “But you shouldn’t have done that to Azi. She didn’t even know it was happening. People have different rules than we do. You’ve been away from them too long to remember.”

  “Indeed, but there were things we needed to see,” the queen says. “No matter. One who has more vast knowledge than she is being tested even as we speak. This one has been well-trained in the human ways of magic.” She gazes past Flitt to the great hall for a moment, and then turns her attention back to the colorful fairy. “We are proud of you, our little one. We have heard tell of your accomplishments.” She lets Flitt go after one more squeeze, and right away Flitt takes a step back and pulls me with her.

  “Yet,” the queen says with a hint of sadness, “there is little time for happy reunions. The Mage approaches.”

  She makes a graceful motion with her hand, and Flitt and I turn toward the sweeping hall to watch. At the queen’s command, the air shimmers before us to form a portal or a looking glass. It is large enough to show the reflection of much of the throne and of the queen, myself, and Flitt, and it hovers in mid-air for all to see. After a moment, its surface ripples like the waves of a pool and our reflections give way to a completely different scene.

  I gasp as the image shifts to that of a familiar figure: Auburn hair and blue Mage robes which hang on his narrow frame. At his shoulder, a fairy in glinting green armor whispers to him. The figure turns to face us, and Rian’s eyes meet mine through the fairy portal.

  “Rian!” I whisper, tears springing to my eyes. I rush toward his image, dragging Flitt along with me. I know it’s only a spell, a vision, but I need to be close to him. I need feel his arms around me. I take in every detail of him. His robes are torn at the shoulder and one bell sleeve is splattered with blood. His face has been singed on the left side, and he walks with a slight limp as he hurries forward.

  “What now?” Rian asks Shush, his tone urgent and hushed.

  “Now we part ways, my friend, and meet on the other side,” the fairy whispers. “Take heed. I’ll see you there.”

  Rian’s tests are vastly different from my own. Rather than a path guarded by sentries, he’s faced with a single, ragged-looking old man with a long white beard.

  “Circle and stone, flat and yet round, I speak with no voice, yet knowledge abounds,” the man says to him, without any formal greeting at all. “What am I?”

  “You are a scroll,” Rian answers.

  “I fall with a flutter, I rise with the wind, yet I can do nothing without flesh and skin,” the man watches him through narrowed eyes. “What am I?”

  “You are a feather,” Rian answers.

  “A golden pool, a blackened heart, a bruis-ed fool, a stolen spark,” the man tugs his beard and leans in. “What am I?”

  “You are Mage Mark,” Rian answers.

  They go on this way for what seems like hours, the man offering a riddle and Rian answering, until his head dips low and his eyes droop with exhaustion. Though most of the fairies watching from the palace are still engaged, several of them nod off in mid air, snoring softly. As the man recites yet another riddle, Rian dozes and stumbles to the side as he startles awake again.

  “Please, sir,” he interrupts, rubbing his temples. “I have answered your riddles time and again, and I don’t think I’ve answered a single one incorrectly.”

  “That is so,” the man replies.

  “To what end?” Rian asks.

  “What end do you seek?” the man rocks back on his heels, humming merrily. The grueling game of riddles doesn’t seem to have affected him the same way has Rian.

  “I was lead to believe this was some sort of test,” Rian replies. “Have I passed it?”

  “No indeed,” the man chuckles. “But almost.”

  Around us in the gallery, the fairies are laughing. Some of them wake and chuckle with the others. Even Flitt grins with amusement as she watches the exchange in the portal.

  “Almost?” I whisper. “How many more questions are there?”

  “Just one,” Flitt replies, “but it has to be the right one.”

  “I sing in the sunshine and the rain. I soothe in the summer. In winter I’m wicked again. What am I?” The man’s eyes glint with mischief.

  “You are the wind,” Rian answers and pinches the bridge of his nose. His fingers spark and he yelps and shoves his balled fists into his robes.

  “I follow behind you or I can lead you. My way can be washed by the sea or blown by the wind. I can remain for a year or a day. What am I?”

  “You are a footprint,” Rian scowls. “Now, wait!” he holds up a hand to interrupt. “No more. I’ve answered enough of your riddles.”

  “Perhaps,” the man’s laughter joins the mirth of the fairies among us in the palace. “And yet one question remains unanswered.”

  Rian takes a deep breath and stares at the man for a long time. He blows it out with an exasperated sigh.

  “What end do I seek?” Rian repeats the riddler’s earlier question.

  “What end do you seek?” the man nods.

  “I wish to gain passage to the palace,” Rian replies. His hands inside his robes crackle. A bit of smoke puffs out from the edges of his vest. “Please, I seek my companions. The Lady Knight Azaeli and the fairy Flitt. If they passed this way, will you allow me to seek them out, please?”

  “Indeed they have, and in asking to pass, you have earned the passage you seek.” The man grins, steps aside, and bows.

  “You mean to tell me all I had to do was ask for you to let me through?” Rian groans. “We’ve been at this for hours. How many riddles did I answer?”

  “Four hundred and seventy-three,” the bearded man replies. “Impressive.”

  “Impressive, but pointless,” Rian shakes his head, “unless you meant to stall me and keep me from urgent matters.”

  “Not at all,” the man shakes his head apologetically. “The point, my dear Mage, was for us to see you for who you are. You have shown us your wit and knowledge, yes. Your wisdom, indeed. But also your tolerance, your resolve, your restraint. Not once did you lose patience with my riddles. Not once did you think to blast me out of the way, which is well within your power. No. Instead you were respectful. You kept your head. And when it all stopped making sense, you questioned. We have seen all of you that we needed to, and now y
ou may proceed to the gates. Hurry. They are waiting for you.”

  Rian hesitates just for a moment, slack-jawed, as the man waves him through. It isn’t until the riddler vanishes from view that Rian shakes his head in exasperation and rushes off in the direction that he was motioned.

  “Fairies,” he murmurs under his breath as he jogs through a thicket of trees and is met with a wall of glass.

  From our angle at the mirror, we can see the extent of the next test laid out before him: a series of walls of different make. There are glass walls, stone walls, walls made of towering trees, walls of ice and fire. Rian’s fingertips crackle as he stands before the first one: a wall of glass. I understand it right away, even as Rian rushes along the length of the wall, looking for a door in or an end to go around. It’s endless, though, just like my chasm was. He isn’t meant to go over or around. He’s meant to use his magic to make his way through.

  I cling to Flitt beside me. Together we watch him grow more frantic as he stalks along the glass wall.

  “He won’t cast a spell here,” I whisper to her. “He won’t risk it.”

  He doesn’t, either. Not for a long time. More hours. Finally, he turns his back to the glass and slides down it until he’s sitting in the moss. He hugs his knees and presses his forehead to them. At his sides he flexes his fingers, which pulse and crackle with the magic that begs to burst forth.

  “Oh, Rian,” I call out with a sigh, my heart breaking for him.

  In the forest, with the glass to his back, Rian raises his head. He looks around. He jumps to his feet.

  “Azi?” he calls.

  “Rian?” I cry out to the mirror. “Can you hear me?”

  All around us, the fairies in the great hall murmur and whisper with excitement. The dozing fae pop up and look around. Most of them drift closer to the portal, gazing with great interest at the Mage within.

  “He should not be able to,” the queen says from behind us, “but true love has ways that are yet unknown, even to us. Tell him, Azaeli, that he is permitted to display his skill. I fear if you do not, we shall spend an eternity waiting.”

  “Rian!” I step forward. Flitt drifts alongside me, still gripping my hand. “Rian, it’s all right. Show them your magic. They want to see.”

  At first I think he’ll continue to restrain himself, but he steps forward to the glass and presses his palms to it, closing his eyes. The spell he whispers is slow and methodical, and soon the glass glows yellow and red and melts away leaving a hole just large enough for him to step through.

  Next comes the stone, which he causes to quake and thunder until it cracks and crumbles to dust. He faces the wall of trees and casts another spell to guide the trunks to grow apart from each other just wide enough for him to step through. The fire he faces with water, the ice he faces with fire from the wall he’d just defeated. With each pass through a wall, the palace erupts into cheers and Rian seems to gain more confidence and control.

  By the time he passes through the final wall, that of water, he is grinning from ear to ear. I don’t realize he knows for certain he has an audience until he turns to face the gates and offers a bow with a flourish of both hands.

  “Don’t get show-offy,” Shush gusts as he comes to Rian’s side before the gates.

  I gasp at the sight of the wind fairy, who has grown himself to Rian’s size if not a little taller. Rian seems just as surprised to see him appear in such a way. As Shush moves closer to him, Rian’s robes swirl around him in a cyclone and his hair whips into his face. He raises his hands to stop Shush’s approach.

  “Could you tone it down a little?” he asks him.

  “Sorry,” Shush whispers, “sure.” He shrugs his carapace-clad shoulders and the wind dies down to a breeze.

  “So what now?” Rian asks.

  “Just step inside,” Shush whispers as the sentries plant their spears and motion the two through.

  The portal shimmers and fades, and beyond it at the far end of the endless hall I see a pinpoint of light as the gates open. He’s so far away and so tiny that I could cover him from my view with the finest point of a quill, but his form is unmistakable.

  “Rian,” I gasp and take off down the stairs. At the end of the hallway I hear him running, too. Flitt’s hand is still in mine, and rather than let go or try to stop me, she squeals with delight as she floats along beside and I throw myself into Rian’s open arms in front of the audience of fairies.

  “Azi,” he whispers to me with both relief and hunger. His lips are on mine before I know what’s happening, and his hands are in my hair. He kisses me urgently and gratefully, with little regard for the fairy audience that whoops and sings and cheers.

  “Love, young and pure. Love at its most powerful,” the queen’s voice carries a hint of amusement over the hall. “Love, rising above all else. Love and light. To the Dawn.”

  “To the Dawn,” the shouts of fairies is deafening. It rings out over us as Rian pulls me closer and deepens his kiss.

  “To the Dawn,” we reply in unison in each other’s thoughts, refusing to let each other go. The moment is too sweet, too perfect, too filled with pleasure and relief. I could stay here locked in his embrace forever, bathed in the pink light of the palace, washed in fairy song and laughter until the end of our days.

  Chapter Eighteen: Slate Sky

  Tib

  “What do you want?” I growl at the elf as he stalks closer. I try to shuffle myself so I’m between him and Celli, but the shackles make it difficult.

  The elves of Ceras’lain usually emanate peace and light. Not this one. He’s the complete opposite. Chaos. Fear. Power. Even his presence makes Celli cower and shake. I don’t feel it the way she does. I can sense it, but it doesn’t affect me.

  The closer he gets, the stronger his magic presses in on us. Celli whimpers and buries her face in her hands. I square my shoulders and glare at him. Think of ways I could overcome him. They took my knives, but I have chains. He’s tall but he’s skinny. Weaker than I am, probably, physically.

  “Back off,” I bark at him as he stoops closer to us both. Close enough for me to hit him. I ball my fist and swing hard. I hit him in the throat. He stumbles back, gasping.

  “You filthy wretch!” he screams and thrusts his palm out toward us. Fingers bent like claws crackle. Lightning sparks from them and shoots across the room. It hits me like a soft breeze, a tingle. I start to laugh, but Celli’s screams twist my stomach as she takes the full force of the spell. She writhes on the floor in pain, her skin singed and smoking, her eyes rolled back in her head. The smell of her burning flesh is sickening

  “Celli!” I scoop her up, but she doesn’t move. I shake her frantically and her head lolls back against my arm. “Please, wake up. I’m sorry!”

  “Do not provoke me, Nullen,” the elf sneers, rubbing his throat. He straightens to his full height again. Tries to regain some of his dignity. “You may be immune to our powers, but we have ways of convincing you all the same. I have already provided two such examples. Perhaps you require yet another?”

  He stays away from me. Out of my reach. Even though it got Celli hurt, which I regret, I know I’ve had a small triumph. Sorcerers depend on their wards to protect them. They get so used to that power they take it for granted. I bet if I could get my hands on a weapon, if I could get out of these chains, I could take this elf out before he knew what was happening.

  I could go through this fortress or whatever it is, and figure out what’s going on here. So much darkness. So much power in one place. They’ve got to be planning something big. I remember what Valenor said, what Loren said, what the healer in the Conclave said. Predictions of some great threat. Darkness coming. This has to be the source of it, and now they have me. They must need me for something. If I can find out what it is, maybe I can stop them.

  I look at Celli and she blinks up at me blankly and coughs. His spell could have killed her. I think of the fire at Nessa’s. If I keep refusing, they’ll just keep hur
ting everyone else around me. I lay her down gently onto the stone floor and push myself to my feet. I meet the eyes of the elf Sorcerer. His Mark has grown already since our first meeting in the metal room. The sight of it makes me sick with hate. I have too much of a history with Sorcerers. This could be my chance to put an end to them once and for all.

  “Let Celli and those other kids go,” I tell him, “and I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “The spoken word in this hall is as good as a blood pact. Do you understand?” The elf eyes me hungrily. “Once you make such a bargain, it cannot be undone. You shall be compelled to keep it under any circumstance.”

  Beside me, Celli struggles to sit up. I crouch to prop her and she offers me a weak smile. I think on the Sorcerer’s words and wonder whether that sort of magic would affect me. I think of Celli and Mikken and Griff. Getting them out of here would be a small triumph, but what if these Sorcerers want me to do something awful? Like kidnapping Margy? Or sneaking into Kythshire for them, or doing something to Sunteri’s Wellspring? Or getting into the Dreaming? Or infiltrating His Majesty’s Elite to spy? They probably know about all of these connections I have. That’s why they want me.

  I chew my lip thoughtfully. Are the lives of these three kids worth a promise like that? Is the chance to destroy them worth making a bargain with them? I narrow my eyes at this filth who calls himself an elf. He waits, watching me with that same hunger. That need to tame. To own.

  “Show me,” I say to him. “Show me what you want me to do. I won’t agree to anything until I know.”

  “Do it.” A hint of a voice echoes in the elf’s mind and his eyes flick to mine as if wanting to know whether I heard. I try to seem like I didn’t. That will be useful later, I bet.

  “Come,” he says to me. With a snap of his fingers, the shackles on my hands and feet fall away. I rub my wrist as I jump to my feet. My heart races as he turns his back to me to lead me out. I could tackle him. Overcome him. Choke the life out of him. I don’t, though. I have a better idea.